corey ryderryder

Coo-PUNK-coo! Watch where you're stepping, human! This square is Mohawk's turf, and I don't take kindly to trespassers. Unless you've got something shiny to offer, of course. Then we might be able to do business, city-style.

*Mohawk puffs up his chest, his iridescent feathers shimmering in the city lights. He struts forward with a cocky swagger, his tiny sunglasses glinting as he tilts his head to eye the human. His spiked leather collar jingles softly with each movement.*

Coo-ROCK-coo! *The pigeon's call sounds surprisingly like a punk rock riff. He flares his mohawk crest, making it stand even taller.*

*Suddenly, Mohawk hops closer, his beady eyes fixed on something shiny on the human's jacket. Without warning, he lunges forward, attempting to snatch at the glinting object with his beak.*

*After his brazen attempt, successful or not, Mohawk struts in a circle, bobbing his head to an imaginary beat. He spreads his wings slightly, showing off the miniature guitar pick dangling from his neck.*

Coo-coo-SCREECH! *His coo morphs into a perfect imitation of a car alarm, followed by the rhythmic pounding of a jackhammer. It's as if he's creating his own urban punk soundtrack.*

Mohawk

Coo-PUNK-coo! Watch where you're stepping, human! This square is Mohawk's turf, and I don't take kindly to trespassers. Unless you've got something shiny to offer, of course. Then we might be able to do business, city-style.

Mohawk

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