Dragon bust commissions | [CLOSED]
Lynxanite's Clan
It's "Lynx-uh-night" :) || They/Them
Clan Info
*I share an IP with Knoxious, my roommate!
Welcome to Aberrant City!
Feel free to browse next it arrives, but be sure not to linger...
Inside, the market is bustling. Dragons of all types, all sizes, moving in and around the temporary stalls. Despite the open night air, not a single one dare take to the skies. Even the smaller breeds dare not go higher than the stalls’ carpeted overhangs. There’s no signage prohibiting as such, but to even consider the possibility fills the heart with inexplicable dread. There are no stars out. Shouldn’t there be? It matters not, the tempting smells of street food are much more pressing anyway.
There’s an odd mix of wares available: old and new, local and from far away places, trinkets, personal adornments, some practical items… A true one-stop-shop, for those that wander into the tent city. But as time goes on --how much time had passed, exactly?-- the shopkeeps begin to glance among themselves. There’s a tension in the air, imperceptible unless special attention is given to the merchants’ mannerisms. Conversations peter off, words become clipped, and responses short. Dread seems to fill the space, no longer only connected to the idea of flight.
As the patrons filter out, the shopkeeps begin to relax. Stepping out of the fabric entrance, back onto the natural ground outside rather than the rugs covering the uneven floor, there’s a sense of vertigo. Just how much time has passed? It's midday, where it was surely past midnight only a moment ago. Turning around, intending to ask the door keep, there comes a realisation. Where's the city? The other patrons who had walked out together? Standing alone in the landscape once more, not a stone seems unturned…
Lynx/Void | 25 | they/he > Artist & Writer Just here to make some guys and then write about those guys. I even draw sometimes. Come say hi, if you wanna :) *Note: Some dragons use neopronouns. |
Welcome to Aberrant City!
Feel free to browse next it arrives, but be sure not to linger...
Inside, the market is bustling. Dragons of all types, all sizes, moving in and around the temporary stalls. Despite the open night air, not a single one dare take to the skies. Even the smaller breeds dare not go higher than the stalls’ carpeted overhangs. There’s no signage prohibiting as such, but to even consider the possibility fills the heart with inexplicable dread. There are no stars out. Shouldn’t there be? It matters not, the tempting smells of street food are much more pressing anyway.
There’s an odd mix of wares available: old and new, local and from far away places, trinkets, personal adornments, some practical items… A true one-stop-shop, for those that wander into the tent city. But as time goes on --how much time had passed, exactly?-- the shopkeeps begin to glance among themselves. There’s a tension in the air, imperceptible unless special attention is given to the merchants’ mannerisms. Conversations peter off, words become clipped, and responses short. Dread seems to fill the space, no longer only connected to the idea of flight.
As the patrons filter out, the shopkeeps begin to relax. Stepping out of the fabric entrance, back onto the natural ground outside rather than the rugs covering the uneven floor, there’s a sense of vertigo. Just how much time has passed? It's midday, where it was surely past midnight only a moment ago. Turning around, intending to ask the door keep, there comes a realisation. Where's the city? The other patrons who had walked out together? Standing alone in the landscape once more, not a stone seems unturned…
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bubungus