Zmej

Stone Knife

Trinkets

A piece of history from the first beastclan conflicts.

78

Twitching Leg Bones

Organics

Just because something moves does not mean it is edible.

35

Magi Casting Rod

Trinkets

It took many years for a Longneck to learn how to use this staff. It only took them a few minutes to learn they chose the wrong dragon to use it on. (Special thanks Nothlit.)

40

Shattered Reading Spectacles

Trinkets

A pair of wire spectacles. The lenses have been broken, and the arms are bent. These are probably beyond repair.

75

The desert trading post is a sprawling settlement close to the edge of the Carrion Canyon. What began as an organized post has spiraled into disarray, an inviting residence for crooks and con artists, necromancers, and practitioners of black magic alike. Tents shove up to wooden buildings or walls of smooth sandstone, cluttering the edges of the trading post yet leaving certain paths to draw travelers into the heart of the post. A spacious area which once boasted perfectly planned streets now teems with street vendors and seedy taverns, each dragon looking to hawk their own personal brand of snake oil. For miles on end, this stop is known as the only place to find a good bite to eat, rest, medicine, or much-needed water- all at a cost.

Bamboo chimes and red and gold paper lanterns hang throughout the mismatched city of expensively crafted tents and dilapidated shelters, to outsiders giving the settlement the cheerful air of a festival. But the ember glow and hollow cacophony are not for decoration. Here, they are thought to keep spirits well at bay. But spirits are not unheard of here regardless- the empty desert stretches out in all directions, and those who fear the interruption of the lanterns and chimes have made the shifting dunes home to all manner of unpleasant rituals and spells.

No winds sifted the sands of the Carrion Canyon on the day of their hatching. The narrow paths between beaten dwellings were unusually quiet, everyone having tucked inside to get out of the midday heat. The scent of burning sage filled the tent of the trading post's leader, clouding the space near the ceiling and snaking around the floor in just-visible tendrils. The sounds of cracking shells mixed in with the repetitive shuffle of paper being folded carefully into tiny origami lanterns.

Their caretaker watched over them as their mother slept. Pulled close to the nest, their caretaker had covered a low wooden tea table with vibrantly colored paper. In their honor, the thousands of tiny paper lanterns she folded would be lit and set floating into the sky. They moved in ever-increasing urgency now, ready to be free of the shells that had held them so long. The light filtering around the doorway to the tent began to dim, and their caretaker paused her folding and moved to open the tent flap. Up and down the narrow alleyways, dragons were looking to the sky.

One hatchling broke out of his shell as the eclipse darkened the sky. Crickets sang out in the sands, and their mother woke to the noise of curious voices from the dragons outside. His father pushed past his caretaker into the tent, his eyes lighting on one newly revealed face in the dim light, and on his mate's empty eyes as she gestured to an egg gone still. With anger in his every movement, the ridgeback turned and cried out to the missing sun above. Someone in the crowded alleys outside took up their leaders words and whispered them to those behind. Like a wave, the camp broke out in whispers. As a ring of fire burnt the blackened sky, one word rang out like a question- "Curse?"

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