Dragons are a dying species all across the continent, so it's not shocking that they no longer exist here, either. The Cwyld finished them off. Or rather, the moss did, by the sounds of it.
[Snapped up the moment they contracted the disease down here. While Momo has probably gotten accustomed to stares by virtue of being an outsider, he may just be getting more now that he's in tow with another purported surface-dweller who sports irrevocably classical draconic features. Faces that bob up from various wares don confusion, like they're unsure if they're seeing what they're seeing. Children point and whisper in warbling excitement. Most of all, an underlying hint of suspicion marks the air, parting a clear footpath for them as civilians keep their uneasy distance. 'Cwyld...' 'Cwyld?' Soren pointedly ignores it all and keeps his focus trained ahead, tone and expression grim as the topic, but in the hardened way of someone who accepts those sorts of realities as a matter of life.]
But that shouldn't stop me from finding suitable clothes. They look to be far less restrictive than Aefenglom's typical styles. If they don't fit in certain places, I can always enlist the help of a tailor.
[The dark, silver-embroidered capelet he wears is slitted in the back and the shirts layered beneath it capable of accommodating his wings. Similarly, buttons and flies need to be done differently for someone dragging a whole-ass lizard tail behind them.]
no subject
Dragons are a dying species all across the continent, so it's not shocking that they no longer exist here, either. The Cwyld finished them off. Or rather, the moss did, by the sounds of it.
[Snapped up the moment they contracted the disease down here. While Momo has probably gotten accustomed to stares by virtue of being an outsider, he may just be getting more now that he's in tow with another purported surface-dweller who sports irrevocably classical draconic features. Faces that bob up from various wares don confusion, like they're unsure if they're seeing what they're seeing. Children point and whisper in warbling excitement. Most of all, an underlying hint of suspicion marks the air, parting a clear footpath for them as civilians keep their uneasy distance. 'Cwyld...' 'Cwyld?' Soren pointedly ignores it all and keeps his focus trained ahead, tone and expression grim as the topic, but in the hardened way of someone who accepts those sorts of realities as a matter of life.]
But that shouldn't stop me from finding suitable clothes. They look to be far less restrictive than Aefenglom's typical styles. If they don't fit in certain places, I can always enlist the help of a tailor.
[The dark, silver-embroidered capelet he wears is slitted in the back and the shirts layered beneath it capable of accommodating his wings. Similarly, buttons and flies need to be done differently for someone dragging a whole-ass lizard tail behind them.]