Hello loves! While I haven't been writing, I have been working on updating some issues that have been hanging around on the layout! The Character change box is now at the bottom of the page, beside the up/down arrows! Green and Gold dragon flight dates have been shifted to the bottom of the page, where the (useless!) discord widget was located. Where the dragon flights were in the header, is now replaced by a Monthly Event box! This will be updated at the start of each month, with a fun mini-event you can take part in, if you want to! Thistle!
06.May.13, 09:52 AM
As they walked East of the Weyr in the height of the sun, Armath thoroughly interrogated M'din concerning the ages of their upcoming companions. Are you absolutely certain it's not very, very small? It can scuttle about and such? The brown anxiously flicked his forked tail. After traveling South during the Exile with Mariltin, M'din's eldest child, in tow, Armath had developed an unreasonable distaste for human infants. Though he couldn't remember any one particular incident that triggered his aversion, he did recall months of stress, a lack of sleep, and a slew of horrifyingly disgusting smells haunting his early turns.
M'din answered, careful not to slosh the bucket of oil he carried, I haven't seen Soren, that's his name, by the way, not "it", but Peorray said he was one turn old. He patted the haunches of the crawling dragon. He can probably walk, or at least stand. Maybe you could teach him how to crawl faster, M'din grinned. After relaying to Armath the story of his first meeting with Peorray in the Bathing Houses, a lucky accident if there ever was one, M'din assured him that he would enjoy her company. He intentionally neglected to mention her young son until the morning they left, and the yellow-eyed dragon required several oaths and reassurances that Soren was not a "brand new wrinkle monster" like Mariltin had been eighteen turns ago. Promises of an extra-long oiling session expedited the process until Armath finally conceded, stalking to the river with his rider.
They approached the gently flowing water, sunlight reflecting on its surface, and turned slightly South to find the area with the flat rocks scattered across the grass. A copse of trees provided a windbreak from the chilly autumn breezes, and Armath took full advantage of the warmth as he widely spread his wings. He basked, humming,Nice day for some oiling. After a pause, he pertly projected, Nice day for some riddles too.
Rolling up his sleeves, partially to prepare for oiling and partially to mentally ground himself for the upcoming game, M'din said, "I suppose it is, but you think every day is a nice day for riddles." He bent to smell the oil, confirming that he had spiced the rendered fat properly. The air was rich with the scent of cinnamon, redfruit, and cloves, Armath's favorite mixture.
The more you take, the more you leave behind. What are they? Armath asked. He likely learned a new riddle earlier in the week, simply bursting at the seams to torture his rider with it.
The bearded man stood upright, beefy hands on his hips, lips pursed tightly under his beard. He squinted in thought for a few moments, not appearing particularly intelligent for all of his effort. "Oh, Faranth," sighed M'din. "I have no idea." He was spared further embarrassment by the sound of approaching footsteps. M'din turned with a smile. Perhaps Peorray would have a better answer than the permanently befuddled brownrider.
M'din answered, careful not to slosh the bucket of oil he carried, I haven't seen Soren, that's his name, by the way, not "it", but Peorray said he was one turn old. He patted the haunches of the crawling dragon. He can probably walk, or at least stand. Maybe you could teach him how to crawl faster, M'din grinned. After relaying to Armath the story of his first meeting with Peorray in the Bathing Houses, a lucky accident if there ever was one, M'din assured him that he would enjoy her company. He intentionally neglected to mention her young son until the morning they left, and the yellow-eyed dragon required several oaths and reassurances that Soren was not a "brand new wrinkle monster" like Mariltin had been eighteen turns ago. Promises of an extra-long oiling session expedited the process until Armath finally conceded, stalking to the river with his rider.
They approached the gently flowing water, sunlight reflecting on its surface, and turned slightly South to find the area with the flat rocks scattered across the grass. A copse of trees provided a windbreak from the chilly autumn breezes, and Armath took full advantage of the warmth as he widely spread his wings. He basked, humming,
Rolling up his sleeves, partially to prepare for oiling and partially to mentally ground himself for the upcoming game, M'din said, "I suppose it is, but you think every day is a nice day for riddles." He bent to smell the oil, confirming that he had spiced the rendered fat properly. The air was rich with the scent of cinnamon, redfruit, and cloves, Armath's favorite mixture.
The bearded man stood upright, beefy hands on his hips, lips pursed tightly under his beard. He squinted in thought for a few moments, not appearing particularly intelligent for all of his effort. "Oh, Faranth," sighed M'din. "I have no idea." He was spared further embarrassment by the sound of approaching footsteps. M'din turned with a smile. Perhaps Peorray would have a better answer than the permanently befuddled brownrider.
