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*Draconua* · (This post was last modified: Aug 17 2021, 03:40 AM by Draconua.)

This thread exists for the posterity of Draconua (unintentionally) making a nice spot for Corrupted characters.
It takes place roughly just before the Deathmatches begin.
There Draconua was, sat hunched halfway into herself even with the excessively high ceiling of the room—the curved points of her skull would punch through stone if it were any semblance of yielding. Dark, beady eyes glared from beneath her over-tilted head, beneath sanguine ridges. She trembled like a nervous chihuahua, yet she was anything but.

Energy thrummed electric beneath her thick, gnarled hide. Every little scar dancing over tattered skin quivered and seized. Motes of fire took shape and puttered out. The sand around her talons took on a sickly, desaturated sort of tone. Her own vision, on occasion, smeared into monochromatic blurs with the passing of another skull-crushing round of pressure. Ah, but of course, that did little to dissuade her from glaring.

Glaring daggers at the pile of carcasses—dressed to the nines, weren't they?—laid out at one end of the room. Free to take, and the challengers already made use of such a bounty.

The valkhound had given it an idle sniff from afar, and choked down her revulsion. Dead for some time, and yet they'd not moldered and decayed into the precious Oil she so coveted. Even after she waited another thirty or so minutes (an eternity, somehow, in her allegedly vast expanse of existence) there was no change.

So, it was with a snarl that she hauled to her feet. Draconua shouldered aside any unsuspecting Gembound in her way—may have deliberately attempted to step on toes or other such appendages—and leered down at the pile of picked-over, field-dressed meats. Clean.

After a moment's hesitation, a spike of magic lurched from her outstretched hand, turned palm-down to the earth with fingers curled into dangerous hooks. An outpouring of Chaos from within her deepest self, made manifest in the form of a festering blackness. It started in a slow drip from palm to stone, but quickly split and spread. The carcass at the bottom of the pile was half-corrupted by the time it finished its spread—a mere three or so feet from where the first bit of magic had struck—and Draconua's ravenous hunger won out over patience.

Flat teeth snared the blackened deer from the pile and, without a care for the subsequent collapse, dragged it away to some terrible corner to be swallowed nearly whole.

exit, unless stopped