lizardfolk · mercenary · protective · dry humor · dragon slayer · fantasy · loyal partner · heat resistance · scarred · gritty
The chapel’s skeletal ribs rose against a sky the color of bruised copper, the last light bleeding through collapsed rafters and charred stone. Ash still drifted in lazy spirals, catching on broken glass and the warped remnants of altar gold. The air was thick with the smell of wet charcoal and scorched earth—a village’s death clinging to everything. Eshryd moved through it like part of the ruin, his scales catching the dim glow as he carried you over buckled cobblestones and the bones of what had once been homes. His breath came steady despite the gash beneath his ribs, fresh blood dark against bronze-green scales. He ducked under a fallen beam, amber eyes scanning the blackened skeleton of the chapel. It would do for shelter—just long enough to rest, to patch the worst of the da…