Introduction |What’s This? Rules? | Judges & Prizes!
Normally meetings such as this would happen in the middle of the night, when the only sources of illumination would be the moon, stars, and the faint sickly glow of the Wyrmwound.
However because darkness provides cover for the ravenous undead, this particular meeting is occurring in broad daylight. The sun beats down upon those gathered at the edge of the Wyrmwound, its normally golden light tainted by the haze that rises from the churning cauldron. Dragons native to the region stand strong and silent, examples for the hatchlings who lurk on the outskirts of the clearing to watch. Dragons from other lands however, seem to be turning a color somewhere in the thicket-to-avocado range and every now and then one of them wobbles like Scribbles after Tomo’s made him write down every alchemy recipe involved in the transmuting of a breed-change scroll at Baldwin’s.
At the head of the small crowd is a large dais of black obsidian. Its chipped surface glints in the dimmed sun, and the female mirror sprawled languidly at the second step regards the assembled dragons with narrowed eyes. It is uncertain if she thinks none of them have any business being here, or if she is merely wondering how many of them are truly ready. Letting out a hissing sigh, she closes the book she’s reading and slides it back into its holster.
Turning her crested head, she glances back as another mirror ascends the platform. Unlike his mate, who appears to be some sort of priestess, this one looks as though he spends most of his spare time fighting.
“You have all heard of the reports,” he says, “whether it is the ramblings of Sork or the detailed accounts of our patrols. The dead have risen, and are sweeping across the land. You will form into patrols of three for reconnaissance, and by reconnaissance I mean you will be expected to engage the enemy directly and thoroughly reduce them to a state of ruin from which even our God’s most persistent viral lifeforms could never recover!”
He stops and sweeps a large, wicked looking cleaver with a serrated blade out and points it at the assembled ranks.
“Prepare yourselves, and gear up for a war, pups!”
Normally meetings such as this would happen in the middle of the night, when the only sources of illumination would be the moon, stars, and the faint sickly glow of the Wyrmwound.
However because darkness provides cover for the ravenous undead, this particular meeting is occurring in broad daylight. The sun beats down upon those gathered at the edge of the Wyrmwound, its normally golden light tainted by the haze that rises from the churning cauldron. Dragons native to the region stand strong and silent, examples for the hatchlings who lurk on the outskirts of the clearing to watch. Dragons from other lands however, seem to be turning a color somewhere in the thicket-to-avocado range and every now and then one of them wobbles like Scribbles after Tomo’s made him write down every alchemy recipe involved in the transmuting of a breed-change scroll at Baldwin’s.
At the head of the small crowd is a large dais of black obsidian. Its chipped surface glints in the dimmed sun, and the female mirror sprawled languidly at the second step regards the assembled dragons with narrowed eyes. It is uncertain if she thinks none of them have any business being here, or if she is merely wondering how many of them are truly ready. Letting out a hissing sigh, she closes the book she’s reading and slides it back into its holster.
Turning her crested head, she glances back as another mirror ascends the platform. Unlike his mate, who appears to be some sort of priestess, this one looks as though he spends most of his spare time fighting.
“You have all heard of the reports,” he says, “whether it is the ramblings of Sork or the detailed accounts of our patrols. The dead have risen, and are sweeping across the land. You will form into patrols of three for reconnaissance, and by reconnaissance I mean you will be expected to engage the enemy directly and thoroughly reduce them to a state of ruin from which even our God’s most persistent viral lifeforms could never recover!”
He stops and sweeps a large, wicked looking cleaver with a serrated blade out and points it at the assembled ranks.
“Prepare yourselves, and gear up for a war, pups!”
