Ĭrusty-eyed, horns tipped, he shot after the Sleeper – who, at present, was wide awake and bellowing to deafen England – by force of habit more than anything else. The sky cringed with the echoes, the sound of crumbling brickwork, shattering glass and wailing people all too familiar, a dissonance that he’d come to know.
A distant cannonade boomed through the streets from Blackfriars to Belsize Park. For all the unorthodox angles and curves of London’s skyline he could tell that the newcomer wasn’t a skyscraper simply by the fact it was moving. He didn’t get one the vista only presented the bad news, dark, smoky and to the east of him.Ī towering shape rose from the urban sprawl. Emerging from the depths of the West Hampstead interchange, ignoring the screams and the stalling traffic ( it’s too late for modesty, folks), he’d launched himself into the sky to investigate, saddling the wind for a decent view. Leaving the sanctuary of his underground cave, he’d made the journey to the city above, his swelling shoulders shoving at the tunnel walls, his curses held behind his teeth. When rubble had come clattering down from the stalactites, bouncing off the rune-carved pillars and his slumbering snout, Ben had awoken with a roar that embodied his mood. The times have denied me the luxury of both. The stench of the river, a heady brew of factory fumes, dead fish and diesel, blustered in his nostrils, a pall he’d have gladly avoided if he’d had a choice, preferring the damp of his lair, deep under the charred remains of his townhouse on Barrow Hill Road. His passing bulk, lizardine, streamlined, left a v-shaped wake in the waters below, waves slapping against the embankments on either shore, a passing storm rattling the jetties and the masts of boats at moorage. A red-scaled dart, his arrowhead tail zipping over power cables, bridges, railways and masts, the one-time Sola Ignis, six months retired, sped in pursuit of a monster. Snout curling with the thought, Ben Garston veered low over the Thames, one old serpent reflected in another, the September wind rushing through his under-wing gills. In that particular case, the most appropriate thing would be to categorize it as a "confidently incorrect" type of situation, make a meme out of it if that feels like an important step, and then move on.There were giants on the earth in those days. That would be more accurate.Īlthough even that wouldn't be the most fitting scenario in which to use this idiom, as it generally requires both parties to be the thing that one party is accusing the other of being.
Which, to make matters worse, was also only two little posts away from the accusatory post. if, for example, someone accuses you of not having researched a site that you posted a link for, when they themselves haven't even researched the very topic that they're posting this accusation in, to see that in fact you had already done the research on the site, and pointed out that the info there was incorrect, in a post that you had made in the topic several years beforehand. Then return to older posts in this topic where I mentioned that PER 16 is not enough to notice the ring. You should do some research before messing up a thread. Originally posted by Snootch:By the way, the information on the Gamepedia that you linked is inaccurate.
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