Theo demands we show you a project we’ve been working on, so show you we shall.
J. Kruschack tries his hand at alliteration for this entry.
Walk into a room where you see the weeping forms of worgs,
being worked over by weary, working-class werewolves wearing flat caps.
The walloping leaves the creatures wary of wondering into the winter night.
Whilst this occurs, far off in a war-torn land, a veteran wakes up to work out
that he’s become a wendingo, asking “What did I do?” and “What could be worse?” Walking off into the desert, wishing to die of the hunger that will never cease.
This worries him.
Elsewhere, wading into the deep water, a worshipper waves her arms ceremoniously
as chanting wafts through the sunken cavern. Awoken, the wyvern rises, full of ancient wrath. Wreathes of flame envelope all but one, who graciously offers her flesh,
arcanely wrapped white tattoos, to the barb-tailed creature. It’s wings spread wide as it’s mouth whips open to reveal row after row of teeth. The sound of it’s wail would cause all others to spend their final moments wallowing in fear but not her.