Far beyond the seething seas, lies a place of verdant wonder: The Willowing Woods. Here, you'll encounter all sorts of creatures, each with their own stories to tell. Venture into the Ever-Verdant Grove to hear a story of long-sought friendship. Tre...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Far beyond the lands germinating with the essence of life, lies a desolate abyss enshrouded by fogs of death-wrought gray: The Ashenlands. Languishing stalks, marked with cadaverous crimson, all rest and wither, bodies of bone lay and rot beneath the pits and cracks, and the skies were bleakly smeared in darkness. Though a dismal place, it is home to the vilest fiends there ought to be in all the Woods: the Zetherwings.
They are malignant-feathered raptors that soar amongst the shadows and lock on any living creature that comes by. Eyes were of slaughter-ridden scarlet, as were the ethereal marks on their wings, beaks, and talons. Beaks were of serrated layers, crests were of moribund aegean, feathers were of deathly blackened ilk, and talons were of seething decay. It would only take a single scratch from its claws to send one into utter agony, only to be mercilessly devoured. Though prey are not to succumb to death, they're weakened to feel as if they are. Little to none is known about the macabre history of this land and its inhabitants. Perhaps feeble spawns of a deathly omen? Perhaps the birthplace of a deathly incarnation? One cannot be certain, but that is a tale for the future.
Not long then, there came a lonesome Svitzerhoof: solemn beasts with lengthy antlers, like the lengthy boughs of a common stalk. Horns & hooves were scribed with mystic azure, while its hide was clad in lavender fur & smeared in ethereal mauve. It'd been capriciously meandering about, up until it glanced upon a baleful flock of shadow-winged terrors perching above. They viciously swooped down, scraped with their talons, and scavenged & devoured whatever was left of the weakened doe. With grievous beaks and searing talons, they tore and ate through horn and flesh. More and more came swarming in to eat of its remains, as blood & bones smothered their very beaks.
There was one amongst the flock who didn't dare come close towards the decaying deer: the youngest Zetherwing. It simply hadn't been just to rip and rend helpless beasts and gobble down their remnants. Though it was for survival, it still felt wrong. One of the Zetherwings noticed how the blackfeathered youngling stood idly by the masses, and let out a dissonant squawk to give it way. The youngling stood hesitantly, as it had no interest in partaking of blood-ridden remains; it had to do something otherwise. As it timidly neared the carcass, it reluctantly grabbed a chunk of its remains, tried to ingest it, and only ended up regurgitating it. The Zetherwing masses loathed and screeched at the youngling in spiteful shock for what it did.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
