Journeying, Dublin had decided, was simply not for him. He had traveled through the vast boringness of the vast plains—which were just that. Vast. Not, however, empty. Oh no, there had been plenty of smaller beasts roaming around looking for something called a “wombear”. Then through a city, a park, to a boat dock to head home to Jawan.
Yet somehow he was here—having overshot his original destination. Cursing softly under his breathe in a soft Irish accent, he made his way through yet another forest-like location. He hadn’t passed a pub in months and it was beginning to show in his more ill-tempered trudge that he was currently walking.
The roar of the falls began to grow louder—like a storm approaching your home on a dark, cloudy night. His bright green scales, even in this dense foliage, stood out sorely from their neon tint. The sail on the nape of his neck rose and lowered as he breathed, a sure sign of his distress. As the trees around him began to thin, Dublin noticed the moon and…what was that? High above him was something else was glowing. Something that looked oddly similar to a female paragon.
Dublin stopped, admiring for a moment. Her shape alone, from what he could make out of the silhouette she cast against the rising orange moon, was that of a female. To Dublin women were a bit like fine art—best admired first from afar, then examined more closely for their individual beauty.
Yet somehow he was here—having overshot his original destination. Cursing softly under his breathe in a soft Irish accent, he made his way through yet another forest-like location. He hadn’t passed a pub in months and it was beginning to show in his more ill-tempered trudge that he was currently walking.
The roar of the falls began to grow louder—like a storm approaching your home on a dark, cloudy night. His bright green scales, even in this dense foliage, stood out sorely from their neon tint. The sail on the nape of his neck rose and lowered as he breathed, a sure sign of his distress. As the trees around him began to thin, Dublin noticed the moon and…what was that? High above him was something else was glowing. Something that looked oddly similar to a female paragon.
Dublin stopped, admiring for a moment. Her shape alone, from what he could make out of the silhouette she cast against the rising orange moon, was that of a female. To Dublin women were a bit like fine art—best admired first from afar, then examined more closely for their individual beauty.