[15:37] <HypoSoc> roll 1d4 for bonus
[15:37] <qqdice> HypoSoc rolled 1d4: 3 = [3]
[15:38] <HypoSoc> roll 1d2 for event
[15:38] <qqdice> HypoSoc rolled 1d2: 2 = [2]
You marvel at your new body. It is everything you could have hoped for, possessing matched pairs of arms and legs, and even (you assume) a face! You run your hands across yourself, marveling at the new sensations. It seems that most of your body is covered in a smooth, fleshy, tannish substance –skin you recall– though your forearms instead are enveloped in a course, red, almost-metalic material –scales, your mind insists– much like a bracer. Similarly, the back of your hands are armored. Beyond that, your only clothing seems to be a well-worn tunic, dissapointinly bare of pockets. Truly, you have a splendid body.
You might have not access to a mirror, but all in all you believe yourself to be a dashing half-dragon. Idly, you decide to name yourself. After all, selves needed names. In consideration of you draconic frame, you decide upon "Drake." Not that creative, you know, but all you have going for you is that you are a half-dragon—
Your mind comes to a halt.
HALF-DRAGON!
You eagerly twist your head, and almost squeal upon confirmation that you do, in fact, have wings. Oh glory of glories! You can easily picture your epic form doing momentous deeds with the aid of these magnificent limbs. People will swoon in envy and desire upon glimpsing your mighty form, taking shelter from or within your enormous wingspan. You unfold them to full length—
Oh, that's rather embarrassing. You quickly pull them back in to hide your shame. You don't think you could possibly generate any lift with those... Please tell me I am not stuck with these. They have to grow, right?
You assure yourself, that yes, your magnificence will be evident in the near future. Besides, there are other great features of your semi-drakehood. Why, you must be able to spew forth fabulous flames of fiery fury. Such a technique must be within your grasp. It's instinct, right?
You take in a great heave of air and release your power.
You take a moment to curl up into a ball and wallow in self-pity.
Right, can't sulk forever. Surely this too will improve with time, as well. You just have to stop thinking about how you are a pathetic example of whimpdom who can't even-
And you curl up again.
After a few more cycles of turmoil wherein you learn the pain of disappointment and the fragility of emotions, you resolve to be on your way. There is a whole world to explore after all.
You head out in a direction at random.
It strikes you suddenly that the background noise is gone. The buzzing of insects and skittering of forest animals which had been your constant hiking companion tapered off. It had happened so slowly that you only now just noticed. The trees around you looked the same, as do the foliage. Still, there is something that makes this area different. A smell, perhaps?
A shiver crawls down your spine and you DODGE
There is a crash from where you just stood, and pile of viscous, and vicious, amalgam of green gunk just bigger than your head. –Slime, you are helpfully informed– It hisses? growls? spews air bubbles? at you and prepares to lunge—
[ ] What do you do? (Write in)
[X] Dodge it's lunge and see if there's a stick nearby you can use to hit the slime with.
