Scrawl Banditta

On the Wings of Dragons

@Byte Awww, I am so sorry for your loss. My condolences and deepest sincerities are with you. I too have lost my father but it was a time ago. It hit me hard because I am a Daddy's girl, he was my rock, my friend and my partner in crime. Losing someone is a hardship, especially when it is someone who is close to you.

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Oh my! I do terribly apologize for not telling this earlier but I have recently moved to a new home. So I was M.I.A for a bit of time, I hope that I did not miss much action while I was gone. If so then I shall catch up, but for now it seems that I am right on time. (I was busy moving furniture to my new home, as well as paying for new internet service there.) I had to wait a bit (a few days) because I had no internet access to my Modem in my new house. But now, everything is right as rain and I can once again role-play on here. (By the way, I am glad that I am doing alright in our group setting.) But anyways, I am looking forward to continuing to dish out with you all in this group!

(To all in this group.) Thank you! just wanted to send this message.

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Oh, thank you! I wanted to add my flair on my post while staying in the line of the original setting. I tried my best and I am glad you approve of my post. ^w^ And alrighty, I shall if needed to be altered by your word to do so.

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Hello! I did my post. A quickie. I hope that was alright to do. I hope the post itself is up to par as well. If not, then I deeply apologize and will re-do if necessary.

On the Wings of Dragons

🄴🄸🅁🄰 🄻🅄🄽🄴🅃🄷

Eira kept to the air like a held breath.

The winds around her were gentle here—too gentle. Sunspire’s boundary shimmered below like a golden veil, a warmth she did not trust, a warmth that felt wrong against the frost‑etched runes beneath her skin. Crytharion hovered, wings beating in slow, controlled strokes, his great body coiled with restrained vigilance. He obeyed her command to stop, but every scale along his spine glimmered with tension.

She dared not cross the invisible line. Not when she could feel the storm inside her shift uneasily, as though the very sunlight below was a foreign tongue it could not speak.

She kept to--

She kept to the air like a trespasser before a sacred tomb, suspended between retreat and ruin.

Below, Sunspire stretched in impossible radiance. Ivory towers pierced the clouds like spears forged from dawn itself, their gilded surfaces bleeding molten light across the heavens. Rivers of gold ran through the city’s veins, and banners of white silk drifted from parapets untouched by decay. It was beautiful in the cruelest way possible—untouched, unmarred, alive.

Eira hated it instantly.

The storm within her recoiled harder the longer she stared. Frost crept unconsciously across her fingertips, thin crystals crawling over the leather wrappings around her hands before dissolving again beneath the oppressive warmth. Even the air tasted wrong here. Too clean. Too bright. It carried none of the iron scent of snowstorms, none of the comforting bitterness of pine and distant ash she had known all her life.

Beneath her, Crytharion released a low rumble deep within his throat.

Not aggression.

Warning.

Eira’s eyes narrowed.

Far beneath them, the boundary shimmered again.

Not a wall.

A pulse.

Golden threads spread across the sky for the briefest moment, forming vast geometric sigils hidden within the sunlight itself. Ancient wardcraft. Old enough that even the wind seemed to fear touching it. The magic brushed against her senses like burning needles, and for one terrible heartbeat she felt something notice her.

Not someone.

Something.

The warmth sharpened.

Crytharion’s wings faltered once before steadying, his claws flexing against empty air. A growl rippled from him now, deeper than thunder trapped beneath mountains. The dragon’s icy hued eyes fixed upon the city below with naked distrust.

Eira slowly tightened her grip on the scales behind his neck.

“Easy, boy.” she murmured, though her own voice sounded distant beneath the pounding of her heart.

The feeling did not leave.

It lingered against her skin, probing carefully, as though Sunspire itself stood at the threshold watching the frostborn stranger who dared hover at its gates.

She remained perfectly still.

One movement.
One step forward.
One breath too close--

--and she knew the city would awaken.

"As you wish, Sir, command understood." she said, replying to her rider leader. The one known as Jinan. "Ready to follow the task at hand."

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Ahaha! thank you, I kept wondering why the URL of my picture was so large. Thank you for the suggestion, and the information tid-bit. It was a tremendous help.

@Byte Thank you so much. I appreciate your help and information. You are so very kind. I shall remember this if I add photos. And once again, I thank you. ^W^

On the Wings of Dragons

@Byte Oh dear, oopsie. I deleted it because the URL was too large of a size. I do apologize, lol. I am still figuring out what sizes to do for my pictures when I put them on my homepage, or my signature. Again, I do humbly apologize.

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Hello there! I do apologize for not noticing the setting earlier, please forgive me for such a mistake. And I shall remember that we are all at Sunspire Mountains. And I shall have the location saved in my memory for my next post when it is my turn. I do tend to repeat information from time to time, that is a rather irritating habit of mine. Thank you ever so kindly for letting me know about that.

On the Wings of Dragons

@Nameless Hero Alrighty, I completed my first post. I hope that it is to your liking. This is my first time in a group like setting and I desire to follow all rules. I did my very best, although my skills are a bit rusty after returning to role-play once again.

On the Wings of Dragons

Eira Luneth — a name she learned like a lullaby, though she had never needed one. Her true identity lived in the Norsinian winds that carved her spirit sharp and cold, and in the Avalese light that shimmered quietly beneath her skin.

She was born of two worlds, yet belonged entirely to neither. Instead, she moved between them like a winter star drifting across dusk — a rare convergence of frost and moonfire, of mortal breath and elven grace.

To speak her lineage was to speak of contrasts: the iron-blooded resilience of her Norsinian father,the ancient, melodic magic of her Avalese mother. Together, they shaped a being who was not divided, but doubled — a girl who carried two realms in the chambers of one heart.

And so Eira walked the world not as someone seeking a title, but as someone becoming one.

Eira Luneth — a name whispered into her childhood like a warning, though she had never needed one. Her truest self was carved instead by the Norsinian winds that bit like teeth, and by the cold, silver pulse of Avalese blood humming beneath her skin.

She was a child of two realms, yet claimed by neither. In the human world, she was too quiet, too watchful — a shadow with frost in her veins. Among the elves, she was too mortal, too breakable — a flicker of warmth in a land that revered the eternal.

So she learned to walk the borders instead, a creature forged in the tension between dusk and deep winter. A rarity, yes - but rarities are often lonely things.

Her father’s Norsinian lineage gave her a spine of iron and a heart that beat like a war drum. Her mother’s Avalese grace wrapped her in moonlit silence, a beauty that felt more like a curse than a gift.

She did not simply exist between two worlds - she haunted them, a living threshold, a girl shaped by cold and contradiction.

The cold woke her before the light did.

The cold did not simply wake her — it claimed her.

Eira Luneth rose from her bed of furs as the Norsinian wind clawed at the canvas of her shelter, its howl a familiar summons. She pushed aside the furs and stepped into the breath of dawn, where the Norsinian wind screamed across the tundra like a living thing.The air was a blade, slicing through cloth and skin, but she welcomed it. Frost gathered on her lashes, her hair lifting in the gale as if the storm itself reached for her.

Outside, the world was a cathedral of ice and silence. Snow dunes rose like pale leviathans. The sky was a bruised gray, heavy with unfallen storms.

And in the midst of that frozen expanse waited Crytharion. Frost clung to her lashes, breath curling from her lips in pale ghosts as she stepped into the blistering dawn. The world outside was a wasteland of white and steel-blue shadow — a land that bit, bruised, and blessed in equal measure.

And waiting for her, as he always did, was Crytharion.

He stood half-shrouded in drifting snow, a medium-sized dragon by the standards of the great wyrms, yet still towering above her with quiet, unshakable presence. His aquamarine scales shimmered like frozen glass catching the first fractured rays of morning. Smooth, sleek, and cold to the touch, they reflected the stormlight in ripples of blue fire.

Two crescent-shaped horns curved back from his skull, elegant rather than fearsome. His teeth — sharp as a shark’s and gleaming with frost — flashed only when he yawned or nuzzled her hand, never in threat. For all his lethality, he carried himself with the gentleness of a loyal hound, padding toward her with a soft rumble that vibrated through the snow.

His wings unfurled in a slow, sweeping arc — 32 feet of pale aquamarine membrane traced with veins of silver. Not monstrous, not overwhelming, but powerful enough that each beat stirred a flurry of snowflakes into spiraling dances. Wherever he moved, the air crystallized; wherever he breathed, frost blossomed like flowers.

He lowered his head to her chest, warm breath turning the air to glittering shards. She pressed her forehead to his snout, feeling the ancient calm within him — a wisdom older than the storms that shaped this land.

Crytharion was loyal.
Crytharion was gentle.
Crytharion was devastating.

A creature who could summon blizzards with a roar, or weave illusions from drifting ice. Yet with her, he was soft as snowfall, steadfast as winter stone.

Together, they walked into the white horizon — rider and dragon, girl and myth — their silhouettes swallowed by the storm they called home.