sherlybones

By all hell, this was one of the most boring tasks Lyndwyrm had ever suffered. The red dragonic sprawled like a lazy housecat across the damp wooden slats of the ramshackle pier, the oak planks cold and scratchy against her belly and arms that she had placed crossed to form a headrest - a headrest rapidly beginning to succumb to pins and needles. Grunting in annoyance at the fuzzy feeling, Lynd propped herself up onto her elbows, peering down into the murk as if the fish she had been sent to catch would stare right back. Instead, the silvery whitebait fish darted into the seaweed fronds, and the tiny blue crabs that crawled along the shore bottom startled at Lynd’s shadow and buried themselves into the sand; bright blue carapace vanishing under dirty grey grit. Just out of arms length, a barnacled buoy bobbed against the waves, hinting at the secret treasure of a lobster trap (a disappointingly empty one, as Lynd had found out a few minutes prior). Her brief amusement at the startled

When you hear ‘Ashlands’, a very certain picture comes to mind. Hot stone, obsidian cliffs, rivers of lava that bubble and spit as naturally as clear streams carved their way through the mainland. What you don’t think of is grass - and yet it exists, as tough and sturdy as the volcanic lands it grows upon. Lyndwyrm grimaced, her pointed ears flattening against her dark red hair, as she stared out across one of the ashlands’ prairies from the vantage of a hillock; the prairie being one of the rare few that stubbornly clung to a small stretch of land west of Mount Atrox, despite all the turmoil it had been through in the past few months. The tufts of green shortgrass and the brilliantly yellow wildflowers that should’ve been emerging this summer season were absent, coated in a thick blanket of soft, grey ash. How ugly it was now, and how weak it would make her people in the following year. The ashlands didn't have many areas for livestock to graze; and the red dragonic knew that they'd

🔥[Part One] 🔥 The cervine flinched at Porcelain’s startle, her joints nearly buckling as her instincts tried to dodge a non-existent strike. With a furrowed brow, she opened her mouth to argue against the scolding - only for the words to dry on her tongue, her jaw opening and shutting like a beached fish. It was true. If anyone wasn’t supposed to be here, it was Max. Confrontation was her bogeyman, be she at war with fire-hungry cultists or simply bickering with other villagefolk. Hell, even her everyday hunting duties could make her skin prickle with a deep-rooted unease, depending on how fiercely the giant scorpions of the desert fought back. It seems that the sickly smell in the air was poison - or perhaps Porcelain had always been secretly mad. Max stared dull-eyed at the equine, her ears pricked and straining to try and decipher any hidden meaning or joke hiding in her words. No. There was a feverish excitement in Porcelain’s eyes. This woman was serious. Something in Max’s

When Porcelain had heard of the fire giant stampeding through the land she was excited.  After hearing the story of her mother’s excursions against the earth giant some years ago and how it was defeated by wild fire and stone, she could only imagine the glory and the respect gained from such a victory.  She wanted to have that, to prove herself and be respected by people and among her siblings.  And so they all marched here with carts of supplies; armors and weapons and food for the clash.  Through the desert and over the plains and along the mountains.  With all manner of other soldiers coming along to do their part and win their share of glory. But now that they were here and the sky was black with smoke and glowing with fire making it difficult to breathe, Porcelain was left disappointed.  The beast towered over every being in its way as it spewed its magma, the charge led by fanatical cultists as it burned everything before it.  And her siblings and her mother had told her to stay

The war-torn camp was alive with the buzz and bustle of refugees and volunteer soldiers, every single able-bodied man and woman up and moving like a hive of exhausted bees. Yet the murmuring drifting through the tents every minute of every hour had taken on a muted tone in recent days, a dreary mood matching the ash-grey ground – the heart of the camp had become sickly and strained following the battle across the far off fields. It hadn’t been a loss but a victory resulting in so many casualties and half as many missing couldn’t be considered a solid win.  Meabh was one of the unfortunate few to have suffered a hampering blow; the gap between her shoulder and spine having been punctured by a sneak while she was distracted by the Bishop. Not severe enough for bedrest but just damaging enough that she wouldn’t be facing the masked freak any time soon – much to her fury. Unfortunately, sneaking back onto the battlefield was not an option with a certain horned lioness watching her every

The camp was bustling with busy bodies, hooves and paws stampeding a cacophony throughout the tents. It had been a few days since the fire giant had torn itself free from the earth, the heat of the lava erupting from its skin only matched by its cult’s blistering hatred for the commonfolk. At first, the plan to slow the giant down by attacking its obsidian plated limbs by the use of foot soldiers and catapults had shown promise - only for that plan to be torn apart as the Bishop and his cultists tore their way through the siege weapons. It was time for plan b. Meabh paced restlessly through the heaving crowds, the furious hisses she aimed at the strangers getting too close for comfort barely audible above the shouting. The game plan was simple; if cultists were destroying the weapons responsible for taking down the giant, then the sagians would use a weapon they could not fight. Water, and lots of it. Teams of dam breakers had already been established - but Meabh had yet to secure a

Ugh… everything hurt.. and everything stinks. From her prone position, Meabh’s nose scrunched in disgust as the soft ash that had pillowed her fall cast its strong, acidic stench into the air like a dark spell as foul as the cultists that had burnt these lands. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her limbs aching from the battle that had just passed.  The cultists had been driven back by the ramshackle warband built of volunteers and refugees, at least for now - but not without the sagittarians paying a price. Meabh’s mind was storming with rage and frustration, matching the ferocity of the heartbeat threatening to break her ribcage, and she let out a smoke-strained furious roar as she rolled onto her side; wincing at her muscles’ cry of pain and the unmistakable prickle of burnt fur. Probably not the wisest idea, charging straight into battle against a mask-wearing, torch-wielding, spider-legged freak but although Meabh was full of ideas, none were particularly wise and