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Please hire this poor wizard he’s doing his best
Scary Scary Scary! Oh to be a lizard and a Bard and have a complicated relationship with how you view your past self!
The Sacred Blossoms of Hyousetsu Shiro
The Glaviencrag Mountains loomed vast and unforgiving, their snow-choked cliffs disappearing into a sky churning with perpetual storm. The wind that howled through the peaks was merciless, stripping flesh from bone with icy precision, as if the mountains themselves resented life clinging to their sides. But high within these cliffs, hidden where the cold could not reach, stood Hyousetsu Shiro, the last sanctuary of the white tiger Tabaxi.
For centuries, the village had thrived in this inhospitable place, its existence tied to the sacred Fubuki Blossoms—cherry trees whose delicate pink petals bloomed eternal in the snow. These blossoms, untouched by the cold, pulsed with a magic older than the mountains themselves, their roots entwined with the blood of the Tabaxi who called this place home. Seya of the Snow, a warrior-mage from a time long forgotten, had given her life to bind the Tabaxi to these trees, sacrificing her soul so that the magic of the blossoms would protect her people from the relentless frost.
But even the strongest magic fades.
Elise Snowstrike stood at the edge of the frozen lake, her breath sharp in the frigid air. Her fur, white and striped with orange, stirred in the wind, but she did not pull her cloak tighter. She welcomed the cold. It kept her mind sharp, her body alert. The lake below her was still, a sheet of ice so thick and clear that it reflected the storm above like a mirror. In the distance, beyond the frozen water, the Fubuki Blossoms glowed faintly in the twilight, their petals unmoving despite the wind that tore at everything else.
Elise’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. She had stood in this exact spot many times, but today the mountains felt heavier, as though they pressed down upon the village with an unfamiliar weight. She could feel the change coming—something dark, creeping up from the valleys below, from the lands her people had not ventured to in generations.
"You’re restless, Elise."
The voice belonged to Tora Kin, the leader of the Snowclaw Clan. He approached slowly, his footfalls heavy on the ice, though they left no marks. His fur had grayed with age, and the war axe that hung from his back—a relic of the Frost Giant War—seemed almost ceremonial now, more a symbol than a weapon.
Elise didn’t turn. “I’m not restless, Tora,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m thinking. We can’t stay here forever.”
Tora joined her at the lake’s edge, his gaze following hers out toward the blossoms. For a long time, he said nothing, and the silence between them was thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, as though the mountains themselves were listening. “The blossoms sustain us. As long as they bloom, we endure.”
Elise’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. “But for how long? We’re growing weaker, not stronger. The war took too many of us, and those that are left… they’re withering. We’re withering.” She turned to face him now, her amber eyes burning. “We can’t survive by hiding behind magic. Seya gave her life so that we could live—not so that we could spend centuries fading away in the snow.”
A Legacy in Ruin
Tora’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes locked on the blossoms. “You speak of survival, but what you’re really asking for is abandonment. You would leave the sanctuary of Hyousetsu Shiro, leave the magic that has protected us for generations, to wander into lands we do not know. Do you think we can survive out there? Among people who have forgotten us, who do not care for us?”
Elise’s jaw tightened. She had expected this. “I’m not asking for abandonment. I’m asking for a chance. If we stay here, clinging to the blossoms like they’re all that define us, we’ll die with them. The magic is fading, Tora. You’ve seen it, just as I have.”
Tora finally turned to face her, and for the first time, Elise saw the doubt in his eyes—doubt he had not shown to anyone, not even to himself. “You are right about one thing,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The magic is fading. But what you’re suggesting… to leave behind our history, our connection to Seya’s sacrifice…” His words faltered, and for a moment, he looked not like the unyielding leader of the Snowclaw Clan, but like an old man faced with the erosion of everything he had ever known.
Elise softened, her anger receding. “I don’t want to abandon Seya’s gift,” she said, her voice lowering. “But we can’t let that gift become a prison. We have to honor it by living, not by hiding.”
The Tension of Survival
The debate between tradition and progress had begun long before this moment, but now, standing together at the edge of the frozen lake, it felt as though everything hung in the balance. Elise could feel the pulse of the Fubuki Blossoms in her bones—the way their magic sustained her, kept her strong even in the face of the bitter cold. But she could also feel their weakness, the way that pulse had slowed in recent years, becoming less a lifeline and more a crutch.
Tora turned away, his gaze distant. “If we leave, we risk everything. Out there,” he gestured toward the dark valleys beyond the mountains, “we are nothing. Here, we are Tabaxi. Out there, we’re just another people, fighting for survival in a world that has forgotten us.”
Elise stepped forward, her voice resolute. “We’re already fighting for survival. But we’re doing it alone, isolated, relying on magic that is running out. If we don’t leave, we’ll fade into nothing. I’m not saying we abandon our past, Tora. I’m saying we take it with us, and we find a future where we can thrive, not just survive.”
For a long time, Tora said nothing. The storm howled around them, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
An Earned Decision
Tora finally spoke, his voice tired but not defeated. “You’re right, Elise. The magic can’t save us forever. But neither can leaving. The future is uncertain, no matter what path we take. I won’t stop you from leading those who wish to find a new way. But I will stay here. Someone must remain, to tend to the blossoms, to honor the sacrifice that gave us this life.”
Elise nodded, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll find a way to honor it too. Out there.”
The world seemed to breathe again as the two warriors stood in silence, neither victorious, neither defeated—just two people, facing the weight of a fading past and the uncertainty of the future.
Eryndor & The Mirror of Shadows
"Some truths are best left buried in the shadows."
These words echoed in Eryndor’s mind as he stood at the edge of the ruined Ashen Square, the long-dead pyres casting imaginary smoke into the cold, starless sky. The city had long ceased its mourning for the dead, yet the ashes clung to the walls of Varnathis like old sins. Eryndor had returned here, not out of duty, but out of something far more dangerous—curiosity.
Eryndor wasn’t born in the city, though he had spent the better part of his life within its borders. The Shadowed Path, the covert order of assassins and keepers of secrets, had once given him a purpose. He learned the art of killing in the dark and stealing whispers from the wind. But he wasn’t here to relive those days. Those had died along with Varnathis itself.
Eryndor wasn’t after power. He was after the truth—a truth that had rotted away, just like the city. The city wasn’t just sinking into the earth; it had been sinking for years, morally, spiritually, until the bones of its people cracked beneath the weight of unseen corruption. What had caused the city’s downfall? He had chased rumors, gathered fragments of history, and all he had found were lies stacked on more lies. But now, he was closer than ever.
A City of Decay
Varnathis wasn’t simply a city in ruin. It was a reflection of the countless lives that had built it, loved it, used it, and eventually abandoned it. As Eryndor walked through the Spore Market, the market stalls creaked in the silence, sagging under the weight of forgotten transactions. Giant insects—mutations of the natural world, twisted by the city’s decay—watched him from the shadows. They weren’t mindless beasts; they were the living embodiment of the curse that had gripped Varnathis. The air was thick with rot and malice, as if the city itself were alive, waiting for those foolish enough to unearth its final secrets.
Eryndor had learned long ago that the fall of the city wasn’t caused by any single event. It wasn’t just the nomads raiding the borders or the insects crawling from the cracks in the earth. It was something deeper—something far more insidious. Varnathis had been rotting from within, the heart of the city tainted by the very people meant to protect it. He suspected that the leaders of old—the guildmasters, the nobles—had made a pact. But no one had ever told him what that pact was or how it had twisted the land.
A Man Caught Between Shadows
Eryndor didn’t want to be the hero. He wasn’t looking for redemption. He was simply trying to survive the weight of the secrets he carried, the ones his order had safeguarded for so long. But survival wasn’t enough—not anymore. He was tired. Tired of the lies, tired of the blood on his hands. He was tired of the city’s ghosts pulling him back into its depths, whispering the promises of what he could have been if he had never learned to kill.
But even in his exhaustion, there was a hunger. A hunger to know why. Why had Varnathis been allowed to die like this? Why had the Mirror of Shadows—a powerful relic of the old days—been hidden away, and who had decided to bury it?
The Mirror wasn’t just an artifact. It was the truth of the city—the reflection of what it had become. And Eryndor knew that if he could find it, he would finally understand. But the truth was dangerous. More dangerous than the nomads who scavenged the ruins or the mutated creatures that lurked beneath the streets.
The Nomads and the Insects
The Nomads of the Black Scar weren’t just scavengers—they were people. People who had once belonged to Varnathis, who had been driven out, who had lost their homes and lives when the city’s collapse began. Eryndor didn’t hate them, but he understood their rage. He had met their leader, Iska, the Scarred King, a man who bore the weight of more scars than just his name. Iska had been a child of Varnathis, raised in its back alleys, and he knew the truth Eryndor sought. But Iska wasn’t going to give it to him freely. The nomads wanted justice, not redemption. They wanted the city to sink entirely, to be swallowed whole by the earth.
The bugs, left unchecked by any worthwhile predators, evolved into giant demon-like beasts. Twisted by the arcane forces that still radiated through the rubble, the insects were no longer, weak, mindless creatures. They seemed to react to the city’s slow decay, growing larger, stronger, as Varnathis weakened. Eryndor had encountered the Queen Broodmother once, deep in the Drowned Quarter. She had stared at him with eyes that gleamed with something too intelligent for comfort. He knew that the insects weren’t just pests—they were part of the curse. A reflection of the corruption that ran through the city’s veins.
The Truth Behind Varnathis
In the end, Eryndor knew what the others didn’t. Varnathis hadn’t just fallen because of greed or power. It had fallen because of neglect. The leaders who had made the pact had believed they were protecting the city from outside forces, but they had instead turned it inward, collapsing it from within. The Mirror of Shadows had been hidden not to protect its power, but to hide the truth—that the city’s greatest enemy had been its own fear of change.
The leaders had wanted to preserve their power, to control the narrative of their city, but in doing so, they had doomed it. The insects, the nomads—they were just symptoms of a disease that had been festering for generations. And now, Eryndor was the only one left who could find the cure.
But finding the truth didn’t have to mean saving the city. It could mean letting it go. Eryndor realized that his obsession with uncovering the secrets of Varnathis was just another form of decay. The city was dead, and its people had moved on. The nomads were its children, and they deserved the chance to create something new, even if that meant erasing what was left.
As he stood at the edge of the city, Eryndor gazed back at the crumbling ruins, the weight of wasted years pressing against his chest. The desolation around him seemed to mirror the ache in his bones, a constant reminder of how much had been lost. Yet, a single thought grew clearer with every breath: Varnathis didn’t need saving. It needed to be forgotten, its ruins left to dust, so that something new could rise in its place.
Tumblefoot and The Shadow Beneath the Leaves
In the quiet depths of the Branwyld, where the trees stretched so high their branches seemed to touch the stars, lived a bunny named Tumblefoot. He was no hero, no guardian of the forest, just a small creature who spent his days nibbling clover and darting away from the occasional hawk. But even the smallest creatures have their stories, and the Branwyld had a way of calling on those least expecting it.
The Branwyld was a place of mystery, where the wind carried whispers of old magic and shadows shifted like restless dreams. Tumblefoot often felt the weight of the forest pressing down, its secrets tugging at his whiskers, but he didn’t dwell on such things. His world was simple, and he liked it that way. Until the night that everything changed.
It began with a sound—soft, barely a murmur, but it tickled at the edges of Tumblefoot’s senses. He lifted his head, ears twitching, as the forest around him fell into an eerie stillness. Even the wind had stopped. Something was wrong.
His nose twitched, and though every instinct told him to run, to hide, he found his paws carrying him toward the source of the sound. Deeper and deeper into the Branwyld he went, past the safety of the familiar brambles and into the dark, tangled heart of the forest, where few creatures dared to go.
The ground beneath his paws grew colder, the moss slick with an unnatural dew. Tumblefoot hesitated, his heart racing, but the sound—now clearer, like a faint wailing—pulled him onward.
A Forest of Silence
The Branwyld was different here. The towering trees that had once offered shelter now loomed like sentinels, their bark dark and twisted. The air was thick, heavy with a sense of wrongness, as if the very forest was holding its breath. Tumblefoot’s paws felt sluggish, the earth soft and unsteady beneath him. This wasn’t his Branwyld anymore.
Then he saw it: a patch of ground, barren and lifeless, where the trees formed a circle, their branches hanging low like gnarled arms. At the center of the circle lay a stone—smooth and black, pulsing faintly with a dull glow.
Tumblefoot’s nose twitched. This was not something meant to be found. But he couldn’t leave. Something—some deep, unsettling curiosity—kept him rooted to the spot.
The sound that had led him here was louder now, a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the earth itself. As he inched closer to the stone, the ground trembled beneath his paws, and from the shadows, something stirred.
It was a creature like nothing Tumblefoot had ever seen—a shifting mass of shadow, eyes like embers glaring out from its formless body. It oozed from the ground, as though the darkness itself had taken shape. The wailing grew louder as the creature turned its gaze on Tumblefoot, who froze in place, his heart pounding so loudly he feared it might burst.
For the first time in his life, Tumblefoot knew true fear. This was no simple predator, no hawk or fox that he could outrun. This was something older, something wrong. He could feel it—this thing wasn’t part of the forest. It didn’t belong here.
A Bunny’s Choice
Tumblefoot’s first instinct was to run, to flee back to the safety of the brambles, but his paws stayed rooted to the ground. Something inside him—some deep, primal instinct—told him that if he left, if he ran now, the Branwyld would never be the same again. The shadows would spread, and the forest he loved would be consumed.
But he was just a bunny.
He wasn’t strong, he wasn’t clever, and he had no idea how to fight something like this. What could he possibly do?
The creature shifted, its eyes narrowing as it began to ooze toward him, its body dark and amorphous. Tumblefoot took a step back, his heart racing, but something glimmered in the corner of his vision. A faint light, barely perceptible, coming from the roots of the trees that surrounded the clearing. It was faint, but it was there.
He realized, with a jolt, that the trees were fighting back—faint strands of light were winding through their roots, as though the forest itself was trying to push the darkness away. But it wasn’t enough. The forest was weakening, and the shadows were too strong.
Tumblefoot’s paws trembled, but he willed himself to step forward, toward the strange creature. His nose twitched as he inhaled deeply, concentrating on the faint glow beneath the forest floor. He wasn’t sure how or why, but a quiet certainty settled over him—like the forest itself was whispering guidance into his heart, lending him its hidden strength. In that moment, he felt rooted to the Branwyld in a way he had never experienced before, as though the very earth and trees were with him, urging him onward.
He stood tall—or as tall as a bunny could—and with a deep breath, he placed his paws on the cold, dark stone at the center of the clearing.
A surge of energy shot through him, filling him with warmth and light. The darkness recoiled, hissing as the light spread from Tumblefoot’s paws, racing through the roots and into the trees. The shadows writhed and twisted, trying to hold on, but the light was too strong.
With a final, ear-splitting screech, the creature dissolved into the air, its form unraveling like smoke. The clearing fell silent once more, and Tumblefoot collapsed, his small body trembling from the effort.
The Forest Remembers
When Tumblefoot finally opened his eyes, the clearing had changed. The trees no longer loomed like sentinels, but stood tall and proud, their branches stretching toward the sky. The stone beneath his paws had faded, its glow gone, and the light that had filled the forest had settled back into the roots, leaving the Branwyld as it had always been—quiet, peaceful, and alive.
He sat up slowly, his fur still bristling from the surge of energy. His heart was still pounding, but the fear had subsided, replaced by a deep, quiet satisfaction.
He had done it.
The forest had chosen him—not because he was special, but because he had listened. Because even the smallest creatures could make a difference, if they were willing to stand their ground.
Tumblefoot took a deep breath, the familiar scent of earth and leaves filling his nose. The Branwyld was safe, for now, and though he was just a bunny, he knew that the forest would always be watching, always waiting for those willing to protect it.
With a final glance at the stone, Tumblefoot turned and hopped back into the underbrush, his paws light on the earth, knowing that, for once, he had truly been a part of something far greater than himself.
Business as Usual
In the forgotten Spore Market of Varnathis, where silence stretched longer than shadows and the only commerce was between mold and decay, a Myconid wandered in one day with a quiet sense of purpose. The market, long dead, was now more graveyard than gathering place, but none of this seemed to bother the Myconid, who appeared to be on a mission.
With slow, deliberate movements, the tall, mushroom-headed figure approached an abandoned stall. The counter was cracked, the roof sagged under the weight of mildew, and the whole place looked like it had been ransacked by time itself. But the Myconid didn’t flinch. No, today was business as usual.
Reaching into a small pouch at its side, the Myconid pulled out an object that gleamed faintly in the dim light—a tiny, polished stopwatch. The creature clicked it open, its spores glowing ever so slightly as it glanced at the time with meticulous care. Then, satisfied with whatever schedule it was keeping, the Myconid clicked the watch shut and tucked it back into its pouch.
With no sense of urgency—despite its attention to time—the Myconid began unpacking its wares. First, it set out a small burlap sack of shriveled mushrooms, each one looking more defeated than the last. The sack was carefully positioned at the far left of the counter. Next came a cluster of fungal growths that seemed to slouch under their own weight, their caps flopping like damp rags. The Myconid adjusted each one, occasionally checking the position with a critical eye, then once again pulled out the stopwatch.
Click.
It stared at the time, though there was no reason to hurry—there were no customers, no rush, no anything, really. But the Myconid clicked the watch shut again with a tiny nod of satisfaction and continued setting up its stall.
Behind him, the distant crash of something heavy filled the air. A pair of giant beetles were in the middle of a brutal clash not far from the market stalls, their mandibles snapping, wings buzzing with a fury that seemed out of place in such an otherwise still environment. One beetle drove the other back into a half-collapsed stall, sending a shower of debris and fungus into the air.
The Myconid didn’t even glance up.
It calmly set out its next item—a piece of glowing moss, arranged like a prized jewel at the center of the stall—then checked the stopwatch once more.
Click.
The beetles were still fighting, rolling through the market in a frenzy of chitin and dirt, but the Myconid merely adjusted the moss slightly, turning it ever so slightly to the right as if to say, "Perfect."
Satisfied with its work, the Myconid tucked the stopwatch back into its pouch and stood behind the stall, its hands clasped, its spore-covered body motionless. Waiting. As though the entire market was still bustling, as though customers were lining up just out of view, ready to buy the strange assortment of fungal oddities on display.
But there were no customers. There hadn’t been for years.
Behind it, the beetles smashed into another stall, tearing it apart in their struggle. One of them let out a screech that echoed through the empty market.
The Myconid stood perfectly still, unmoved by the chaos around it. Every so often, it would check the stopwatch, click it open, study the time, and then return to its silent vigil behind the stall.
And there it remained, as the insects battled, the dust settled, and the Spore Market lay as empty as ever.
Business as usual.
The Wild Unknown
Kippa crouched low at the marsh’s edge, her feet sinking into the damp, squelching earth. The air was heavy with humidity, sticking to her feathers and leaving an almost metallic taste in her mouth. She wasn’t supposed to be here—this far out into the Branwyld—but she had never been one to listen to warnings, especially when her curiosity flared up.
The marsh was quieter than usual. No croaking frogs, no chirping insects, only the occasional slosh of water disturbed by unseen things below the surface. Her breath felt loud in the eerie stillness. She stayed crouched, watching, waiting, and then—movement.
At first, she thought it was just the reeds swaying in the breeze, but there was no breeze. And the shape wasn’t swaying. It was walking.
Kippa squinted and realized the figure moving between the cat-tails wasn’t like any creature she had seen before. Small, cat-like, but its body was an odd mix of moss, leaves, vines, and roots twisted together, shaped into something that barely resembled an animal. Its eyes, almost hidden behind layers of green, caught the light like glistening dew.
She wasn’t afraid, but something about the stillness unsettled her. The creature—if it could even be called that—stopped and stared, its vine-covered form barely moving as it blinked slowly, as though considering her. Its presence felt oddly neutral, like a part of the marsh itself, more plant than animal. It didn’t threaten her, nor did it invite her closer. It was simply there, existing in the quiet murk of the Branwyld. The stillness, the lack of intent behind its gaze, made her skin prickle. It wasn’t hiding anything; it had no agenda. It was simply alive, a strange piece of the world she had never fully understood.
The creature twitched its vine-like tail, eyes gleaming faintly. Kippa, still crouched, extended a hand, slow and deliberate. Her hand brushed the damp earth as she leaned closer. “Hello,” she whispered, though it seemed ridiculous to speak.
The creature tilted its head. Then, in a single, smooth movement, it walked toward her. It brushed against her outstretched hand, and Kippa flinched, feeling the unexpected warmth of it. For something that looked like a plant, it felt alive, as though the same heat that rose from the marsh at dusk hummed beneath its leaves.
And then, without warning, the creature turned and began to walk away. Kippa blinked in surprise. Should she follow? Something tugged at her, the curiosity she couldn’t quite shake. She rose to her feet, mud sticking to her toes, and before she could second-guess herself, she followed.
The deeper into the marsh they went, the darker it became. The tall cat-tails loomed overhead, their shadows stretching long and menacing in the fading light. The mud grew slicker beneath her feet, and twice, she nearly lost her balance. Still, she kept her eyes fixed on the moss-covered creature, whose small frame swayed easily through the marsh, as though it had walked this path a thousand times.
Kippa’s breath came in shallow bursts now, and her heart raced—not from fear, but from a strange kind of anticipation. Where was it leading her?
Then, suddenly, the creature stopped. They had reached a clearing—a wide, still pool of water surrounded by thick reeds. The surface was so smooth it reflected the sky above in perfect detail, dark and starless. The creature padded to the water’s edge and sat, staring out at the pool as though waiting for something.
Kippa knelt beside the water, her webbed hand skimming the cool surface. Cold, almost unnaturally so. She could feel the slight resistance of the water as her hand drifted through it. Beneath, just visible in the dim light, roots twisted and wove together like a vast network stretching deep into the earth. The marsh seemed to breathe through these roots—reeds, water, and soil all part of the same silent, living system, connected in ways she couldn’t fully understand.
This wasn’t magic like she had been told. This was something else, something more grounded, more real. The creature didn’t seem interested in guarding it. It was just another strand in the web, much like the roots beneath her fingertips.
For a long moment, Kippa simply stared at her reflection, at the mossy creature beside her, and at the vast web of life beneath the water. She hadn’t come out here looking for answers, but somehow, she had found one anyway: the Branwyld didn’t need her to understand it. It existed whether she understood it or not, alive and ancient, a world apart from her own, yet woven together all the same.
She stood slowly, the creature’s eyes following her every move. “I’ll come back,” she whispered, though she knew the creature probably didn’t care. It was her promise, not for the creature but for herself.
The creature blinked once, then rose and padded back into the reeds, disappearing as easily as it had appeared.
Kippa lingered for a moment, staring into the pool, the stars above reflecting in the still water. Then, with a soft sigh, she turned and began the long trek back to the village, her feet squelching through the mud, the weight of the Branwyld hanging over her like a secret she couldn’t wait to return to.
Hi I've been overly happy with how art's been turning out lately
I was trying to make a new pfp for Leo's DnD profile but decided to make a normal one to and they're so snazzy aaaa
He's supposed to be a half-elf fighter, a folk hero and is currently being used for a pirate themed campaign.
A Master is always a Master...
Ah yes, Watch me crawl out from under the bush and post -only to disappear in a poof of smoke while you’re confused as you can’t recall your name.
Anyway, MORE BABY DRAGONS!!!!! (Yes this is a continuation of the black baby dragon post thing.)
I love them all very dearly. They were all part of the ‘curse’ thingy, but I have more development on some rather than others.
Blue dragon; was a human wanderer in the desert with no particular affiliation. They liked drawing what they came across, but particularly things that could fly. Out of all the baby dragons, they were the first to get on the wing, and is the most confident flyer out of all of them. They were taken in by a clan of blue dragons, and were forced to adapt to life with a lot of annoying siblings, but they’d easily give their life to protect them.
Green dragon; I don’t have much on this one, just know that a pair of green dragons saved them from a bad situation and took them in. The baby green dragon desires dangerous adventures above all else, which doesn’t fit well with the fact that green dragons are the most protective over their young.
Red dragon; no clue. But I’m pretty sure they’re the ones that were the catalyst for the ‘curse’ and something else about dying in a battle. Idk. They’re very cute tho.
Brass dragon; a human from a small town in a desert. He kept to himself and spent most of his time in the small library provided. He didn’t like to socialise unless someone was equally into academic studies wanted to discuss something with him (read ; autistic. Yes, I am projecting my autism onto this character, because brass dragons remind me of a lot of the traits). When he turned into a dragon he couldn’t return to his town, but luckily found another brass dragon in their abode. This baby dragon is the smartest of the group, and the most curious about how this curse came to be.
White dragon; where as the others were pretty lucky to find the support they needed in the form of older dragons, this baby white dragon was an elf slave who was almost killed by a white dragon. The slaves were being transported when a white dragon attacked the vehicles while they were on a cliff, both slavers and slaves were killed but the curse took hold as the elf slave fell of the edge. Even as the adult white dragon saw a small white dragon, they were still intent on hunting and killing it. The baby dragon barely got away alive, and she decided the best course of action was to warn the nearest town about the impending dragon attack.
The designs were my interpretation of the dragon species, I’m very well aware they don’t look like the canon traits. This is both for cuteness and just what I would want to draw.