Is a sheep. Baaaaaa.

RP MUN FRIENDING MEME.

...?

I am eating dill pickle chips. Not dill pickles. Potato chips. Dill pickle flavored potato chips.

This puzzles me.

From Sylar

Your Power Element is Fire

Your power color: red Your energy: hot Your season: spring Like a fire, you are full of power and light. A born leader, you easily draw people toward you. You are full of courage and usually up for anything dangerous. You have a huge ego and love to be the center of attention.

What's Your Power Element?

[ToD] Week 26, Dare: Chase them.

The strangest thoughts race through the mind after one narrowly avoids having their face ripped apart. Lightning fast, one after the other as the bricks beside her screech and crumble, the scythe-like claw carving through the space where her head was a fraction of a second ago. Shit. That was close. Shit. If I die I won't get to watch those episodes of Dexter I have downloaded. Shit. That thing is fast. Shit. If I'd been just the tiniest bit slower. Shit. Shit.

She ducks. The air above her head whistles, and there's a sharp *ping* as the claw connects with her sword. She would kick out at it but she's already discovered it has bones like rubber and doesn't seem to feel pain. It's fast. She blocks again, and again, and again. It's coming at her too fast and too persistently to counter. Feinting is risky--it's vicious, it may not fall for it, but throwing it off balance is the only real way she can see of getting a clear shot. She stumbles back and cries out, as though she's been hurt.

It works. It rears back, going for the hard, satisfying kill. She rolls to the side at the last possible moment to avoid it, and uses those brief seconds to tighten her grip on her weapon and stab at its side.

It doesn’t scream, doesn’t seem to be capable of making any noise that she can hear, but the mouth…she assumes that’s the mouth…opens wide, like it’s howling in agony. She yanks the blade from the rubbery skin, intent on lopping off it’s head…she assumes that’s its head…and being done with it. Popcorn and ice cream and the life and times of a very likable serial killer wait for her at home and she's had quite enough of this crap for one night.

But damned if the thing doesn’t vault into the air, those claws skittering over the bricks with the most horrible screeching sound she’s ever heard, what in God’s name are those things made of? She’s so stunned by it’s sudden recover that she wastes precious seconds before realizing that the fucker is getting away.

“Fuck!” Too late, she tries to climb up the fire escape after it, knowing she can’t keep up with it, it’s too fast, it’ll jump from rooftop to rooftop with as much effort as a kid playing hopscotch and she’s athletic to an insane extreme but she doesn’t think she can do that, but maybe it’s hurt badly enough, maybe she can catch it, she has to try--

And yet she knows as she hauls herself up on to the rooftop, before she ever scans the buildings looking for some sign of it, that it’s gone.

“Fuck!” she snaps again, throws the sword down, only now noticing the thin, ichorous orange blood that coats it. She blinks down at the smears, follows a line of drops and smudges to the edge of the roof, then solidly smacks her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’s too stupid to live. She doesn’t have to keep up with it. It’s left a convenient little breadcrumb trail for her to follow.

She snatches her sword back up, firmly zips up her coat, and follows the trail across the frigid rooftop.

The hunt is on.