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| The Right Way and Dead Drakes | |
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| Topic Started: Thu Apr 22, 2010 8:49 pm (85 Views) | |
| Edward A. Wolfram | Thu Apr 22, 2010 8:49 pm Post #1 |
 
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It turned out going lower was indeed the right choice; Wolfram and the large drake found themselves in an amazing cavern that glistened and could have been carved of nothing short of obsidian. Rumor had it swarves and elves frequented this area, but they were nowhere to be found; Wolfram half suspected the low growls of his companion were the cause of that. The beast flexed its wings and rolled its haunches, though did not cease its dutiful following. Most of the drakes found in these parts had weak wings; mere veiny structures that never could have supported them in flight - the fact that Mathias' might be different intrigued him. Clearly it had been brought up away from its true home; given room to fly and adequate teachings. Currently Wolfram was watching said drake tear into a smaller one. The creature thrashed and yowled, wings beating uselessly as it tried to pry itself out of the maw of the offender; the larger drake merely settled a paw on the space between its prey's shoulders and twisted its own neck violently, resulting in a sickening snap from the beast beneath it. The smaller drake ceased moving entirely, and the large drake dropped it to the cavern floor with a snort. Apparently it was not particularly impressed by its brethren. |
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| Sangre Azul | Sat May 8, 2010 3:13 pm Post #2 |
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A strange place, the dark lands. Beautiful, supposedly, if one had the eyes to see. Sangre did not. His makeshift torch flickered weakly: a spare axle from a caravan no longer ever able to employ it and bits and pieces of cloth and some spilled lantern oil he'd sopped it up with. He was personally amazed he hadn't burnt himself to a crisp just trying to light it with nary an idea of what would burn when the sparks hit just knowing that he'd soon go mad if he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face even when waiting for his eyes to adjust. Now that the glare of the torch was beginning to die down, the orc took stock of his surroundings. The smell of blood (but no bodies...), the broken ruins of wood and iron, some scattered goods that would never make it to the dark elvish cities, his own goods (easily transported - he hefted them onto his back) and... Glass. Dark... black... glass. Everywhere. He peered into his reflection a nd marveled. How on earth could something so fragile support so much weight? It was nearly inconceivable - no, it was inconceivable. Was the entire underground made of so much pieces of glass and dirt? How strange indeed. Well, time to get moving. |
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11:35 PM Feb 9
