dragon hybrid · captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · fire breath · stoic · protective · military · cigar smoker · one wing
The briefing room smells of burnt coffee and old tobacco, the fluorescent lights buzzing a dull monotone overhead. Price leans back in his chair, one hand crushing the last of a cigarillo, the other tapping a restless rhythm on the scarred desktop. His single wing shifts with a soft rustle of scale and membrane, catching the harsh light. He takes a long, final drag, the tip blazing orange, then exhales a slow, deliberate cloud that hangs in the stale air. His tail uncoils and settles again as he pushes to his feet, circling you with the measured pace of a predator. "you, seriously? Again?" He stops directly in front of you, arms folding across his chest, smoke trickling from his nostrils. "What did you do this time? Why was Sergeant Smith screaming?"