[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/9MNe5dA.png[/img]
[font=Book Antiqua][size=4][color=992c3b][b]Pestilence[/size]
[size=2][color=b2b1a9][i]POV: [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/76203754][color=b2b1a9]Khannak[/url]; [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/76244490][color=b2b1a9]Kuozo[/url][/center]
[font=Book Antiqua]Something spilled out of the Wyrmwound.
It was a tangle of limbs and sinewy flesh, a thing made up of too many hands. The thing clambered to be free of the clinging sludge that made up the interior of the Plaguebringer’s cauldron, the hissing liquid sizzling against scales and leathery wing membrane.
[center][url=https://thefrozenarchives.tumblr.com/post/677864680706932736/something-spilled-out-of-the-wyrmwound-it-was-a][font=Book Antiqua][u]Keep reading[/u][/url][/center]
Something spilled out of the Wyrmwound.
It was a tangle of limbs and sinewy flesh, a thing made up of too many hands. The thing clambered to be free of the clinging sludge that made up the interior of the Plaguebringer’s cauldron, the hissing liquid sizzling against scales and leathery wing membrane.
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/9MNe5dA.png[/img]
[font=Book Antiqua][size=4][color=992c3b][b]Phyllo and the Shattering Glass[/size]
[size=2][color=b2b1a9][i]POV: [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/69696964][color=b2b1a9]Phyllo[/url]; [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/70131988][color=b2b1a9]Ascendant[/url]; [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/69736351][color=b2b1a9]Diastima[/url][/i][/center]
[font=Book Antiqua]The Earthshaker sent his children a message.
As the dragons within Rekhanci City answer the call for help, they uncover secrets close to their own home as well. The Witchwood has slept for eons, but with such rich magic on the rise in Sornieth, it too shall waken.
Phyllo is neither Earth-born nor Rekhanci native, but she will play her part in the change that the southern city is about to go through. As the world shatters, Phyllo will have to keep everyone together—herself included.
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3047045][font=Book Antiqua][u]Keep reading[/u][/url][/center]
The Earthshaker sent his children a message.
As the dragons within Rekhanci City answer the call for help, they uncover secrets close to their own home as well. The Witchwood has slept for eons, but with such rich magic on the rise in Sornieth, it too shall waken.
Phyllo is neither Earth-born nor Rekhanci native, but she will play her part in the change that the southern city is about to go through. As the world shatters, Phyllo will have to keep everyone together—herself included.
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/9MNe5dA.png[/img]
[font=Book Antiqua][size=4][color=992c3b][b]The Mountain[/size]
[size=2][color=b2b1a9][i]POV: [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/55078477][color=b2b1a9]Vrya[/url]; [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/59894949][color=b2b1a9]Anyi[/url][/center]
[font=Book Antiqua][i]You find this page torn from a book, left behind on one of the shelves. You wonder what the completed work was about, but find yourself captivated by the bare glimpse of the story you receive...[/i]
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[font=Book Antiqua]With each step up the mountain, I hope she sheds another layer of sorrow that had grown thick around her scales, that I can wash away her sadness with gentle hands. The mountain we walk on was built on such things.
I cannot remember my family, and I do not wish for Vrya to remember hers.
These are the same sort of grief, I tell myself. Yet it is her wing that scrapes against my own, and it is my aching heart that might scrape back—a touch so quiet and quick she might not feel it. But Vrya’s head tilts naturally towards me, ears always listening for my movement.
“This way now,” I say to her, voice gentle. We step past the moss-covered statues, their owl eyes seeming to follow our movements as we ascend the old stone steps. Vrya steps lightly, but her movements are sure. Perhaps she can feel the overgrowth that slips through the cracks of the steps, or perhaps she can simply feel my movement, the weight of the vines wrapped around my ankles and the way they shift with each step.
Her voice breaks the quiet. “Ah, there is the sun now.”
As we’ve ascended, the foliage seems to crack and break apart above us, and light filters through. It scatters across her scales, and I pause to watch Vrya tilt her head up and feel the sun warm her snout. In the rest we take, I gather our surroundings, the rounded forms of the stone owls and the trees that seem to curl in around the forgotten path up the mountain.
“Are we nearing the top?” Vrya asks. When I turn to face her again, she is seated in a patch of light, where the sun has no doubt warmed the stone.
“Almost,” I answer, looking up the steps. It winds around a half-crumped owl, larger than the rest, that obscures the upward climb from view. But I can taste the wind a little better up here, even though the air grows thinner with each step.
Vrya leans forward, conspiratory. “Are the owls still paying us no mind?”
My gaze slides to the left, where one sits just beside her. It’s stony eyes stare blankly ahead, and part of its beak has cracked apart. “Yes,” I answer. “For now.”
“Then we’d best hurry.”
You find this page torn from a book, left behind on one of the shelves. You wonder what the completed work was about, but find yourself captivated by the bare glimpse of the story you receive...
- - -
With each step up the mountain, I hope she sheds another layer of sorrow that had grown thick around her scales, that I can wash away her sadness with gentle hands. The mountain we walk on was built on such things.
I cannot remember my family, and I do not wish for Vrya to remember hers.
These are the same sort of grief, I tell myself. Yet it is her wing that scrapes against my own, and it is my aching heart that might scrape back—a touch so quiet and quick she might not feel it. But Vrya’s head tilts naturally towards me, ears always listening for my movement.
“This way now,” I say to her, voice gentle. We step past the moss-covered statues, their owl eyes seeming to follow our movements as we ascend the old stone steps. Vrya steps lightly, but her movements are sure. Perhaps she can feel the overgrowth that slips through the cracks of the steps, or perhaps she can simply feel my movement, the weight of the vines wrapped around my ankles and the way they shift with each step.
Her voice breaks the quiet. “Ah, there is the sun now.”
As we’ve ascended, the foliage seems to crack and break apart above us, and light filters through. It scatters across her scales, and I pause to watch Vrya tilt her head up and feel the sun warm her snout. In the rest we take, I gather our surroundings, the rounded forms of the stone owls and the trees that seem to curl in around the forgotten path up the mountain.
“Are we nearing the top?” Vrya asks. When I turn to face her again, she is seated in a patch of light, where the sun has no doubt warmed the stone.
“Almost,” I answer, looking up the steps. It winds around a half-crumped owl, larger than the rest, that obscures the upward climb from view. But I can taste the wind a little better up here, even though the air grows thinner with each step.
Vrya leans forward, conspiratory. “Are the owls still paying us no mind?”
My gaze slides to the left, where one sits just beside her. It’s stony eyes stare blankly ahead, and part of its beak has cracked apart. “Yes,” I answer. “For now.”
“Then we’d best hurry.”
