A response to Dragonlordmax's Freetext Friday. Specifically, Exotic Mounts.
Thanks to axlerowes for help fleshing out the details and helping me tie it in further with the rest of the setting.
The dual, muted voice called out it’s siren wail across the dunes, “...Of course, no one as brilliant as yourself would ever enter the deeper desert without one of my extra light canteens. Why, I haven’t seen anyone come out alive without them! If you act now I can give you the reduced price…”
Her lips pressed against the soaking flesh of the toad, and Viova’s words entered her mind…
Swarming, never-ending, sea of teeth, muscle, and scales. They are all pervasive, all consuming, and they will destroy you. Devouring body and soul. They are hatred and fear incarnate, a punishment from the foul and incomprehensible gods.
Simultaneously feared and desired by mages, Cool blue reasons are the collections of negative energy and the absence of emotion. A Reason appears as a tapering worm of translucent blue-black color, nearing one foot in length at the time of creation, though through their feeding on emotion can grow to be miles long.
They come in the night, and they take things. Nothing neccesary. Maybe they’ll take some candle wax, mabe a few sticks, a curtain, anything. But guard all your possesions boy, because if you don’t, they’ll come down on you like a hellbeast in one of their damned machines.
An influential fungus among us!
In Gaeaioa’s wings, inspiration is physical.
The majestic, draconian riding beasts of Tarran.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman