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Twisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmarTwisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmarTwisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmarTwisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmarTwisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmar

Twisted, chaotic dragons from the 518th Layer of the Abyss. The Chole dragons are tentacled nightmares that destroy everything in their way. Check out my video where I geek out about them on my Youtube. 

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPcFsxfrenLv_Nx0oxSmBhA


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Oh, Grey Warden …Yes. Well. I decided to do a submission to this contest! (The link goes to m

Oh, Grey Warden

Yes. Well. I decided to do a submission to this contest! (The link goes to my design - but please consider looking through the whole gallery. Lots of pretty things there which deserves ratings!)

(Based on) the Dragon Age franchise © Bioware


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Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the

Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how deep!—O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like——almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before—
Videlicet a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

Fairy-Land by Edgar Allan Poe


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The Lernaean Hydra Warriors in shiny armor start to wither. As the Hydra starts to slither. Their

The Lernaean Hydra 

Warriors in shiny armor start to wither.

As the Hydra starts to slither.

Their skin slowly melting off.

The dark fog giving them a blood cough.

Battle cries sound off in a dark foggy haze.

Upon 7 heads they gaze.

With a slice they remove one head.

Stump spurting the acidic blood they all dread.

It is far too long before they take note.

Far too busy trying to gloat.

Two more heads have grown from it’s throat.

Bodies now lay in a huge heap to rot and bloat.

Down the river Styx is where they float.


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