A Saint Bernard sits at the the top of the driveway - you always said how you love dogs; I don’t know if I count, but I’m trying my best when I’m howling and barking these songs
Not a lot of people use (or have even really heard of, tbh) amphitheaters outside of DnD fans it seems. I’m here to rectify this terrible atrocity by making one of the main characters of a project I hope to bring to life someday one of these strange, serpentine creatures
Seriously, finding art of these guys is nigh impossible geez
Syrtyr (sUR-tUR, a bit of emphasis on the “t”) is the uglier, less-favored leathered variant of the prettier, lavish-life-leading feathered amphitheater. He looks like a villain his design SCREAMS it but I stg he’s a... well, I won’t say he’s a hero per say, but he’s not a bad guy either. Grey, I’ll say. In the end, his goals have good intentions, but executing those intentions in a morally correct way will take some doing in his story.
He’s a rugged fellow who lives a harsh life of solitude, making his living in a hellish desert known as the Crimson Wastes. The sands are ashen and glow red under the blazing sun, and you’re as good as dead if you don’t find shelter before daybreak. Unless, of course, you’re a dragon specifically tailor-made to both withstand the relentless sun and hunt amidst the panic and hysteria caused by the frequent brush fires that spring up entirely too often under the insistence of the deadly laser in the sky. Who’s not to say that some of these fires weren’t caused by him, though?
Syrt’s plumage is a dull, drab grey normally, but in the right lighting it sheens a striking red color, perfect for blending in with the ash and flame. It’s this same plumage that earns him, and many other amps similar to him, ire from their extravagant cousins. The fluffy colorful ones live it up as nobles and celebrities in the city and spitefully toss their lesser equivalents a bad name, sighting them as idiotic savages and hideous beasts when in reality they’re every bit as crafty and cunning as they are. For these reasons, and some others I won’t discuss ‘cause spoileyz, he’s less than fond of the poofey windbags. Fuck ‘em, they’d die within minutes if they were in his shoes.
He says, suddenly recalling that amps don’t have feet.