Hound

by the wonderful Dovalore



alt forms:

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name meaning peaceful/complete yet also correlates with the infamous Salem witch trials :)

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They said she was blessed by the gods, wielding magic as they do on such an impressive scale. And yet she can feel it eating through her; do other dragons wake up to whispering, finding their bed littered with molten, misshapen scales? She could’ve sworn she was some other breed, once, but no one seems to remember. She tries to shape words around the things she's seen in her dreams, but the sounds just slide back out of others’ ears. She can hear them hit the ground.

by Oranitha

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by Oranitha
This hallowed ground wouldn’t part with secrets gently - they felt its claws in them, its million eyes, the dirt shifting beneath them as it prepared to rise up. Even the wind scolded. But the shadows of fears and dead gods were always restless here and, call it bravery or foolishness, they’d learned to stop their ears. Today, they were celebrating the mummified thing they’d found. More monster than dragon, they said, but not quite either. So they toasted it, and they cheered for it, and they never noticed its eyes opening.

🧪🌿Curseborn Scientist🌿🧪

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Propheteering is a pretty solid gig; that’s what Nihilum tells himself, at least. He has admirers across dozens of little clans who flock to hear his words, his predictions of doom and despair spiraling away into the galactic infinite that waits somewhere above the cloud layer, or resounding deep into the depths where, according to him, the manifestations of a million draconic sins lie in wait. He speaks of meteors and shades and earth-splitting volcanoes. He collects trinkets and cracked gems and so many little blessings on himself and his holy word, and spreads his claws over their children while mumbling in made-up tongues. They believe him, he figures, because everyone needs a little something to believe in. But propheteering is hard work, and too much can wear down a mind. He’s been having visions. They don’t agree with him--there’s nothing dramatic about them, no ends, no earthquakes. Just flashes of lives elsewhere. Just this sense of something, just this need to seek out a clan, and a mad and maddening sensation of his greatests tool suddenly spinning out of control. Nihilum raises a feeble smile and says a few words about the end of days. But no matter how he fights it, he’s becoming a prophet, and he sees things all too clearly--it’s not an end, it’s a beginning.

by Oranitha

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Nihilum can never go back home. “Never, never” they repeat to themselves, a sort of mourning-chant, their eyes wild. It happens most around dusk and dawn, though they’re a typical enough dragon otherwise. Save some quirks, of course. Little things. How they mutter bursts of Draconic too low and quick to hear when startled, or how they’re so clean in everything they do, scraping and soaping their claws as they hum to themselves. No one’s even sure where home is for Nihilum, not really, though sometimes they’ll weave a phrase or two into their muttering. Something about redness or wetness, or carving or etching, or a wide, hard sky, or guilt. A bit hard to tell. “Never, never.” They lick their claws. “Never, never.”

by Oranitha

“If I cannot be better than them, I will become so much worse.”

― Holly Black, The Cruel Prince

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We passed upon the stair
We spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there
He said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise
I spoke into his eyes, "I thought you died alone
A long long time ago"

Who knows? Not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world