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Description
Two Times for the things that you hope you never hafta say.
Three scenes in a Dead Man's dream, and the girls tell the boys
that they better fuckin run away.

Bravo was muzzled and reigned. He was being almost dragged back to where he came from, fresh wounds on his sides reopened by the lashes from the Lufvids. This trek back to camp was all too familiar.

When they returned to camp, Bravo's old memories were dauntingly looming once again. The steel-reinforced wooden buildings were two sad stories, but they were built into the ground in dug-out areas matching the floor plans to keep a low profile. You have to walk up stairs to leave them, usually. The massive camp was more like a small hell-ridden town set up in a grid. It was only missing road signs. The roofs were either painted black or built with black shingles to hide under the thick canopy. Grass was scarce, as most areas were walked on enough that dirt was all that was left. The occasional stone storage building held important or explosive items, depending on the building.
They walked through the front gate, past tall wooden fences and iron gates. Camp dwellers, citizens and stryx alike, peeked out from windows or looked up from their streetside conversations to see this "newcomer." Bravo remembers these places: the tack shop, the blacksmith to the right, the cold meat storage, stryx "raising" quarters, the breeding houses, the soldier's quarters a little ways down, more barracks, the cells...

This particular group of Lufvids lived a very, very harsh lifestyle. The grunts and Bravo were approached by the headmaster right when they were near the "disciplinary" sect... one he remembers a little too well. Warlock looked at the defiant dragon.

"You thought you could run, didn't you."

What?? There's no markings on her?
Well, that's what she wants you to think. She comes from where Bravo did, which is nothing short of a hellhole. Had she let her actual plumage show, she would never see the light of day because her only job would be to produce as many valuable babies possible. Females who are bound to this grow sour and lifeless, and some even took their own life. Babies grow up in a loveless environment, and unless they are valuable for their DNA, most usually don't live past adolescence. Cue, Bravo.
Moxie , a friend, helps Lancer out with that by assisting her in painting black pigments or ground-up dark minerals on her wings to essentially save her life. She's done it for so long, that the pigments have become nearly permanent in most places. Lancer would scrub her worth out for a chance of a remotely better life any day of the week.

The Thunderbird is coming.

Lancer, Moxie, Bravo, Art © Cicatrixes
DracoStryx

Description
Two Times for the things that you hope you never hafta say.
Three scenes in a Dead Man's dream, and the girls tell the boys
that they better fuckin run away.

Bravo was muzzled and reigned. He was being almost dragged back to where he came from, fresh wounds on his sides reopened by the lashes from the Lufvids. This trek back to camp was all too familiar.

When they returned to camp, Bravo's old memories were dauntingly looming once again. The steel-reinforced wooden buildings were two sad stories, but they were built into the ground in dug-out areas matching the floor plans to keep a low profile. You have to walk up stairs to leave them, usually. The massive camp was more like a small hell-ridden town set up in a grid. It was only missing road signs. The roofs were either painted black or built with black shingles to hide under the thick canopy. Grass was scarce, as most areas were walked on enough that dirt was all that was left. The occasional stone storage building held important or explosive items, depending on the building.
They walked through the front gate, past tall wooden fences and iron gates. Camp dwellers, citizens and stryx alike, peeked out from windows or looked up from their streetside conversations to see this "newcomer." Bravo remembers these places: the tack shop, the blacksmith to the right, the cold meat storage, stryx "raising" quarters, the breeding houses, the soldier's quarters a little ways down, more barracks, the cells...

This particular group of Lufvids lived a very, very harsh lifestyle. The grunts and Bravo were approached by the headmaster right when they were near the "disciplinary" sect... one he remembers a little too well. Warlock looked at the defiant dragon.

"You thought you could run, didn't you."

What?? There's no markings on her?
Well, that's what she wants you to think. She comes from where Bravo did, which is nothing short of a hellhole. Had she let her actual plumage show, she would never see the light of day because her only job would be to produce as many valuable babies possible. Females who are bound to this grow sour and lifeless, and some even took their own life. Babies grow up in a loveless environment, and unless they are valuable for their DNA, most usually don't live past adolescence. Cue, Bravo.
Moxie , a friend, helps Lancer out with that by assisting her in painting black pigments or ground-up dark minerals on her wings to essentially save her life. She's done it for so long, that the pigments have become nearly permanent in most places. Lancer would scrub her worth out for a chance of a remotely better life any day of the week.

The Thunderbird is coming.

Lancer, Moxie, Bravo, Art © Cicatrixes
DracoStryx