Shawshank
(#90826297)
ballad of the bounty hunter - shawn james
Familiar
Entrapping Shackles
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Spiral
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.18 m
Wingspan
2.97 m
Weight
104.43 kg
Genetics
Slate
Leopard
Leopard
Sanguine
Foam
Foam
Blood
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Spiral
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
S H A W S H A N K
tracker
a vision of gunsmoke and fire
— — —
The scorching eye of the Lightweaver beats down on the Plaguelands. She watches carrion birds trace lazy circles in the open sky far above the cliffs of Rotrock Rim, drawn in by the stench of decay—an empty promise of a meal that wafts up from the blood-red dirt below. Though neither the eyes of the vultures nor the light of the sun are cast on them, the denizens of this hellscape stir in the dark. In the shadow cast by the rise, a knife with an edge like a broken bone is pressed to the throat of a young woman. Under a dusky black fur cloak, a man smiles. It’s all teeth; a horrific echo of the creature he cut the hide from. Then, he speaks:
“It’s like you’re not even trying.”
His voice is serrated, like the blade in his hand. An undercurrent of warning runs beneath the waves that break in his mouth.
“Shaw,” comes the tentative response, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Riley,” Shaw returns, echoing her inflection with a mocking bitterness, “would you rather I turn you in?”
Riley scoffs. “I’d rather you just kill me and be done with it. I ain’t rottin’ in no jail cell, and my legs are gettin’ tired from all this runnin’.”
That elicits a chuckle from Shawshank. It more resembles the warning growl of a predator. The teeth of his cloak are all Riley can focus on. Thoughts of her blood staining the already red dirt rise from the depths of her mind like dust from a trail.
“You’re a coward.” He accuses, clear and harsh. His eyes have a rimy glitter to them even in the cliff’s shade.
“I’m tired,” she corrects without a hint of emotion. She prays to each and every one of the Eleven that he doesn’t see the way her hands tremble. The way her blood runs cold and her heart drops, just as they do every time she sees him.
Shaw speaks, the tide of his voice just low enough to entice her, “And if I were to give you a fortnight to settle and rest before we began again?”
Riley knows that these waters are rough enough to sink a fleet of warships, despite the placid play he’s putting on right now. They’ve done this dance many times before, and she knows how it ends; she’ll end up going exactly where he expects, that he’ll terrorize her with hints of his presence for that entire fortnight before he puts her on the run again. Despite herself, she reaches out a hand.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, bounty hunter.”
Shaw grins. It’s ugly and terrifying; a crack in his face, filled with gnashing blades of ivory. He levels bared teeth and eyes alight with the thrill of the chase at her and lets the waves begin to rise from his throat once more;
“Very well.”
— — —
-he/him
-he hunts riley, but always ends up letting her go when the time comes to turn her in. it’s odd little game of cat-and-mouse they play, but for riley it’s a godsend.
tracker
a vision of gunsmoke and fire
— — —
The scorching eye of the Lightweaver beats down on the Plaguelands. She watches carrion birds trace lazy circles in the open sky far above the cliffs of Rotrock Rim, drawn in by the stench of decay—an empty promise of a meal that wafts up from the blood-red dirt below. Though neither the eyes of the vultures nor the light of the sun are cast on them, the denizens of this hellscape stir in the dark. In the shadow cast by the rise, a knife with an edge like a broken bone is pressed to the throat of a young woman. Under a dusky black fur cloak, a man smiles. It’s all teeth; a horrific echo of the creature he cut the hide from. Then, he speaks:
“It’s like you’re not even trying.”
His voice is serrated, like the blade in his hand. An undercurrent of warning runs beneath the waves that break in his mouth.
“Shaw,” comes the tentative response, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Riley,” Shaw returns, echoing her inflection with a mocking bitterness, “would you rather I turn you in?”
Riley scoffs. “I’d rather you just kill me and be done with it. I ain’t rottin’ in no jail cell, and my legs are gettin’ tired from all this runnin’.”
That elicits a chuckle from Shawshank. It more resembles the warning growl of a predator. The teeth of his cloak are all Riley can focus on. Thoughts of her blood staining the already red dirt rise from the depths of her mind like dust from a trail.
“You’re a coward.” He accuses, clear and harsh. His eyes have a rimy glitter to them even in the cliff’s shade.
“I’m tired,” she corrects without a hint of emotion. She prays to each and every one of the Eleven that he doesn’t see the way her hands tremble. The way her blood runs cold and her heart drops, just as they do every time she sees him.
Shaw speaks, the tide of his voice just low enough to entice her, “And if I were to give you a fortnight to settle and rest before we began again?”
Riley knows that these waters are rough enough to sink a fleet of warships, despite the placid play he’s putting on right now. They’ve done this dance many times before, and she knows how it ends; she’ll end up going exactly where he expects, that he’ll terrorize her with hints of his presence for that entire fortnight before he puts her on the run again. Despite herself, she reaches out a hand.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, bounty hunter.”
Shaw grins. It’s ugly and terrifying; a crack in his face, filled with gnashing blades of ivory. He levels bared teeth and eyes alight with the thrill of the chase at her and lets the waves begin to rise from his throat once more;
“Very well.”
— — —
-he/him
-he hunts riley, but always ends up letting her go when the time comes to turn her in. it’s odd little game of cat-and-mouse they play, but for riley it’s a godsend.
Shaw
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Exalting Shawshank to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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