Marina

Marina is interesting and is definitely not a rouge computer virus infecting the clan's technology. No one was sure of how she got here. The tech department claimed that nothing ever went wrong with the computers in the lair. One day during nightfall when no dragon was awake except for those peculiar spiral dragons hunting for food or making a mess out of things, The clan tech glitched out wiping most of the technology clean. Everyone installed tight security measures to prevent this from happening again. However, when a slip-up occurs, a glitch will run through the system causing potential harm. It was discovered to be a rogue dragon that travels around from network to network causing issues and making their precious tech be wiped.



What's this? Lore?? a joke of sorts

“I don’t think this is what he meant when he told us to beautify the lair, Marina.” The emphasis of the other’s nerves is stressed on each word, eyes flitting between her and… well… the complete and utter chaos she’d created. He looks so tightly strung that he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin, periodically shifting from foot to foot while she stands still, claws dripping in paint and strings of neon lights tangled around her forearm.

No imagination, this one. None at all, if he can’t appreciate this as beautiful. Really, why they sent this bore to work alongside her she doesn’t know. Oh wait - - - now that she’s thinking about it, didn’t he assign this bore to watch over her and make sure she didn’t go off script? Hah - - - as if someone could stop her once she’d decided on something.

Especially this.

His fretting is only worth a snort from her in response as she takes a step back, bubblegum pink eyes surveying the product of her efforts. Across the cliffs that had once been barren, boring rock - - - is vibrant pinks and purples, light blues and dark blues, splashed across the in chaotic disarray, as if someone had dipped their talons in paint and splattered. And that’s exactly what she had done. Empty spray cans litter the grass at her feet, responsible for the bold lines of neon paint cutting across the splashes. It’s a mess of graffiti in the form of space and constellations; the abstract chaos of the universe, infected with madness.

Satisfied with her work, she turns to him with a victorious smile - - - and if it’s laced with a bit of madness in the pulsing neon lights she’s still got wrapped around her forearm (she’s thinking these will look fantastic strung up in the trees), can you blame her?

“It’s a masterpiece.”