by tooth & claw dragons

where darkness and chaos reign...
Welcome to the land of dragons and elves; demons and death. Here, you may weave tales of all creatures, great and small - magic is found in everything, and many worlds one can explore are open for discovery. By Tooth And Claw Dragons, often shortened to BTACD, is an original high fantasy role-play site with over eighty species and ten solid worlds, fifteen years strong. Freedom of creativity is boundless within the established lore, and member suggestions are not only accepted, but encouraged. We release new content monthly, and are always expanding our wondrous Realms. Come and play with magic, honor the great gods, and beware the balance that governs all...
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My Content
Feb 5 2018, 05:36 PM
(Art coming later)
Aku K’Nukl

Race: Naga/Air Elemental Sex: Male

Age: Unknown, though his First Mate can recall signing on under Aku more than 700 years ago

(Upright) Height: 7’5” (2.25m) (Full) Length: 18’ (6m) Weight: ~1200 lbs (550kg)

Alignment: Neutral Evil Profession: Pirate Captain and Wind Elementalist

Quirks: Trying to “attain his true form”, though he hasn’t the ability to prove anything about his past beyond tales of conquest once enacted. Strange penchant for sweets, especially hard candies. Despite his knack for words and manipulation, he’s exceptionally aggressive and prefers to settle disputes with steel before silver.

Appearance: Blue skin, scales take on an Aztec-inspired design (Lighter blue primarily, dark blue taking the form of straight lines, strings of three-sided squares( |_|⎺|_| <- Like that), some zig-zags, and bright yellow plumage ending with a darker orange at the edges of each feather. Four spouts of long plumage (2 behind the eyes about three inches, 2 about an inch outward and diagonally from the first) go halfway down his back, two shorter spouts come from about an inch above ear-level and shoot straight up and outwards. Two single feathers rise above each eye, a smaller inner one and a larger outer one, appearing almost flame-like. At his chin, too, sprouts several long feathers reaching below his ribcage. Nearly all-white right eye with a single black dot for a pupil. Left eye is normally covered by a simple black eyepatch, but when exposed is revealed to be a swirling orb of wind - attempting to peer past this and into his skull results in death, usually swift and painful.

Equipment/Apparel: Wields a naginata, and dons a simple steel-plated leather chestpiece to provide some protection to his upper abdomen without sacrificing mobility.

Abilities: Proficient wind element user, enjoys toying with opponents by manipulating the wind around his enemy while staying back out of reach, coiling his body to snap forward while either lunging or slashing with his naginata before recoiling to retreat and/or cast spells.

Aku believes himself to be an entity of god-like power, trapped within the body of a lesser being by forces unknown. For hundreds of years the pirate has sought out magic, poultices, rituals, even simple trinkets, all in an effort to elevate his body “back to its former glory.” Still striving for this, Aku has decided to simply gather everything he associates with power - gold, enchanted weapons, armor, jewelry, etc, well-bred slaves, etc., even political power is seen as another stepping stone to godhood.

Captains a flying pirate ship, *The Wind Rider*, similar to a frigate armed with a full broadside potential of 30 cannons.
Jan 13 2018, 08:23 PM

Age: 87
Shoulder-Height: 5’5” (1.6m)
Weight: 190 lbs (86 kg)
Species: Direwolf/Bloodwolf Hybrid
Vryheid’s fur is a dark brownish red, broken by lighter brown spots along the sides and flank, while his upper shoulders and neck are bereft of these spots. Surprisingly, the spots resume at the base of his skull and ears.
Between the shoulderblades, just above where Vryheid’s wings reach out from his body, a tuft of quill-like fur pools at the base of his neck, spilling halfway down between the wings in a thin line of spines. A similar grouping of quills grows out from the backs of his hind legs, potentially causing serious damage to any wolf brave enough to try to strike his vital areas.
While Vryheid’s body is visibly similar to that of a large, lean wolf, the wings themselves are batlike and leathery. Tribal markings decorate his neck and shoulders, flowing across his fur while changing with every glance given to it. Half-inch wide ribbons coil and roll over themselves, tranquil as a creek or raging like a typhoon.
Vryheid could remember no names, no faces, from Before. Only that he was just another member of a pack that knew few fruitless hunts, and fewer living enemies. What he did remember, though, was the chaos of the day that the Faction got hold of him and his pack. Howls and snarling filled the air, blood soaked the ground, and nearly two dozen wolves were taken prisoner - primarily pups and young wolves whose minds would be more susceptible to the “training” they were to endure. Vryheid himself had already seen nearly sixty winters, but his imposing appearance marked him as an almost necessary capture, one that he would not escape for many years.
For ten years he was imprisoned, trapped in a cell large enough to stretch his wings in, and little else. His former pack-mates - along with dozens of others - tested and tortured, physically and mentally, one by one in an effort to rein in their personalities, to break them and mould them into the perfect guardians for whomever the Faction deemed important. One by one they perished, slain by their captors, and killed or driven mad by the experiments themselves. Eventually, only Vryheid and a handful of others remained. The tests had become more potent, the failures becoming less and less uncontrollable. It wasn’t until Vryheid’s closest cell-mate, a small Vystrian by the name of Nassim, was returned to his cell that he knew his own time was fast approaching.
For years they’d been subjected to the same tortures. Starvation, hypnotism, beatings, all in the name of breaking them down for the sake of their tests. But that day, Nassim was drugged into unconsciousness and dragged out of the cell, only to be replaced by a husk hours later. Strained, jerking steps could be heard from the doorway, accompanied by the occasional order from the head researcher, Keres Jignasa, all the way to the cell a mere ten feet across.
“Go inside and guard the cell against intruders,” she’d ordered, her beautiful voice reaching his ears. He’d cringed away, fur standing on end at the sound of the vile woman’s words. But, bafflingly, Nassim had obeyed. The door had closed with a loud bang, and she’d turned to look directly at Vryheid, warm golden eyes settling on him from the opposing wall. He’d stiffened, wanting nothing more than to flee from the gaze of his most hated warden, but he would not allow himself to hide like a pup from this woman, and instead stood as tall as possible, showing his defiance. She hadn’t flinched, had only smiled as she stepped towards his door, his hackles raising as it etched itself across her face. “You’ll be mine soon, dearest,” was all she’d said before turning and walking away.
After that, the wolf known as Nassim was nothing more than a silent, unmoving husk, only moving to kill the few rats that wandered into the cell. Within a month, Vryheid was visited by Keres and her herbalists, who threw a strange concoction into his cell, a pungent mix of herbs and poultices that made dizzied him into unconsciousness. He’d woken to those golden eyes peering at him with a twisted glee he never wanted to see the likes of again.
For hours, he was tortured with magical phantoms and mental attacks, as those golden eyes held his gaze. Bodies moved and flickered in his peripherals, incense filled his nostrils, and his head swam. He knew nothing beyond the visage of Keres, the pressure of her mind as it poked and prodded at his own for weaknesses. After what must have been a day and a half, sleep deprivation broke his willpower, and his mind was flooded with a single order.
Even then, he’d fought against it, but his mind was too weak, like swimming through gel.

His last conscious thoughts were of the sky, the freedom of flying, and he clung to them desperately as he sunk into the depths of sleep, soft gold enveloping his vision before he fell into a terrible slumber.
Years passed, though Vryheid barely noticed. The first truly successful guardian wolf was assigned to Keres herself. Day and night he stood at her side, defending her from threats when she wasn’t siccing him on her enemies. For twelve years he acted as her guard dog, unable to refuse her orders even as he dreamed of the skies above. It wasn’t until a raid on the compound that had for so long been his home and prison that the wolf was given a chance.
Vystrian loyalists, by some miracle he would never understand, infiltrated the research facility. A loud boom announced their sudden arrival to the entire compound, and the walls shook with the force of the explosion. Shouts and screams ensued, as the force surged inside the walls. ”Come to me!” Keres’ voice echoed through his mind, and Vryheid’s body moved automatically to obey.
Guardian animals, some wolf, some not, stood guard at doorways, their minds warped to the point that they could follow only simple commands without error. What few guardian wolves such as himself existed had already been sold off to important officials who had the pull or money for one, and only those who could be treated as house-plants remained.
Another boom shook the building, and the smell of blood filled the air as he burst into Keres’ room. His Wielder stood, surrounded by guards, amidst a room full of chaos. A wave of pungent odor washed over the wolf, the scent of blood, death, fire, and excrement overpowered his nose.
“Vystrian scum!” Keres spat, kicking a still-burning corpse aside as she looked up to see Vryheid enter the room. “Hond!” She cried out, eyes afire, “Where the hell have you been?” She turned away before he could reply, barking orders at her men as the sound of war continued to build around them. Howls of pain and rage, human and animal alike, thundered through the air as the compound’s mind-broken guardians tore into the ranks of the invaders elsewhere.
Vryheid turned back to Keres, waiting on instructions from his wielder, when a sound unlike any other tore through the air. A low rumble rippled across the sky, building and building in power until a powerful crack shattered the rumble, followed immediately by a roar that made Vryheid’s bones themselves shake.
Dragon,” Keres hissed, as the room quieted. She turned to Vryheid, eyes blazing with unbridled hatred, and the wolf needed no orders voiced, her desire for its death was so great. Vryheid’s body moved to obey, paws barely touching the ground as he charged for the doors leading to an open courtyard. The smell of blood and shit began to dwindle as he neared the fresh air, and Vryheid couldn’t help but pump his legs harder, wings beginning to unfold and stretch at the rare opportunity of flight.
His breathing increased with every step, adrenaline coursing through Vryheid’s body - to the point where he thought he might faint - and then he was outside the doors and his wings were pumping against the air as a loud whuff whuff whoooosh accompanied him as he clawed his way into that sky he craved so much. The dragon had flown past, raking the ground below with great swathes of flame, a wide stretch of greenery scorched to burning embers. The moment of bliss had been cut short as Vryheid pushed his wings to their limit and shot forward, rising above the dragon as it turned about for another run.
Before it could breathe death upon the ground once more, Vryheid struck, barreling into the dragon from above. The two archers, raining arrows on the ground from the lizard’s back, fell to the ground below as the impact rocked their perch. The wolf’s fangs bit at any soft flesh they could, ripping out chunks as they spiraled down below. The dragon’s roars turned to screeches as they plummeted together, thrashing its body to get free of the frenzied wolf. They clashed again and again, the blows landing heavier and heavier every time, Vryheid’s mind overridden by a bloodlust brought on by his Wielder’s hate-filled desires.
He could recall charging the dragon once more, aiming to finish the fight, though he’d known it would not be his victory. But before his charge could gain momentum, a shock ran through his body. A similar feeling came the first time he’d been ordered to kill by Keres, but that shock, that horrible, reality-warping shock, was nothing in comparison to what he felt in that moment. His mind felt as if it had shattered, his body felt heavy and burdened, and he could both hear and feel the echoes of Keres’s calls in his mind as she died.
How he loathed the woman, how he rejoiced in her death, and how he mourned the loss of his Wielder, his mind was no longer in control of itself or his body. His wings refused to beat at the air, and his anguished, ecstatic howl could not make itself heard. The dragon’s approaching body blurred, and then began to rise above him. Higher and higher the dragon had flown, higher than even he had flown before, until the ground rose up to embrace him.
Some time later, when all was quiet, Vryheid swam up from the depths of unconsciousness enough to lurch to his feet. The trees had broken his fall enough to keep him alive and able to walk, but his wings ached, and his left forepaw could hold no weight. He’d hobbled along through that forest, across little-traveled roads and empty meadows. For what felt like days, he trudged onwards into what he could only hope was oblivion, until his body could take no more. Vryheid crumpled down where he stopped to drink at a river, and only through blurry images did he see the form of a wolf approaching him.
“At last,” he’d mumbled into the grass.
Dec 2 2017, 07:28 PM
Hello! I'm looking for an artist to draw a wolf character for me. I have a description of it, of course, though I'm not very particular about the details. We can discuss the price in PM.

If anyone's interested, let me know. I would like to see current work, since there are different styles out there. Anyway, here's the description:

Skjede’s fur is a reddish dark brown, broken by lighter brown spots along the sides and flank, while his upper shoulders and neck are bereft of these spots. Surprisingly, the spots resume at the base of his skull and ears.
Between the shoulderblades, just above where Skjede’swings reach out from his body, a tuft of quill-like fur pools at the base of his neck, spilling halfway down between the wings in a thin line of spines. A similar grouping of quills grows out from the backs of his hind legs, potentially causing serious damage to any wolf brave enough to try to strike his vital areas.
While Skjede’s body is visibly similar to that of a large, lean wolf, the wings themselves are batlike and leathery. Tribal markings decorate his neck and shoulders, flowing across his fur while changing with every glance given to it. Half-inch wide ribbons coil and roll over themselves, tranquil as a creek or raging like a typhoon.
Nov 28 2017, 11:24 PM
Greetings, all! I'm a new member here, and I figured I should let my presence be known to all of you curious souls... I'm actually really terrible at talking about myself, so I'm pretty much gonna just put some info, and then hopefully what should have been my response to the writing prompt I kinda didn't realize was there.

So, anyway, I'm Valithar. Or Wildcard. Also known as Nuro by, like, a few dozen people. Doubt it'll be recognizable, but hey, it's there. Small world, after all.

Umm... I am a strange person, first off. I have a hard time connecting, so writing with others is my go-to for socializing, since I can communicate through ideals as much as dialogue. I work at night, consider customers to be the bane of existence (I work in retail, and if that doesn't garner sympathy, I don't know how you live with yourself, to be honest), and I find dragonfruit to be subtly delicious.

I thoroughly enjoy philosophical discussion and debate, but if someone tells me they still support Trump, I can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment in said individual. Besides that, people tell me I'm very quiet and reserved, though I think that I talk about myself way too much, and I'm a self-centered b*****d (I don't know how strong the censorship is here) of a human being, which makes my focus on myself that much more irritating to me.

Options give me a headache, and when I play RPGs (such as Tyranny, Pillars of Eternity, Fallout, The Elder Scrolls, Dragon Age, Divinity, Baldur's Gate, etc.) that don't allow me to kill the majority of the game's characters and be evil without cheating, I find it to be a sub-par roleplay experience (I've mentioned that I'm a terrible person, right?)

Okay, now I'm bored of talking about me, and so I'm gonna just put my response to the prompt here (to be honest, I just wanted to finish the story I had already thought up, and felt that continuously bothering Verridith with my emails wouldn't be particularly appreciated, so I thought I'd use it to demonstrate my writing capabilities while telling you all that I exist). Here goes!

If you don't remember the prompt, don't worry - I don't either - I just know where I was going with it:

Five dark figures sat at the base of the fortress's outer walls, crouched and huddled against the buffeting wind and rain of the raging storm. One among them, a gentlemanly human mage by the name of Malcon, whispered incantations, words that none of the others could hear with their ears, but could feel thrumming through the air all the same. He stopped after several moments of this, and then reached out a hand to touch the wall, another pulse of magical power channeling through his fingertips into the stone before them. The group looked up as a flash of lightning, louder than normal, split the stormy skies.

Go. The word entered Kalvatan's mind as clearly as any spoken word would have. He, along with the human and their three other allies, leapt into action, scaling the now hand-hold-covered wall with a combination of physical and magical prowess in moments. Haegar, a spellsword of impressive skill and leader of the strike team, was over the wall and had tossed two guards to their doom before Kalvatan's burly hand was even able to grasp the castle's battlements. The furred hand of Afulliun, a satyr and master of healing poultices, grasped his wrist and helped to pull the stocky dwarf over and onto the wall-walk.

Kalvatan grunted in thanks, as a long iron dirk appeared in his hand, and the party moved deeper into the castle. The drakes had already landed in front of the castle, causing as much noise as they could, while Haegar led a small team in through the back to free some elf Kalvatan hadn't heard of. He'd forgotten who it was already, the thought of a heavy purse taking up more of the dwarf's attention than anything else. He was here to get paid, nothing else.

The rear courtyard was barren of life - the guards had all been called to fight the drakes, and the very vegetation seemed dull and sapped of all vitality. Shriveled, black leaves littered the ground surrounding finger-thin trees, and the tall, once-noble bushes, trimmed to the likeness of heroes and creatures, were now brown husks of their former selves. The very air felt dead and heavy in their lungs.

At a servant's entrance, Kalvatan sidled up to the door, a lockpick at the ready, but the door swung open with a shuddering creak as soon as he touched it. The dwarf looked at the others, an eyebrow raised, but Haegar's silent nod was enough to get them all moving again. Their footsteps were notably quieter as they made their way deeper into the castle, though.

Dust and debris fell as the castle walls shook and shuddered while the battle raged outside, but an overwhelming magical presence caused the air to both stagnate and crackle with energy at the same time. Attuned to magical energies from birth, Kalvatan's lungs burned with every breath. Everyone in the party could feel it, though none had any idea what awaited them.

(Okay, I'm having a hard time telling this bit, because it's not all clear for me. Basically, they go through the unnervingly empty castle to save the elf lady, big baddy shows up, clapping as he steps out of some shadows, we get some exposition about stuff, he reveals his evil plan, and then...)

Agg, instincts overriding her trollkin mind, roared as she charged the golden-haired elven man, magical staff forgotten in her frenzy. Her heavy steps thundered across the room, closing the twenty meter distance between them and the elf in seconds. She leapt forward, aiming to crush the lightly-armored elf with her weight, but just before impact, the elf... vanished. There was a heavy thud as Agg's body crumpled against the far wall, dazed. She shook her head vigorously, and looked up in time to see the elf's sword flash downward in a brilliant flash, the naked blade seeming to give off a presence all its own, yet similar to the elf's.

The others, in their ignorance, charged forward, thinking numbers would decide the battle. Kalvatan, though, was frozen. One by one, he watched as they all fell to the elf. With each elegant swipe, a cascade of crimson painted the walls and floors - each one, a stroke from an artist far removed from his canvas. The dwarf's breathing had long since become ragged. His throat was sore, his lungs burned, his very skin felt afire. Fear had etched itself onto every line of Kalvatan's face, and his eyes only left the horrifyingly beautiful scene before him, when the sound of a blade clattering to the ground caught his attention.

When he looked down, the dwarf witnessed something peculiar - lying on the ground, a right arm that looked remarkably similar to his own, holding a blade he could swear was his. To the left, his left hand's gauntlet. In confusion, Kalvatan brought his hands to his face, and was greeted by one withering, decayed left hand. Even as he watched, his skin dried and flaked away, before crumbling into dust as the rest of his arm met the cold stone floor. The dwarf fell to his knees, his breath the rasp of an old man, and he looked up to see the elf standing before him, glorious in his dark splendor.

"I..." the elf began, as he knelt to look Kalvatan in the eye, "am Death." And with that, horrible black wings erupted from the elf's back. His face contorted and elongated, magic coming off of him in waves of pestilence and decay. His skin shredded to ribbons, revealing scales so black they seemed to take the light from the room. The dwarf's last sight; an impossibly huge, black dragon, rearing back and roaring as the castle came down around him.
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