He Won - Tumblr Posts
Masked singer season 5 finale in a Nutshell...
(No offence to anyone)
AGENT CURT MEGA IS OFFICIALLY THE MOST BABYGIRL CURT MEGA CHARACTER!
CONGRATULATIONS LEGEND!!!!!
O Salvador ganhou! I am so proud, lovely, so so proud to come from the same country as that adorable piece of fluff. His voice belongs with the angels, hope to have you here soon so we can all celebrate together!
honestly shoutout to pete for going into that mission knowing he’d be captured and tortured but coming out of it with the service dom of his dreams
GOD HEARD MY PRAYERS. GOD IS GOOD. THIS MAN WON HIS FIRST HOME RACE!
congrats babes you deserve it ❤️
God... is me again, I know that I have not been a saint but PLEASE... LET THAT MAN WIN A HOME RACE, he needs it!
Also let, let his kid win P2! He also needs it, he is a great driver.
LETS GO LANDOOOOOOO. AHHHHHHH. IM SO HAPPY. MY BOYYY. HE DESERVES THIS SO MUCH🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡
13th-dragon-prince--[Prior]
[...]He crouched, crawling forward with haunches shifting this way and that to adjust the finer details of his trajectory of a lethal pounce- Only to jump back as the ringing sound of a gun caught him by surprise.
︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
The dull throb of his pulse matched the soft thump of his boots, even, steady, calm, his silver eyes scanning his surroundings as he listened carefully, for any dragons or welps that wanted to try and make a meal of him. Already, just within the winding tower that rose up towards sun-bleached sky, dragonettes flew and roosted, eyeing him, but turning away. They were not from Nidhogg's unholy brood, simply mindless creatures who were drawn to the Father of Dragon's bleached bones to live out their days. Revenant's Toll, shortly after peace between dragons and Ishgard was announced, gave up trying to keep the spire dragon free, and instead decided to make it an attraction, to draw adventurers to it and let them see the place the Warrior of Light had fought, and bested, the mighty Midgardsormr.
Occasionally, though, even with the culling the Warrior of Light had handed the local dragon population, Nidhogg's brood came to roost and stir up trouble among the more peaceful dragons. When those dragons came, a hunt was mounted, and adventurers would rush to slay them, to get the prized title of dragon slayer that was less common these days. Bryn technically had that title.
Bryn also didn't tell anyone how he had gotten it.
No one asked anyways.
He could not see his black scaled friend and charge, his eyes unable to see the shift in shadows the half-dragon inhabited, instead focusing on finding his prey, traveling up the circling metal, rock, and debris. All remnants of a battle, a battle that had shaken Mor Dhona to its very core. As he rounded a bend, one dragonette snapped at him, angry eyes with green scales, but a slightly larger one, older, and wiser, smacked it with its tail and dragged it off. Bryn thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in its eyes, as if it knew not to mess with the soldier, and to leave him be. He only gave it a nod as the smaller dragon screeched in indignation, before continuing on. It was another turn, a flatter area, with pools of water covering half the surface, that Bryn heard it.
The snap of teeth, the angry screech, and the sound of a larger wings. He slowed, looking over the wide platform of metal and stone, before spotting it. A few dragonettes, unroosted and angry, flew around the intruder to their home, a larger, hungrier Aevis, their scales a sickly green-black, snapping right back at the little ones that flew around and dived after weak wings. It didn't move though, the snapping of its jaws scaring away the dragons who would become meals if they struck true, Bryn's eyes tracking how it moved and snapped, looking for a pattern as he slowly crouched, right knee down, left leg out front and up.
Thirty yalms. No zero needed.
His left elbow pressed into his left thigh, stabilizing his arm as he lifted his rifle, stock pressed back into his right shoulder as he sighted the creature, the proud, uplifted chest swaying minutely within the circular rear sight as he lifted his left arm, and his rifle, clear from his leg. The single post that made the front sight sat steady on the dragon's chest, then rose, slowly, Bryn's pointer finger on his right resting on the trigger guard as his rifle lifted to point towards that gnashing head.
My rifle is an extension of my body. A part of me when I shoot it.
His finger lifted from the trigger guard, and slowly rested on the trigger itself, curling around the curved metal piece, not squeezing, resting, waiting.
It is my protection, and my sword.
The dragon snapped, angrily, a dragonette peeling away in alarm.
It is death to my enemies, and life to my allies.
The dragonette wasn't fast enough, the lunging jaws catching its tail, a jerk, a scream of fear, and it was between the larger dragon's maw, sharp teeth pressing into scales, ready to crush and crunch as the Aevis brought its head back in, a triumphant gleam in its eyes as the dragonette's brood-mates screeched in fear and panic. It lifted its head, ready to crush the life from the welp's body, as from the corner of its eye it caught a flash of silver as the light caught something just right.
The sight of Bryn's rifle aligned with that head, as he pulled the heavy-weight trigger back smoothly, the rifle kicking into his shoulder as the crack of the report echoed through the spire.
Within the gun, the aether it had collected had become condensed, waiting for the pull of the trigger to use a reserved portion of it to send it spitting forward. As the trigger was pulled, the excess aether propelled the ball of condensed energy down the barrel of the rifle, screaming towards freedom as it found itself spinning. Within the barrel, intricate, swirling carvings lay on the metal, spinning and turning the ball of aether, increasing that spin speed along every inch of the three fulm barrel, until it was spinning so fast it heated that last fulm a glowing red. The crack of sound was not the aether, or the inner workings of the rifle itself, it was that ball of death breaking the sound barrier, a promise to those who heard it that they had not been the target. The blueberry sized ball of superheated aether, stabilized on its direction with spin, screamed towards its target with a vengeance, and reached it in less than a second.
Scales cracked, shattered, barely slowing impending doom. Muscle rended, shredded, flattening the aether and turning it even deadlier. And with a spray of ichor, red and blue, the aether ball shot from the far side of the dragon's skull, the light behind those angry eyes already out.
The dragonette dropped from limp jaws, the large beast swaying, still upright, and then slumping, head tilting down into its breast, neck limp as it folded in on itself, and front wings fell loosely at its sides. All motion ceased, leaving the dragon sitting upright, as if it was just sleeping, not dead as the slow drip of red blood seeped from the twin holes in its head. Bryn rose slowly, walking forward, his rifle held at the ready by his side, the soft buzz of energy around the wooden death stick marking it was slowly charging again, as he went to confirm his kill, the would-be-snack dragonette taking to the skies after a moment and circling the dead beast, a triumphant screech rising from it and their brood mates.