» Wed May 02, 2012 7:42 am
Don't don't DON'T TELL MY STORY! It's MY story, and I'LL TELL IT IF I'M GOING TO! FO NAX YOL! [A noxious, acidic blue-white spew like icy sludge sprays out from the dragon's slavering maw over the convocation, ruining not a few baby-butt(ered) complexions and exquisite specimens of scamp-skinned haute couture.] And I'm NOT going to tell it! So both you and miss Eternally-Effervesces-From-Her-Hindquarters need to just [censored] clap your traps before the mortals start Getting Ideas. Or I'll get to learn what fizzy feels like from the inside.
Anyway. Wuld se mey! I was talking about the interesting things, wasn't I, little grubs? Before my briinah and her uncle interrupted me. OH, yes, I was telling you how very much better it was in the taazokan, away from the UI-Ahraand and its liztiidaan that bit back, on my scales here, and whose itch I never quite... uraghagh. No. But here it was much, much better, once we'd sated ourselves finally on the properly ravaged and subjugated elf-holds, and especially once you grubs took it into your hypognathus little skulls to rebel.
Yes, it was a good war. I remember me well the long sultry nights, the skies hazed in dry-scarlet-black and the vintaasqo shimmering muted red through the clouds, sanguine with mortal blood above furrows of pulverized flesh; lying back on the battlefield, suffused with shout-shredded gore, wingtip to brotherly wingtip with my Ald and his Paar. And the frost-harrowed days, scourging blizzard-breath down from the roiling clouds, cold fit to crack the bones of the rebels in their very skins. The disgrace of Briinhul the Brawny; the Feast of Rannveig; the Marsh-wallow Grind; the Swallow of Gjukar, when Men called down the cloud-singers to their aid, and World-Eater met Whale.
And then the bittersweet betrayals; the whisper-gift of Paarthurnax's siren queen, and his turn in turn of weakest-willed dov. Claw to claw, then, and Voice to Voice, and both dov and dovhahdrim tasted the Breath of newly muscle-lunged men. Harsh and bitter the war, with the Hyoid howling through the throats of the wasabi-tongued joorre - but sweet, too, in its own way, for we had our vicious victories over the [censored]. Sweet, indeed, for how many can say that they have Known the Wind-Witch seventeen times spread-Eagled, screaming at the crest of her own crag?