Drache

Ebonfort

Cave, Sweet Cave is complete and ready to be reviewed. Thanks for the help @Drache!

@Tuddums

I'll get to your review soon.

Ilumírë writeup is complete and awaiting approval. @Twhirtley @Drache

@RomanAria

The only thing I have to add is that you have faerie dragons listed as a race but they are not going to be a PC race. They are not intelligent like humans or other dragons and will therefore fall under Creatures.

[Ebonfort] Four Little Orclings, Mean and Green

A scattering of light showers blew through the area in the depths of the night. The rain was gone the next day, leaving the morning overcast and humid. Everything felt slightly slimy as moisture clung stubbornly to every surface, and it lingered even as the hours past because there was not enough sun to burn the wetness away.

When he noticed the orcesses stirring in their camp, Djoth stumped over from where he had probably spent the night on sentry duty, watching them to make sure they didn't either cause trouble or try to run out on the job.

"And remember, no silver unless you bring proof that you've killed the guy." Either he was naturally overly-suspicious or the grumpy old man had been swindled before.

There was muttering on either side as the tiny town turned out to watch the orcs leave. There was an easy dirt path down to the river and along its muddy banks, but then that ended and the hunters were on their own. There wasn't anything particularly unusual about the forest. It just happened to be the kind of woods where the gaps between the trees were crowded with crunchy, noisy underbrush, mean thorns, and the mud underfoot was soft and sucked at their boots.

Game trails occasionally crossed their path as they headed in the general direction of the little valley, but four armed orcs made enough noise that few animals actually appeared.

[Ebonfort] Cave, Sweet Cave

Compared to the agile female's speed, Genrit's maneuvering through the air was ungainly at best. But when he let the warm air spill out from under his wings and powered himself on a collision course with the un-named green, falling much more heavily than she anticipated with both of his stomachs full and a thick hide of metal-infused scale, she couldn't get out of the way in time.

The pair tumbled to the earth, the green dragon flailing and snarling viciously as she bit at Genrit and raked at his gut with her back talons. Blood blossomed out of the deep gouge in her neck, bone and torn muscle glinting in the sunlight. The blood was falling around them as tiny red droplets. Given time the wound would have likely been a mortal one if she lived long enough for her heart to pump it all out.

More acid splattered out of her maw, joining the gory cloud around them. The leviathans struck the ground with a concussion that rippled out through the smoky, burning forest and shivered the surface of the lake. The huge trees splintered under the sledgehammer blow, doing nothing to soften the fall. The female dragon's body cracked and squished under Genrit, nearly everything inside her rupturing at once. Blood sprayed messily out of her mouth and nostrils. "At least you'll never find my hoard, codfish!" And she gave a last twitch before she sagged in death, her fangs locked into his neck.

And the huge white male hadn't escaped harm. The acid sizzled in the sudden silence, still eating away at his scales and the layers of meat underneath. Something in his hind leg had broken, leaving it mobile but excruciatingly painful.

[Ebonfort] Ringing in the New Year

The orange-sashed sergeant turned his horse to face Asher with a casual slowness that only inflamed the young Swordmaster. Everything seemed to slow down for Ash as he drew his sword, the metallic ring as the curved falchion slid free of the scabbard seeming to echo as Phantom surged forwards at a kick of her riders heels. The bright orange embers from the burning bridge floated serenely through the acrid air, lost against an orange haze that lit the sky. Ruby Banks was burning. The festival grounds were burning. Both sides of the river were littered with trampled property and the lumps of corpses. As Asher thundered past, he vaguely spotted the shape of a scruffy were-animal wearing ebony armour ravaging a body, though it was impossible to tell if it was a civilian or a Kvaren.

There were others fighting too, couples or small groups locked in mortal struggle, screaming and bleeding and filling the air with the stink of piss and shit. In dark recesses, women and even some boys wailed piteously under their rapers, both wishing they would just die and hoping they wouldn't.

The Sergeant's heavy charger thundered down the street, sparks flying from its shod hooves. A glint of dark metal told Asher when the knight drew his blade, the dark shape like the reaper's scythe against the hazy backdrop of battle and terror.

The Swordmaster was no match against a mounted Sergeant, this he knew. On the ground he would be faster, and so he must unseat the man. Phantom raced down the brick road as Asher gripped the hilt of his curving falchion. At the last possible moment, the Sergeant turned his horse, coming at Asher from the other side. It was a risky and surprising move, and as Asher watched the man switch his vicious longsword to his other hand he realized that the knight thought to gain an easy victory by attacking his off side.

Asher's falchion came up and the blow of the horses colliding massively against each other jolted him only an instant before the longsword clanged heavily against his blade. Holding the hilt in one hand and the unsharpened side of the curved sword in the other, he blocked the knight's brutal blow.

The next few moments passed in a jolting struggle as both horses bit and kicked at each other. The charger was war-trained by the best. Phantom was just a wily bitch of a mare with a nasty bite and pissy enough to cow-kick the sergeants mount in the shins repeatedly. Close quarters should have meant that Asher was out of danger of the knight's dark blade, but the sergeant was no novice. As Asher tried to flip his arm around and catch the sergeant in a lock, the knight twisted his hand and rammed Asher in the shoulder with his pommel.

The pain was incredible, lightning numbness flashing down his right arm, though thankfully it didn't last because Asher reached up to grab the hilt of the other man's sword. "Back!" Phantom's ears twitched at the command and she backpeddled. As the horses came apart Asher tried to slash at the Sergeant with his sword. The knight ducked under that swing, but the movement and the drag of Asher's grip succeeded in pulling him from his saddle.

Not wanting to fight the longsword from horseback with only a short blade of his own, Asher leaped from Phantom's back and raced towards the knight, who was already on his feet, waiting. Phantom normally would have stayed close, but in the chaos Asher lost her.

"And now you die, Brynmore!" Asher growled, though the Sergeant did not reply. In his mind, the Swordmaster could only see Wren's beautiful eyes and the way the wind played with her hair as she stood in the golden summer grass, her hand on her round belly as she looked out at the sunset. In the void left by that happiness which had been stolen from him, Asher knew only furious grief, and now it was going to finally end.

He had always known that when he finally came up against Brynmore he would be facing an older and more experienced swordsman. That was why he had spent so much time training himself until the falchion was more an extension of his own arm than a tool. Even in the plate armour the knight was fast, though not as fast as he had been in a young despairing kvarens fell nightmares. Asher was not laden under the weight of so much plate and mail, but this lack also left him open to much more grievous injury if the Sergeant landed a strike.

The fight was quick and dirty. At some point the Sergeant produced a knife, using it to slash at Asher any time the younger fighter slipped under the reach of his longer sword. It was a deadly dance, both ducking and dodging expertly around every thrust and slash. Their blades rang together again and again, each hit nearly shivering the single-edged weapon out of his hand. The Sergeant was strong. Asher scored a glancing blow on the knights helm and received a deep score in his breastplate in return. Once, he managed to knock the longsword wide, sending the knight stumbling offbalance and stepped forwards to deliver a killing blow, only to be kicked savagely back so that the fighting could resume. The only fear Asher knew was the worry that exhaustion would force them apart to fight another time. He couldn't live with the waiting.

And they did not stay in one spot. Their private whirling struggle ranged up the street towards the stone bridge. Concerned that this was some ploy to acquire backup for himself, Asher quickly maneuvered the sergeant into the shadows cast by trees growing along the fences of private properties. The Kvaren man had no thought for what might happen after this fight was done, but wanted to live long enough to make sure he saw it through.

They stumbled through a metal gate and the sergeant tried to slam it shut in Asher's face. Enraged, Asher kicked it back open with a feral growl and fought the knight towards the dark shape of some kind of house or shop. It was darker here, but Asher was beyond strategy. He was murderous and in his carelessness about his own safety he was even more dangerous.

"Come on, then!" He snarled, "Perhaps I'm not as easy to kill as pregnant women and old people!" Each word was punctuated by the crashing of metal on metal. He spoke in good Common, though his accent was obvious. The Sergeants silence was frustrating. Both men were panting, both bleeding from cuts, both aching from a hundred blows. Each hit was a stab of pain. The pain, Asher could ignore, but the way the damage made his limbs tremble and slow to respond to his wishes was not something even his deep anger could overcome. The sergeant only grunted in reply and slashed low at Asher's thigh. The Swordmaster moved to block the blow, realizing too late that it had been a feint. The black blade slashed across his neck, filetting his skin back and sending a warm flood of blood down his chest. Asher staggered back, glancing down at the river of red on his breastplate.

Time was running out.

Asher turned his body sideways, hiding his injured left side from the Sergeant. He was beginning to feel light-headed but how much of that was exhaustion and how much was blood loss he had know way to know. Presenting his enemy with a smaller target was a common trick, and the Sergeant didn't notice when Asher's free hand came up to loosen the coil of his whip from his belt. He stabbed, parried, and let his falchion shriek down the length of the longsword as he found the handle to his whip.

His move never would have worked if the Sergeant had seen it coming. But the shadows and the orange glare hid Ash's trickery. With an ear-splitting scream that his tribesmen were known for, Asher lunged forwards, his blade held out before him like a spear. The Sergeant braced himself, lifting his blade for an easy kill, thinking his enemy had finally lost his composure.

But Asher pulled up short, keeping his blade at hip height while his left hand flung back and then out. Ssss-whap! The tail of the whip lashed around the Sergeant's forearm. Asher heaved back on the supple leather with as much strength as he could summon, yanking the knight towards him. The knight stumbled forwards, his longsword knocked askew as he lifted his arm to resist the tug. There was a metallic scream as Asher plunged his blade though the Sergeant's breastplate, sinking it almost to the hilt in the man's side.

"For Wren," Ash hissed, staring into the slot at the Sergeant's eyes. The knight shuddered and coughed, phlegmy blood spraying across Asher's face. And then the knight sagged and staggered back, toppling heavily through the door of the house and landing with a fatal slump on the floor inside.

Asher looked down, still holding the whip in one hand like a leash attached to a dead dog. His eyes itched and it was only then that he realized he'd been weeping the whole time. He bared his teeth in a grimace, tasting blood in his mouth, and stepped forwards. He seized the top of the Sergeant's helm and hauled it off, wanting to stare down at the dead face of someone he had hated for so long. He owed it to Wren. He owed to his unborn child. He'd finally avenged them.

"No!" The helm clattered to the floor. "It can't be!" It wasn't Brynmore. "No!" He viciously punched the dead man's face with a meaty thud, and then again. How could this be! He stood up and kicked the helm, wrenching his blade free of the body and slinging blood against the wall. He had failed. He had succeeded in killing a sergeant, but had ultimately failed to fulfill his vow.

It was then that he noticed a figure standing nearby and raised his sword threateningly, only to recognize Dunkan. "What are you doing in here?" He scowled.

--

Remus and Remilia yapped and snarled at Dunkan as the man threatened them with his blade. He was trying to decide if it would be more fun to kill them, or if he was willing to go through the trouble of trussing them up and hauling them back to the valley for trade. Dogs like these could be worth more than the woman who owned them, as long as they weren't too vicious already. They did seem particularly protective over Trix already.

Dunkan listened for the horrified moans that would start as soon as Jasper managed to pin the woman down. They were supposed to be looting for goods and rations and equipment that was hard to make in the Karawac, but Jasper always had other plans. "Let me know if I need to come in there and hold her down for you!" He called in his thick Common.

Jasper stalked back into the room with Trix, sliding his pants down his thighs and kneeling down and grabbing one of her legs to pull her roughly towards him. "Some women fight. Some don't," he hissed, chuckling evilly. "It will be fun to see just when you break. I hope it's not too soon. I like it when my girls scream."

He produced his fillet knife and began to cut through Trix's clothes, needlessly butchering them to shreds. He let the cold metal graze against her skin, not caring if it left shallow cuts or not. He paused only to grope her roughly, pinching and squeezing hard and slapping her ass. "Ooh, you're nice and perky," he sneered. "It's too bad I don't need any more slaves. Still a virgin? If so, you wont be after tonight."

There was a wooden thud as he stabbed the fillet knife into the floorboards down near his thigh, just out of Trix's reach. Jasper forced Trix's legs apart and loomed over her. Outside, the ringing of metal and the tell-tale scream of a Kvaren seemed to be getting closer.

Something stiff and smooth and warm touched the back of Trix's thigh, and then the front door of the house smashed open. Jasper paused, listening to the scuffle in the other room.

Dunkan spun around, watching the Ebon Knight crash heavily to the floor. Beyond it, Asher stood, wild and bloodied and chest heaving from exertion. The pups behind him slunk back and forth along the wall, growling and watching for an opening to dart away and find their mother.

Asher stepped into the house and removed the knight's helm. Dunkan watched a look for horror cross the young fighter's face before the Swordmaster threw a bit of a tantrum.

"What are you doing here?"

Dunkan was at a loss, avoiding the eyes of his superior. Asher always had a bit of a stern, grim look about him but this was the first time Dunkan had seen so much darkness in those grey eyes. We wondered if he might get a sword to the belly for disobeying his orders.

"And where's Jasper? You two are always together." Eager to pass Asher's ire to someone else, Dunkan pointed down the hall.

--

Ash's eyes narrowed. He could guess what Jasper was doing in the dark rooms of the house. He glanced around, trying to discern the nature of the owner. With all the bottles and drying herbs around it wasn't a hard guess. Being indoors felt strange. The wooden floorboards; unnatural. "Go find my horse. I'll need her to carry the sergeant's body back to camp." He watched Dunkan's eyes widen at the command but he nodded and scurried out the door, stepping clumsily over the corpse.

Freed from their tormentor, the ridgebacks scurried into the other room. Asher heard them start snarling and followed, still wielding a blade that dripped blood on the floor. By the time his form filled the doorway, Jasper had hastily fumbled his pants back up and stepped away from Trix.

There was a long moment filled mostly by the sounds of growling pups as Asher surveyed the scene, scowling at Jasper and looking down at Trix. He had no way to know if he'd interrupted Jasper in time to stop him from...but at least she was alive. For a reason he couldn't define, that small fact made him feel better. He wondered if Trix belonged to someone, the way Wren had belonged to him.

"You're not supposed to be here, Jasper," the Swordmaster pointed out, his tone flinty, speaking Common. "I told you to loot the festival, not to waste time dicking around with cityfolk and putting yourself at risk of getting caught. Leave her alone and get out."

Jasper wasn't as easily cowed by the black-haired youth as Dunkan and grinned savagely, showing his long teeth and receding gumline. He stooped slightly, narrowing his eyes like a cornered cat. "No need to be so up tight, Ash my lad. We'll grab plenty of booty on our way out, but I claimed this one and I'm not leaving until I get a piece of her."

Ash lifted the point of his sword, the bloody edge glittering with a morbid viscosity. "Yes, you are. I don't like how your slaves tend to disappear, Jasper. I'm watching you, and if I find out you've slaughtered any more for your sick thrills I'll gut you myself. I'm taking this one and if I catch you near her you're a dead man. Now go help Dunkan with that body."

Jasper's eyes were dark with the injustice of being robbed his fun and he sneered hatefully at Ash's back as he slipped from the room, muttering something and pausing only to grab his knife back. Ash waited until the footsteps faded, his gray gaze falling on Trix. He noted her light hair and pale skin lined with fresh but non-serious cuts. He stepped forwards, shooing the pups aside as he crouched down. He brushed the hair from the side of her face but didn't touch her skin, eyeing the dogs warily. "Get up. You're coming with me. I assume this is your place. I'll give you a few slips to pack a bag but no more. I'd leave you here but one of them will just come back and hurt you." His accented voice was only weary while Jasper's had been cruel.

[Ebonfort] Days of Winters Past

Half laying the crunchy snow drift, Rilana edged forwards, contorting her graceful body so that she could remain hidden while still drawing back on the silvery wooden longbow. The whale fat on the string kept it from creaking aloud in the still air, or snapping in her hands under the strain of the sheer coldness. Sighting down the straight shaft of the arrow, the wanderer waited, her arm already burning from the pull of the powerful bow. The dire wolverine was busy shredding its way into the cairn of deadfall at the edge of a frozen stream, snarling and snorting and shrieking. The more-than-horse-sized weasel was either having a tantrum or it had some kind of creature cornered. Whatever the case might be, the creature was finally distracted and mostly staying in one spot.

But just as Rilana steadied her arm, something small and brown burst from the nest of wood and streaked between the dire wolverine's paws and behind it, it's clawed webbed feet scrambling through the snow as it fled the wolverine in a panic. Rilana had just enough to to recognize the flat hairless tail of the beaver before she realized that she was in trouble. The longbow thumped, vaporized frost an whale fat drifting away on the wind as the arrow flew.

Rilana didn't need to wait to see if it was going to strike the beast. She'd known her aim was off as soon as she'd let fly. Straightening up in the snow, the slender woman turned and ran for her life. The wolverine spotted her as soon as it turned around and instantly forgot about the fleeing rodent. The arrow thunked into a branch just over its head and it let out a sinister scream.

[Ebonfort] Four Little Orclings, Mean and Green

Even if the orcs' tent hadn't been plopped rudely in he center of town, old Djoth would have been able to find the sisters by smell alone, following the greasy burned-hair-and-carrion stench of rotisserie skunk.

His limping shape, longsword strapped across his back with the familiarity of a lifetime of use, crossed the square towards the camp without any attempt at stealth or surprise. He came close enough to stand within the orange gleam of their campfire but no closer. Maintaining his distance wasn't something his demeanor would normally have predicted, but he hadn't come alone.

A woman was with him, short even for a human, her auburn hair a messy braid down her back and her deeply shadowed eyes downcast as she twisted her hands into the faded checkered apron tied around her waist. She was middle-aged, and somewhat portly as many women with children became as they got older.

"We came to speak to Bula," Djoth told the three younger sisters, stooping to drop a small wooden cask that he'd been carrying under his arm. The small barrel sloshed, sounding full.

The pair was silent until Bula appeared, Djoth surveying the camp and the Orcs with a shrewd stare, the woman watching the sisters at first but then glancing out into the trees as if there was something out there she feared more than four beastly green orcesses.

When Bula finally showed herself, Djoth eyed her lack of clothing with a smirk before he started to speak.

"If it were up to me you'd be setting up camp far away here tonight. Yeh've got a lot to learn about soliciting a small town for work." It was pretty clear that he wasn't at all confident about Bula's claims.

"But it ain't up to me." And he glanced down at the top of his companions head, pursing his stubbled lips. "This is Wyanna. Her two youngest boys both went missing earlier this year and she thinks she seen what took 'em."

"Not what, who!" Wyanna blustered, her voice surprisingly loud and unsurprisingly desperate. "It's that...man...that...animal-man. He can turn into a beast. He moved into the area two months before the first little boy..."

Her words were rushed and breathless, grief-stricken and desperate.

"I live just up the hill. He comes into town to buy food and arrows every few weeks. I ain't never seen him around my place until the day before my little Benjie..." She was forced to pause, stifling a sob. Djoth put his arm around her shoulder and patted her. Wyanna wiped her eyes with her apron and continued.

"I seen him walking through the trees, watching my boys play by the river. He didn't see me putting out my washing to dry. I didn't like the way he was watching the boys so I called them back to me. When he saw me he turned and ran. One minute he was a man, but then I swear the next minute there was only a dog running through the woods away from me."

Wyanna was frantic, desperate to be believed. Djoth shushed her somewhat succesfully as the woman stared at each tusked face in turn.

Djoth continued for her, distressed by Wyanna's grief but stoically providing her with a shoulder to cry on.

"She's the only one here that seen him come near any of the children who went missing. She has one boy left she's worried about." That seemed to suggest that Wyanna was the only reason Djoth wa willing to deal with the Orcs.

"The only name we know this man by is Slade. He's thin, sandy brown hair. It's a tricky situation because ain't no one actally seen him do anything wrong, so Brecker, the farmer Slade buys from, still wants his business. But the timing is suspicious. Ain't nobody seen Slade 'cept right before the kids go missin' and when their bodies come back." Wyanna sobbed especially loud at this and shook her had, eyes squinting as though to banish the painful memories.

"They turn up here by the river, dried up and sort of...drained-looking. Never seen anything like it. I've heard of were-people (he pronounced it "way-er") coming a bit mad but..." He shook his head and shrugged.

"Fact is, we'd rather someone else just made this problem disappear and I'm too old to go tromping through the woods." Djoth fished a crude leather purse out of his belt and dropped it with a tell-tale metallic jingle of good coin onto the small barrel, which he then nudged with his foot.

"There's good whiskey in that, and more than enough silver for the job.You get the rest after the job's done."

Wyanna seemed to collect her composure enough to add, "Please kill him. You'll find him in the valley where the river forks." She pointed upstream.

"There's some kind of old lodge in the thicker part of the woods, Slade might be staying there. Take a good half-day's hike. We sent a couple lads to check it out after the second kid went missing but they didn't come back."

Both humans waited for Bula's reply.

[Ebonfort] Dragon Bait

The tomb raider had lifted one of her bare talons to take the first step on her trek out of town. The decrepit dwarven cargo manifest she'd recovered had given her some leads that she was understandably hopeful about. Everyone knew that dwarves tended to secure their valuables against the ravages of time better than just about any other race. The crumbling manifest; the same one she had recovered the day she had broken Genrit from his frosty tomb. A meeting she remembered fondly, even if it hadn't exactly gone her way. She had still managed to bring home a good amount of gold, and with what was currently in the silk-lined leather purse on a belt at her hip she needed to acquire a few more supplies before her wings would carry her quickly from the colourful volcanic city.

But her plans were shredded instantly as claws through silk. A voice intruded on her thoughts and Drache's foot came back down as she turned to look at the speaker, her ear-frills fluffing out slightly with attention and her tail curling up behind her in the shape of a question mark. The woman was sitting on a bench carved directly into the naturally-faceted surface of the giant orange geode. One look and Drache decided that she had never seen the woman before. She looked human enough, but no strange human had ever known her full name before. But rather than rigid with startled suspicion, Drache was only interested, a hand finding her shapely hip.

The half-dragon smirked a little, her lip lifting barely enough to offer a white glint of teeth. "It almost sounds as though you're suggesting I'm uncultured," the red-scaled half-breed pointed out, the mockery of a pout lacing her tone. Her horned head tilted slightly, her pupils dilating and narrowing again as she looked the stranger up and down, deciding that she wasn't buxom but probably had a great ass under the tailored gown.

Suspicion reigned supreme and the cross-breed's tail gave an undulating swish as she picked her response carefully. "I'm flattered that you've such concern about my preferences. It's lucky that you caught me when you did or I'd be quite...unavailable." Drache's words were polite enough but she obviously recognized that luck had nothing to do with it. She wondered what kind of reputation she had that would have inspired this meeting. She wasn't the only half-breed in Pyresia by any means, but she was one of the oldest.

The woman was either a dragon or worked directly under one. As a half-breed it would take Drache more than one look at her to know for sure. The salacious grin earned a lifted eyebrow and Drache's nostrils flared with a whole new level of interest. But the un-named woman didn't give Drache much time to make a decision before turning away, leaving the half-dragon to gaze thoughtfully up at the distance-hazy balconies ringing the caldera above, wondering from which one eyes had been watching her.

--

It turned out that Drache's curiosity got the best of her. For better or worse, she was no longer the kind of half-dragon who shied away from her sense of adventure. She'd spent many years concealing her face and all it had lead to was heartbreak. The blonde woman's offer of employment, as well as the possible invitation for something else, was something the dragoness didn't want to pass up.

When she arrived at the baths she didn't need a tour, being more than familiar with the echoing steamy chambers with their convenient dark recesses and intricately decorated mozaics. She passed her laden backpack to one of the loinclothed attendants in the domed atrium that served as the entryway, and received a gemstone studded pendant on a stiff leather cord that she could trade back for her belongings later. She slipped it over her neck and it settled nicely in her ample cleavage, jiggling slightly as she unlaced her corset and shimmied slowly out of her custom-fitted pants. One of the attendants, a shaddy black minotaur she hadn't seen before, was eye-balling her with interest so she bent over and lifted her tail, waving it back and forth invitingly. His buddy punched him in the arm to snap him out of it and Drache chuckled as she handed her clothes over and headed for the labrynthine depths of the Baths.

The staff pointed the she-drake in the right direction, explaining that she had been expected, and Drache stepped through the door into a private room she'd never been in before. It looked much like all the others, but glancing around she spotted one or two humanoid faces she knew to be dragons in disguise. Her fiery amber eyes gleamed with lascivious delight and she slowed her pace to enjoy the show on her way to the side of the woman who had summoned her there. Drache's wings, held semi-furled and high up off her back, cut the steam into swirling ribbons as she passed. The heat was welcome and relaxing, an effect she had no doubt her acquaintance had chosen specifically to make her more malleable. Even her host was a tantalizing delight.

Turning, the half-dragon sat down next to the woman. Every motion involved the subtle shifting of wing and tail, but Drache managed it with a smooth sensual grace that made her seem less like a creature cobbled together out of two different races and more like a being who was someone to contend with. Reaching back, she spun her black hair up into a bun between her horns and then relaxed back against the steam-warmed stone.

"Weren't you?" she challenged casually. "It seems that whoever you're working for knew me well enough to know I'd come. Either I'm lucky to have found someone of like mind or your patron has gone through a lot of trouble to make me tractable." Her eyes roved hungrily over Peridiath. "I daresay it's working."

Like any fire-breather, Drache's skin was feverishly hot to the touch, her scales smooth and hard, though the skin as a whole was as pliable as skin should be. Not nearly as tough as a true dragon's armour plating, Drache's hide might possibly turn an arrow or reduce the depth of a knife, depending on the angle. And underneath the skin, athletic muscle, though relaxed now even as arousal smoldered in her belly. She lifted her legs almost obediently into the woman's touch, her thick talons flexing and shiny black from the water on the floor.

At Peridiath's question, Drache reached over and slowly wrapped her fingers around one of the scaleless wrists, pulled it across her front until the women were nearly face to face and Peridiath was part-ways across her lap. The clawed fingers of her other hand worke smoothly down the pale steam-slick skin to grab a palmful of her shapely rear, groping. Some of the others in the room glanced up disapprovingly but Drache ignored their eyes. Whether they were dragons or not, the half-breed was used to the dislike.

"I see no reason why I might not have both," the half-dragon replied in a low, provacative tone. "Perhaps I'm wrong in my assumption that your patron was being clever in dangling you in front of me. I'd like to think you're here to mix business with pleasure of your own accord." The strong grip on Peridiath's wrist lessened, but only so that Drache could try to use both hands to pull the woman up until she was straddling the half-dragon's lap. It was the only time a half-dragon might be physically intimidating to a true dragon. Not always this bold, the half-breed was watching carefully, wondering if the woman was only here to seal the deal or if her flirtatious invitation had been real. "Either way, if I'm going to take the bait I intend to enjoy it. Though, it seems unwise to venture forth without knowing who my ultimate employer is."

This last was said in a slightly musing tone as the half-dragon traced her smooth snout down the center of Peridiath's chest, nibbling gently at the soft flesh. Behind her, her wings flexed and her tail twitched like a cat. ""What name do you go by?" It was asked almost as an afterthought.

[Ebonfort] Days of Winters Past

@Twhirtley

[Ebonfort] Days of Winters Past

Ebonfort Solo

Starting Date and Time: Ceruleo 2, 291 DM

Starting Location: Bahora Forest, Frostfell

CS URLs: Rilana Aurorime'

The frigid air was crisp in Rilana's nostrils as she crouched with her back against the dark bark of the spruce tree. It was so cold that some of the branches had frozen and snapped, dangling above while the hardened resin filled the air with the piney scent. The Moon Fey let her breath out slowly so that it would not puff in a white cloud on the deathly chill air, focusing on her heartbeat as though sheer force of will could keep it slow, keep her from needing to breathe as she waited for her prey. Like the rest of her people, she was immune the to life-draining, numbing cold.

Rilana's white hair stood up in messy spikes where she had cut it last year, the sides shortened almost to her scalp. Bannon had told her the change made her look like a man, and Rilana couldn't decide if she was glad she had managed to do something to curb the human's enthusiasm towards her, or if she regretted having to resort to butchering her hair into such a wild style to be rid of some of his affection. Fey mixing with humans was not unheard of, but Bannon's lack of ambition put her off. That and his almost suffocating clinginess. Rilana was a creature of the wilds, prone to wandering and leaving Frigmount without notice, but each time she came back Bannon seemed to have taken it as a personal offense and was even more firmly resolved to talk her out of going the next time.

Regardless, no hairstyle could distract the man from Rilana's long, shapely legs and narrow waist. Fortunately, there was no one out in the depths of the Frostfell to notice such things, and right now her body wasn't just half-buried in the snow, but sheathed in supple reindeer hide, the fur turned inwards to be soft against her fair skin. The grey light of dawn had turned the dark forest into an ethereal twilight, and the Moon Fey had been waiting in the same spot for hours. Tracking the dire wolverine had taken her farther into that Bahora Forest than she had ever been before, and she was surprised at how far the dying beast had come.

In the last few weeks, as she followed the slightly pigeon-toed tracks, the clumps of silver-grey fur caught in black underbrush, the remains of viciously brutalized vermin and the remarkably pungent scat, Rilana had almost called the hunt off, thinking that perhaps the creature would heal. But then she would catch sight of it as it scurried through the trees ahead and her resolve would strengthen.

A dire wolverine was normally twelve feet long and about two-thousand pounds of insane rage. This one was the first she had ever actually seen, and while it was as long as it was supposed to be, it's frost-resistant pelt was hanging loosely from its skeleton. It had the rusting remains of a harpoon in its shoulder, the wound festering and putrid with oozing gangrene that Rilana could smell from a dozen yards away. In addition to laming the beast in the front, the septic wound was slowly rotting the huge mustelid from the inside out. For the last three or four days the wolverine piss left in the snow was bloody and foul, telling her that its kidneys were compromised.

Chasing the monster down was supposed to be an act of kindness, but the longer Rilana followed it, stalking it like a deer through the the serene trees, the more it seemed that the creature would die of its wounds before she could do it the favour of taking it down. She suspected that it was aware of her presence.

The wolverine was whuffling around in a clearing ahead, scrabbling against the frozen pile of deadfall where some small creature was presumably hiding. Rilana watched the huge shape and tried to control her breath, not wanting to earn its attention. Normal wolverines were tenacious and fearless gluttons. A dire wolverine was as murderous as an animal could be.

Moving as slowly as she could, Rilana dipped her thin fingertips into the pouch she wore inside the waist of her fur pants, smearing a glob of whale fat out of a tiny stone pot. Her dazzling eyes never left the shadowy creature beyond as she slicked the yellowish oil up the length of her bowstring and then reached down to her hip to lift a long steel-tipped arrow from her quiver. She placed the arrow against the mammoth-sinew string and rotated the shaft so that the keen arrow was vertical, making it more likely to slide neatly through the wolverine's ribs to pierce the heart or a lung.

[Ebonfort] Four Little Orclings, Mean and Green

Djoth couldn't have cared less if Bula thought he was racist. Likely, he was. But it didn't really matter. Some of the people who hadn't run to ground at the mention of the words 'bounty hunters' were starting to appear. Hesitant faces around the edges of what passed for a square. Some of them, like Djoth, were glaring at the Orcs for setting up their camp in the middle of town without even a 'by-your-leave', some were simply curious, and one or two even looked hopeful as they observed the crude paintings on the sisters' tent.

The scarred old Screamer was glancing around at the slowly gathering crowd, as though their very presence was some sort of silent communication, and he finally relaxed a little, eyeing Bula and her sisters with slightly more interest than dislike, though he clearly didn't trust them yet.

"You're right to notice there's been some trouble here. We're having trouble with a...creature. Something keeps making off with children in the night. Started about three months ago. If you're looking for work hunting down a child-killer, we may have a job for you. Set up your tent so we have a place to talk and I'll be back."

With that, the sword-wielder turned on his heel and limped slightly as he moved towards the crowd, speaking quietly with a trio of human women who looked especially grim. He shook his head and walked away with them into the stone miller's cottage, leaving the sisters to see to their camp while a few older boys watched them.