11-01-2015, 08:46 PM
The journey through the desert is exhilarating, with great gusts of gritty sand being swept up in their wake as Dean Winchester’s vehicle speeds along. There is open sky spread out in all directions, a sheen of clear-cut blue against the sweeping desert sands.
Despite the rocky start in which PM did not use the designated safety strap, she eventually eases down into her seat and idly taps her claws together, staring curiously out into the endless dunes. Faint telepathic sizzle-pops crackle out into the ether, the sound swallowed up by the rocks rumbling like thunder beneath the car’s grooved tires.
Occasionally, as they proceed along at high speeds, she believes that she can see other vehicles hurtling through the surrounding dunes, enormous plumes of golden dirt cascading into the air. The silence between the two occupants in the car balloons to astronomical heights, but PM contents herself with squinting at the dust-scratched glass of the windows and the interior of the car.
She traces a pair of initials carved into the inside of the door with a claw while Winchester is distracted with his vehicle’s primary steering mechanism. They are jagged and jilted, as if scratched in by children. She wonders who put them there, and then desists once she hears Winchester start to make an attempt at discourse.
It soon becomes apparent that Dean Winchester is not as content with this peaceable silence as she is, for he begins to barrage her with several questions. They are none too personal, certainly not enquiring after information that she would be compelled to withhold, and so PM answers them politely and with a relatively airy tone. But, she does find herself wanting to flick this man’s nose with a claw for being so ridiculously crass.
The Prince of Rage makes for good company, however, and the music he blares at deafening volume is strangely pleasant. It provides for an excellent sensory combination with the jilted swerving of the vehicle, and PM clicks her fingers together in delight. It is almost like flying, in a way— although the last time she took flight was under far from pleasant circumstances, this is the only comparison that she can draw from her limited experiences.
Plus, the music is rather motivating. It would make for an excellent parcel-delivering anthem. Or, perhaps if she were to read into the lyrics a tad more, she might notice that there were rather dooming connotations to the song and that it would be better suited for the pursuit of cancerous slayers such as Jack Noir. She doesn’t, however, and the rest of her enjoyment of the long drive towards some unpredicted place is undisturbed.
They are making good time as they draw nearer to an arresting little dash of a shape on the sunburnt horizon. PM focuses in on it, leaning a ways forward in her seat to get a better look through the dusted windshield. She almost digs her claws into the leathery seats to keep herself balanced, but abstains from doing so out of consideration for her traveling companion.
What is that? PM asks the Prince of Rage, her tone bewildered. Unfortunately, even when she is speaking directly into his mind he cannot hear her over the earsplitting music shrieking out from the speakers in garbled bursts. Picking idly at her hood, PM once again returns her gaze to the shape that is steadily becoming more and more discernible from the rest of the wide-sweeping dunes. She will have to wait but a short while longer for her question to be answered, the Peregrine Mendicant supposes.
Soon enough, they arrive at the gates of what appears to be an urbane desert city, with high walls surrounding it. Her eyes alight upon several armed guards who stand at the entrance, prepared to aggress any who would be foolish enough to try to breach the city’s walls without obtaining proper clearance first. A respectable and cautionary measure, which was often employed between the warring kingdoms of Prospit and Derse.
PM is untroubled by this. Surely, as a Parcel Mistress of good standing, she will be able to deliver this letter by hand to Demetri Malius.
The vehicle draws to a grumbling halt, a few stray stones skidding out from under its arrested wheels. Winchester exits with a slam of one of the car’s doors, and so PM is obliged to follow suit.
Despite the rocky start in which PM did not use the designated safety strap, she eventually eases down into her seat and idly taps her claws together, staring curiously out into the endless dunes. Faint telepathic sizzle-pops crackle out into the ether, the sound swallowed up by the rocks rumbling like thunder beneath the car’s grooved tires.
Occasionally, as they proceed along at high speeds, she believes that she can see other vehicles hurtling through the surrounding dunes, enormous plumes of golden dirt cascading into the air. The silence between the two occupants in the car balloons to astronomical heights, but PM contents herself with squinting at the dust-scratched glass of the windows and the interior of the car.
She traces a pair of initials carved into the inside of the door with a claw while Winchester is distracted with his vehicle’s primary steering mechanism. They are jagged and jilted, as if scratched in by children. She wonders who put them there, and then desists once she hears Winchester start to make an attempt at discourse.
It soon becomes apparent that Dean Winchester is not as content with this peaceable silence as she is, for he begins to barrage her with several questions. They are none too personal, certainly not enquiring after information that she would be compelled to withhold, and so PM answers them politely and with a relatively airy tone. But, she does find herself wanting to flick this man’s nose with a claw for being so ridiculously crass.
The Prince of Rage makes for good company, however, and the music he blares at deafening volume is strangely pleasant. It provides for an excellent sensory combination with the jilted swerving of the vehicle, and PM clicks her fingers together in delight. It is almost like flying, in a way— although the last time she took flight was under far from pleasant circumstances, this is the only comparison that she can draw from her limited experiences.
Plus, the music is rather motivating. It would make for an excellent parcel-delivering anthem. Or, perhaps if she were to read into the lyrics a tad more, she might notice that there were rather dooming connotations to the song and that it would be better suited for the pursuit of cancerous slayers such as Jack Noir. She doesn’t, however, and the rest of her enjoyment of the long drive towards some unpredicted place is undisturbed.
They are making good time as they draw nearer to an arresting little dash of a shape on the sunburnt horizon. PM focuses in on it, leaning a ways forward in her seat to get a better look through the dusted windshield. She almost digs her claws into the leathery seats to keep herself balanced, but abstains from doing so out of consideration for her traveling companion.
What is that? PM asks the Prince of Rage, her tone bewildered. Unfortunately, even when she is speaking directly into his mind he cannot hear her over the earsplitting music shrieking out from the speakers in garbled bursts. Picking idly at her hood, PM once again returns her gaze to the shape that is steadily becoming more and more discernible from the rest of the wide-sweeping dunes. She will have to wait but a short while longer for her question to be answered, the Peregrine Mendicant supposes.
Soon enough, they arrive at the gates of what appears to be an urbane desert city, with high walls surrounding it. Her eyes alight upon several armed guards who stand at the entrance, prepared to aggress any who would be foolish enough to try to breach the city’s walls without obtaining proper clearance first. A respectable and cautionary measure, which was often employed between the warring kingdoms of Prospit and Derse.
PM is untroubled by this. Surely, as a Parcel Mistress of good standing, she will be able to deliver this letter by hand to Demetri Malius.
The vehicle draws to a grumbling halt, a few stray stones skidding out from under its arrested wheels. Winchester exits with a slam of one of the car’s doors, and so PM is obliged to follow suit.
![[Image: 18yM1ww.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/18yM1ww.gif)
She's a Killer Queen!
Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam,
Guaranteed to blow your mind!
- "Killer Queen", Queen