A strange looking one to be sure, this egg is a miasma of darker colors. Mixed brown, blues and crimsons fade to near blacks as it forms an ominous looking sea. Roughly dead center upon it floats a circular corona of bright yellow. Shining as the brightest part of the whole, the radiance seems to be thawing the darker colors and for a few inches all around it the threatening inkiness warms to gray and white. Within the protective yellow circle are two blotches of red and orange, each having several molten fingers that intertwine with each other as two tightly held hands. Two hands, together stronger than each alone. Together holding back the darkness and together, them against the world.
There Are No Second Dates Blue
Oppressive twilight presses down against this blue’s form until he gathers it to himself and uses it to rise above the rest. Dark hues cling to his hide like invisible cobwebs or filaments of fate, curving and crisscrossing in a subtle streaked dapple pattern that caresses his neck and shoulders before vanishing into pools of the ocean’s freezing depths of his underbelly and legs. Already his size and power is foretold, despite the long, lean look to his body. Disproportionate to most dragons’, his head hangs, too large for his neck, his tail longer to compensate and give him some semblance of balance. It is angular and stark, chiseled from stone by the harsh whip of wind and the beating of sand. His head knobs are angled forward alertly, the swirl of rainclouds against a dark sky giving the appearance that they are twisted, when in reality there is nothing amiss - it is all an illusion. Sharp, angled ridges rise and fall from his neck and along his spine like the distant, foreboding crags of the northern reaches’ mountain ranges, daring any to approach at their own risk. Hind legs are long and angled, most often pushed more erect than most dragons do, causing the angle of his back to be tipped forward rather than straight or upright, and perhaps it is necessary due to the size of his head and the length of his tail. Ripples and waves of poisoned flotsam flow sluggishly down his long, narrow tail to its fork, where the hues fade away into darkness. Wings extend at least another quarter size longer than they should be, stretching on and on as he unfurls their sails and reaches with his spars into whatever space he might occupy, claiming the air beneath his wings as his own even when he’s on the ground. His talons are flecked with steel blue and veins of black, gathered from the paths he has walked through the nightmares of the universe.