- Messages
- 7
- Character Biography
- Link
The wastelands stretched black and endless under a moonless sky. It was the kind of night where the cold sank teeth into bone and held on.
Tharion Araelor crouched beside a meager fire of scavenged scrub. The flames were low and sullen, spitting sparks that died before they could climb. His breath fogged in sharp bursts, curling like the smoke from Garruk’s nostrils.
The massive Tsonye lay curled behind him, a living wall of moss-green scales and scarred bulk. Garruk’s heavy head rested on foreclaws the size of shields, amber eyes half-lidded but never truly closed. His bulbous tail, spiked and clubbed, rested across the dirt like a felled tree. Garruk was not the largest dragon. He could have almost fit into a large stable if the door was large enough. He was still the only thing keeping Tharion alive at night.
The dragon’s heat rolled off him in slow wave, enough to keep the worst of the frost at bay. The days were hot and nights cold at this time of year.
Tharion heard the night creatures before he saw them. The soft scrabble of claws on stone came first, the low, wet snuffle of nostrils tasting the air.
Shapes moved at the edge of the fire light Wasteland jackals, or something worse.
They never got closer than thirty paces. For anything on this continent the scent of human would draw attention. The fire would keep them at bay for a little while, but it was the scent of smoke and dragon that kept them away. Every creature on the continent had an instinctive fear of dragons - even slumbering.
One bold shadow stepped too far. Garruk’s rumble rolled through the ground like distant thunder. The shadows froze. Then, as one, they melted back into the dark, tails tucked, low whines trailing behind them.
Tharion fed another stick into the fire, watching it catch.
The contract had come from a contact in a border camp two weeks back. He needed to scount some storm-scoured ruins that had risen after the last big tempest. Old maps called the area the Broken Vaults, but nothing had been seen there for a hundred years.
If there were any worthwhile artefacts exposed it could be enough to buy silence from the right people. Maybe even enough to buy a few months of not looking over his shoulder for Araelor blades.
He’d taken the job because coin was coin, and coin kept Garruk fed when wild herds were scarce.
There were whispers in the camp of something old stirring under the stone. He took that for silliness from the recruits from the peasants of thanasis.
Eryx Thorne
Tharion Araelor crouched beside a meager fire of scavenged scrub. The flames were low and sullen, spitting sparks that died before they could climb. His breath fogged in sharp bursts, curling like the smoke from Garruk’s nostrils.
The massive Tsonye lay curled behind him, a living wall of moss-green scales and scarred bulk. Garruk’s heavy head rested on foreclaws the size of shields, amber eyes half-lidded but never truly closed. His bulbous tail, spiked and clubbed, rested across the dirt like a felled tree. Garruk was not the largest dragon. He could have almost fit into a large stable if the door was large enough. He was still the only thing keeping Tharion alive at night.
The dragon’s heat rolled off him in slow wave, enough to keep the worst of the frost at bay. The days were hot and nights cold at this time of year.
Tharion heard the night creatures before he saw them. The soft scrabble of claws on stone came first, the low, wet snuffle of nostrils tasting the air.
Shapes moved at the edge of the fire light Wasteland jackals, or something worse.
They never got closer than thirty paces. For anything on this continent the scent of human would draw attention. The fire would keep them at bay for a little while, but it was the scent of smoke and dragon that kept them away. Every creature on the continent had an instinctive fear of dragons - even slumbering.
One bold shadow stepped too far. Garruk’s rumble rolled through the ground like distant thunder. The shadows froze. Then, as one, they melted back into the dark, tails tucked, low whines trailing behind them.
Tharion fed another stick into the fire, watching it catch.
The contract had come from a contact in a border camp two weeks back. He needed to scount some storm-scoured ruins that had risen after the last big tempest. Old maps called the area the Broken Vaults, but nothing had been seen there for a hundred years.
If there were any worthwhile artefacts exposed it could be enough to buy silence from the right people. Maybe even enough to buy a few months of not looking over his shoulder for Araelor blades.
He’d taken the job because coin was coin, and coin kept Garruk fed when wild herds were scarce.
There were whispers in the camp of something old stirring under the stone. He took that for silliness from the recruits from the peasants of thanasis.
Eryx Thorne
