Sliding Off Your Dress {▲von vs. Latch Crab}

No nonsense voice
Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

The sounds appearing from the sk as of late held little import for the thing raging across the desert. It raced, ignoring pain, a whirlwind of frantically moving sand and skin. The storm moved as if with purpose, sweat running down her forehead from hair that was already growing in the two weeks without a cut. But Storms didn't even need haircuts, so it was of little matter. A snake rested in the eye of the storm, laughing every now and then at the storm's antics, as if the storm was something to be laughed at and not feared.

The sand and her leaked into the entrance of the tower in a fluid motion, the hard surface making her toes curl up. They weren't used to such a steady surface after those hours spent raging outside. The storm dropped it's bag to the ground and rolled it's shoulders, barely registering the large snake slipping out of it. It was not of import to the rage. The storm danced around the edge of the tower, grating itself along the wall, making sure it was safe to spread her dust there. In the center seemed to be a steaming bowl, the storm shirked away, she wasn't ready to become mud just yet. But, the storm did want to get the dried and caked on blood off of her. Maybe it was time to become even freer than before.

The storm slipped out of her packaging, the jumpsuit unsticking to reveal relatively clean skin, still untouched by the spoils of battle. It took time to peel the stuff off of where her foot was, and to fully emerge from it. The storm did so gracefully, as if it were a butterfly emerging from it's chrysalis. It stretched out, the duct tape beginning at where the left arm ended and a shiny mettle spear of a harpoon began, and ending at wiggling it's toes, well, what was left of them. The storm was content, and forgot about washing for a moment, it spread it's bulk onto the warm floor. It was comfortable; the storm wiggled with delight. Sand licked it's lips along her edges as if drawing a picture, and the storm grinned, almost in real delight, the eyes streaked with pools of madness collected by the left hand and left there.

In the pocket of the jumpsuit, there were still seeds, so the storm ate, pulling them from the jumpsuit like the storm was a scavenger ripping from an empty carcass. Delicately, it plopped seed after seed into it's maw, taking a simply pleasure in the way it cracked between it's teeth as it went down. Laughing, the storm lay, languid and spread out on the stone floor, eating away at the seeds until it was sated and there were no more. Far off, the storm heard something scuttle. But it could be pieces and particles of itself collecting along the ground by her rage. She felt the sand that was still stuck to her face, and caught in her hair and the storm felt like a beach. The steam in the room moistened it all, making her skin sweat, and her eyes flutter with tiredness.

But the storm had to continue to rage. So it rose up again, as if it were a mighty avenger, and strode over to the pack left in the doorway. In it was a jug, and the storm lifted it, right hand latching around the handle, and carried it over to the steamy pit in the middle. The jug was scooped down by the storm, and raised up again. But the storm wasn't thirsty now, it was too steamy in the tower, and the heat made moisture run down her face and fall onto the storm's tongue like rain, but hotter. It leaked everywhere and made the storm's unclothed body slick with sweat. Glancing around, the storm crouched down and looked around, alert for danger. There was that scuttling noise again, and the storm did not like it.

Carefully, the storm placed it's jug back in it's pack and leaned against it, watching and waiting for the little scuttly thing so that she could break it and munch it's bones for dinner.

((ooc: Avon has eaten seeds and collected a jug of water.))