Hiccup wrote:A Jellybean Dragon is a fluffy, friendly dragon that hatches from a jellybean-like egg. Their diet consists of fruits and insects, but they also love sweets and desserts. Their fur is soft and long, usually brightly colored, neat, and shiny. Jellybean Dragons are mostly gentle and happy, and love attention. Most are Great Dane-sized when they are fully grown, but some of them can grow as big as a cow. All Jellybean Dragons have pouches on their bellies, which they use to carry around food or younger JBDs.
Hey guys! Hope you like this little guy/girl. (decision is up to you)
To win him/her please describe where he/she would live. I'd prefer it to be a very vivid explanation, so I can feel like I'm jumping into the place. You are allowed to "pretty" up the forms with fontmeme. Please don't include any images in your post. No extras please. End date: When the contest reaches 10 pages. Please try not to make your explanations too long...You can be descriptive/vivid without writing a novel.
exo wrote:ユ ー ザ 名 (u s e r n a m e):
exo
名 前 (n a m e):
Rivaille (Reev-eye)
ジ ェ ン ダ ー (g e n d e r):
Genderfluid, biologically male
説 明 (e x p l a n a t i o n):
It is dark in the city.
Oily night blankets the towering skyscrapers. Rain trickles down slowly from the heavens; it's hardly enough to be called a shower. It's just that slow, steady, utterly persistent dribble that makes the concrete warm and the air thick. Smoke rises off the sticky asphalt of the traffic filled road, and the smell of rubber and humidity hangs in the heavy air. The mirror-like sidewalk is painted with rivers of color cast down by the neon signs and illuminated office windows. The city becomes a canvas for the lights.
It is late, twelve o clock, but human bodies brush past each other, moving as quickly as they can. Umbrellas the colors of heaven are clamped in every hand; They too clash into each other as their carriers move. The rain sounds like a rattlesnake's tail as it hits the earth, a random patter.
There is an open noodle shop across the street. It is warm, hot, and smells of everything good. It is golden against the navy night, a complimenting contrast. The sound of a vent emanates from inside, whir like the wind over the water. a People are drawn to that solitary and sad noodle shop. From a distance, their bodies are black against the kind gold of the noodle shop, they carry the darkness of the night within them. Up close, they too are golden and red and smell of goodness, but it's not real. They are unhappy.
The heat of the road creeps as the rain falls with more energy. Bodies scurry more quickly. An older man sits on a bench without a cover. His head is leaned over the back of the bench, his arms rest on the top, and his body slumps. People do not notice the old man, for in a city like this, there is too much to see, but not enough to observe. A business man splashes through the puddles in the spotless sidewalk, briefcase in hand, woman on arm. He is either happy, lying, or both. Cars rush home, buses finish their rounds, and the streets are filled with the music of human technology. A letter on a neon sign flickers out.
It is one o clock. The rain creates a misty haze over the city, and the air is full of heat and moisture. Breathing becomes more of a chore as the humidity fills the lungs. There is a new crowd roaming the grounds. The business men have retired to go home or go drinking, the old people have gone home to sleep, the children are in their beds with flashlights attempting to read past their curfew. Women clad in vibrant outfits strut the sidewalk, using it as their own carpet, feeling more important with each stride. Their umbrellas are chic and sleek.There are more colorful signs lighting the way to a wild nightlife. The city becomes tainted with pinks and purples and greens and blues and the many colors of the clothes of humans walking below. Traffic is the same as before, but the compact vehicles have been replaced with motorcycles and sports cars that play their music so loud it sounds as if the buildings are singing. Young life awakens. The old man is no longer on the bench, and the golden beacon noodle shop has gone dark. Tradition has been set aside for the night. Cantankerous shouting comes from all directions, and the smell of alcohol now replaces that of wet earth.
It is five o clock. The rain has stopped, and the only things marking its past presence are the droplets on benches and small, vanishing puddles in the dips of sidewalk. The sun is not up, but the nightlife is no longer. The neon signs are sleeping; rectangles of sickly yellow light from office buildings take their place. The air is crisp and breathable and fresh as air can be in a city. Men and women in black, sharp clothing glance at their wrists as they follow the every day routine. The compact cars come out again. A doughnut falls out of the hands of a rushing man and lands in a puddle, abandoned.
Six thirty and the traffic is roaring. Young people rush to school, their club duties tying them into the threads of early morning. The sky is waking, the air is becoming more stale and used as hundreds of people simultaneously exhale. Suddenly, the city stirs. The whir of trains running can be heard, as well as the arrogant honking of impatient horns. Tension is high as the sun rises, though it is not hot. There is no moisture in the air, only the scent of gasoline and leather can be detected. A woman bumps into a man as they rush. She spills her coffee and continues to move after a stilted apology. No one noticed their collision, there are far too many people on the streets. Streetbirds peck at crumbs and bugs and whatever they can find between the cracks of the white concrete.
This is where I live, on the streets of Tokyo, the routine following, ever shifting city.
Strange, the old man has returned to his bench.
.png)
