He remembers falling asleep in the comfortable warmth, nestled up against his mate in the collection of blankets and wool and in the scent of cool rain, dust and old paper. This was the opposite of that. This was warm and salty and the wind wasn't as biting as it was before. He---doesn't like it. It's almost like the air stinks with fish and salt. Shaking himself awake, there's----sand in his nails and feathers and hair and wow this is beyond fucking unpleasant. He fluffs himself up---at least, his wings do, the feathers flicking away what moisture they can, and what sand they can, and if it weren't for the feathery appendages sticking out from his back, he'd look more akin to a drowned rat. Dorian does not look pleased, nor is he too excited about the strange warforged approaching him with towels and explanations and a whole bunch of words. Before them stands a rather tall, lithe looking man with no shirt and some utilitarian looking leathers. He's suntanned, and bespeckled with all manner of freckles from the bridge of his nose to likely, all the way to his legs. Who knows. There's a lot of them. Most distractingly though, of course, are the ruddy red and brown wings that stretch out behind him, heavy with the weight of the water.
"No, I don't care about any of that, where's Veda? My mate?"
The longer he stands there and tries to get an answer out of them, the more agitated he looks; might wanna intervene and try to deescalate. Sure, he's big, but he's also at a speed disadvantage at first glance; he's soaked to the bone.
II. poisoning of a different kind
Dorian's gotten along well with most if not all he's encountered so far; and he certainly won't turn down the notion of food. Being literally raised by wolves leaves a lot to be desired diet-wise, and being less liked in the cities nearest his foresty home meant that even the least bit of cooking and processing was always a treat. So, he's plucked a few pie slices for himself; one for now, another for later, packed in a beeswax kerchief. For now though, he's munching on either a meat or a cherry pie slice, happily. Dealer's choice which one it is, though.
[ ooc: howdy! this is Dorian, he's an aasimar primeval guradian ranger from a semi-homebrew 5e game! he turns into a giant hawk sometimes with wicked big claws and a bigger wingspan. 8) he's actually a rather big softie under his stoic protectiveness, and once he's had a little wear and care, he'll warm up to whoever's kind to him. promise. he's just a grumpy hawkboy because he's away from his partner. i'll have some more info out for him later but until then, have at him; he's well into his early thirties and the wings will eventually go away, so he's good for a hug or two. ]
dorian fletcherson | D&D 5e OC | ota
He remembers falling asleep in the comfortable warmth, nestled up against his mate in the collection of blankets and wool and in the scent of cool rain, dust and old paper. This was the opposite of that. This was warm and salty and the wind wasn't as biting as it was before. He---doesn't like it. It's almost like the air stinks with fish and salt. Shaking himself awake, there's----sand in his nails and feathers and hair and wow this is beyond fucking unpleasant. He fluffs himself up---at least, his wings do, the feathers flicking away what moisture they can, and what sand they can, and if it weren't for the feathery appendages sticking out from his back, he'd look more akin to a drowned rat. Dorian does not look pleased, nor is he too excited about the strange warforged approaching him with towels and explanations and a whole bunch of words. Before them stands a rather tall, lithe looking man with no shirt and some utilitarian looking leathers. He's suntanned, and bespeckled with all manner of freckles from the bridge of his nose to likely, all the way to his legs. Who knows. There's a lot of them. Most distractingly though, of course, are the ruddy red and brown wings that stretch out behind him, heavy with the weight of the water.
"No, I don't care about any of that, where's Veda? My mate?"
The longer he stands there and tries to get an answer out of them, the more agitated he looks; might wanna intervene and try to deescalate. Sure, he's big, but he's also at a speed disadvantage at first glance; he's soaked to the bone.
II. poisoning of a different kind
Dorian's gotten along well with most if not all he's encountered so far; and he certainly won't turn down the notion of food. Being literally raised by wolves leaves a lot to be desired diet-wise, and being less liked in the cities nearest his foresty home meant that even the least bit of cooking and processing was always a treat. So, he's plucked a few pie slices for himself; one for now, another for later, packed in a beeswax kerchief. For now though, he's munching on either a meat or a cherry pie slice, happily. Dealer's choice which one it is, though.
[ ooc: howdy! this is Dorian, he's an aasimar primeval guradian ranger from a semi-homebrew 5e game! he turns into a giant hawk sometimes with wicked big claws and a bigger wingspan. 8) he's actually a rather big softie under his stoic protectiveness, and once he's had a little wear and care, he'll warm up to whoever's kind to him. promise. he's just a grumpy hawkboy because he's away from his partner. i'll have some more info out for him later but until then, have at him; he's well into his early thirties and the wings will eventually go away, so he's good for a hug or two. ]