Scout Tf2 Fanart Novels & Stories

I continued, changing the subject just enough to keep her guessing, “they’re starting a fan club for me.” Aria rolled her eyes. “You must be thrilled.” “It’s going to be wild. Girls wanting me to sign their boobs, I heard.” “Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath. I popped open my locker, dug around for a second, and pulled out the shirt I had been saving. Holding it up, I proudly displayed it for her. Black cotton, bold white letters, a photo of me mid-throw on the field, and under it in cheesy gold lettering: Kai Blackthorn’s No. 1 Fan.

And as she stared into his icy eyes, Scar knew that whatever it was would be a torment unlike anything she'd ever known. Stanley extended a hand to her, showing off the green tattoo on his hand and wrist that was identical to Scar's. The only difference was that parts of it were black, others an angry red. She hadn't realized that Stanley had a mark, too. Shit. That must have been how he tracked her. Scar whimpered, feeling the hot sting of tears in her eyes. She had nowhere left to run. The goblins who held her were merciless and hateful, full of lust for violence and blood.

Pixies and dryads were huddled together in fear from the hovering stings and probing tentacles. The enemy leader, a Prime Chimera, turned to the three Scions with wide, taunting smile that bared his fangs. It was shaped like a large, hunched bat with silver scales all over its body. The bat leaped forward and made an ugly screech to the Scions. "We've been expecting you, Scions." His voice was rough and strained. "Why, thank you. So let's get to it, shall we?" Rachelia smiled, and flicked her wrist.

Omar grabbed Megan to himself as soon as he heard his name and raised his head. It wasn't his father who had called, it was him, Taheem, the head of the Sheikh's guards. He stood menacingly, one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung on his waist and the other hand by his side in a fist. His gurtha flapped wildly around his head, disturbed by the desert harsh winds. Omar eyed him, his presence was never a good sign, nothing about him was a good sign.

"Let's go save the NPCs." Ren pressed his eye against the rubber cup of the thermal scope. Through the Vanguard’s flawless 100% graphical filter, the environment looked exactly like a high-end, dystopian sci-fi game. The graffiti sprayed on the concrete walls—which Ren knew were actual Swahili protest slogans from the real-world slums—were rendered as glowing, jagged alien runes. The "Scourge" enemies patrolling the catwalks looked like terrifying, asymmetrical monstrosities with chitinous armor and glowing red eyes.

A scout. He looked no older than twenty, but his eyes were wide with panic. “Alpha! Luna!” he shouted before he even reached the clearing. Draven appeared from the treeline, already halfway toward us. “What is it?” The scout bowed, breathless. “Movement near the eastern border. Rogues. Not just a few. Dozens. The sentries say they’re scattered, but coordinated. There’s… there's a symbol marked on their gear.” Draven stilled. “What symbol?”