⟬ Atop Whitehearth's northern walls, early evening... ⟭
Stanley looked out onto the battlefield in front of the city.
He didn't know what a dragon war was 'supposed' to look like.
But... everything going on out there seemed about right.
Over a dozen pockets of chaos-come-true littered the field. Swaths of ever-changing fields made up of the random, conflicting magics.
Ice fields. A black and bubbling swampy marsh. A blob-field of sand where the air crackled with electricity.
A regular-looking area that looked almost normal... but the grass was colored a little too green.
The various companies fighting on the field stayed the f*ck away from that one.
He would too.
The Drake Armors from Aerie weren't as tough as the ones from the initial assault.
They were worse fliers. And it seemed not all of them could breathe fire-- or other things.
It looked like their scales were made of wood.
