Dealing With Dragons (Sashamiri War Table Assignment)

[overharrowed]

WHO: Dick, Barrow, Diabhall, Aleksei and Emet-Selch
WHAT: Time for a (respectful) dragon disection.
WHEN: Vaguely backdated to "when there isn't an invasion of the undead."
WHERE: The Wounded Coast
NOTES: Potential for gooey but not gory descriptions of dragon parts. Other warnings added as needed.

The Wounded Coast has its own sort of beauty, for those who can appreciate it. When the weather is clear, the sun on the water paints the rocks and scrub in a striking light. The landscape is made all the more striking by the dragon corpse, stowed there by the griffons who transported it to the Riftwatch-adjacent location from where an earlier mission secured it.

Before the current team arrives, it has been lightly guarded, on the theory that very few people have the resources to steal an entire dragon corpse. The Riftwatch scouts have mainly kept smaller operations from plundering it for leather and other supplies. Time and weather have done a little damage, as the invasion of the Free Marches delayed the intended beginning of study. Still, on the whole, the dragon is in reasonably good shape. Other than the wounds that killed it and the effects of age, it is a decent specimen of its kind.

They have their work cut out for them; it's a large dragon. At least the weather is nice.

Comments

[nonvenomous]

Richard Dickerson is experienced enough in the realm of carving into great, hulking corpses to have brought along a pair of spare boots, goggles, and treated leather gloves, the likes of which have not spared the uncovered parts of him any mess. He’s currently standing knee-deep at the beast’s hip, balanced on vertebrae exposed between slabs of muscle he’s filleted away from the spine.

His sleeves are stained a deep, ruddy crimson, rolled well back from his elbows in spite of the cold. He's streaked and spattered. His shoulders ache. He stinks.

There hasn’t been much of interest to find back here for hours, and it may be for that reason that he finds himself alone enough to take stock of where everyone else is at and what they are up to.

It could also be because he’s thinking very seriously about carving into the hard boulder of a cyst he’s found nestled against the ilium without consulting the rest of the party.

[thereneverwas]

Standing off to one side and leaning on the haft of his hammer is Barrow, who watches Dickerson work with a sort of dull fascination.

"Find anything good?" he asks, when Dick's scanning gaze falls onto him.

[nonvenomous]

A clot of fat slips raw off the curl of Dick’s knuckles around his knife. Upon finding that Barrow is already looking at him, he stops his review there, locked in with the bigger man from a higher elevation.

“A nodule,” he decides, after taking a beat to consider whether or not Barrow is likely to categorize this as ‘good’ on his own. “Or cyst.”

The wind flags at his hair and his collar; he scrubs at an itch under his nose with his shoulder before looking (nonplussed) back down into the pit he’s excavated.

“Will you fetch one of the others?”

[thereneverwas]

Appetizing.
Barrow pulls a bit of a face, but spares Dick any commentary on the matter.

"Yyyep," he grunts, hefting himself back onto both feet and glancing over his shoulder to see who all is nearby.

"Another research sort?"

[nonvenomous]

That he seems to second guess what should be an easy answer could mean anything. It’s not a large party, and he’s spent at least as much frowning at Barrow from afar as he has some of the others.

“Please.”

[thereneverwas]

Understanding an answer as easy requires having first been paying attention beyond the most basic guard duty, something not lightly asked of Barrow in the first place. But he nods, shrugs a shoulder, and trundles off, presumably to point someone else in Dick's direction.