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The sun scorched down overhead. Birds circled above the desert, cawing, and on the edge of the dunes a Barroth ground its head against hardened orange stone. The theropod glanced nervously behind it – a faint tremor had run through the ground only seconds ago. When nothing moved, it turned back to its task, smashing its hardened, dome head against the rock. Once, twice - the third time was successful. The stone tower cracked, then teetered, before finally falling over backwards, sending up a huge burst of dirt and sand. From within the rock – now revealed to be an enormous nest – swarmed ants. Hundreds, thousands of black insects, each the size of a human finger, scurrying back and forth in a panic. The Barroth lowered its head to the breach in the nest, crunching through hordes of the insects. Focused on its prize, it failed to notice the sands shifting behind it, shifting and twisting… before an ungodly roar broke the desert calm, shrill and piercing. The Barroth snapped to attention, turning from the nest and finding itself metres away from a Diablos. Wyverns of the sand, Diablos were larger and more aggressive than Barroth, with huge curved horns mounted on a frilled head and a thick, club-like hammer of a tail. Knowing that it was helplessly outmatched – and that Diablos defended their territory fiercely – the Barroth fled, clambering over the fallen anthill and towards the rocky canyons. Behind it the Diablos growled, and lowered its head to charge. It sped across the sands, far faster than the fleeing Barroth – but caught its left horn on the broken remains of the anthill, throwing it off balance and twisting its neck around sharply. Dazed, confused, it roared again, but by now the Barroth was rapidly disappearing, loping towards the relative safety of the canyons and the marshy bogs that lay beyond them. The terrain changed rapidly; sand dunes gave way to rocky scree and dark, cool caves. A gentle splashing could be heard further uphill – a river meandering down from the highlands, filling up bogs and suffusing the underground cave system with water. The Barroth followed the sound and the smell. Time spent in the desert had hardened and dried its protective, muddy layer, turning it brittle, and now it needed replenishing. Pausing only to snap impatiently at a flock of Reovultures, the Brute Wyvern soon made it back to its prized territory, splashing knee-deep into the water. Satisfied there were no predators overhead, it lay down completely in the sludge, rolling on its back to work the mud into the all the cracks and crevices of its brown scaled skin. The act took only moments to complete, but left the Brute Wyvern covered in a wet, protective layer. And just in time – from the far end of the bog came a heavy splash, as a Jyuratodus jumped in from a rocky overhang. Large, fish-like Piscine Wyverns well adapted to the bogs and marshes, Juratodos competed with Barroth for territory. The intruder hissed, baring a mouth full of sharp fangs. Not to be intimidated, the Barroth – a young adult female – roared, hoping to scare the mud-covered Piscine Wyvern into retreat. Neither backed down – at the height of the dry season, large bogs were a scarce commodity. Being vanquished could lead to dehydration and death. Without warning, the Jyuratodos shot forward, sliding speedily and effortlessly through the muck with powerful horizontal beats of its tail. The Barroth waited, watching the approach – then slammed its crowned head down into the sludge. The dome, capable of knocking down colossal stone anthills, made a significant impression on the skull of the unfortunate Jyuratodos. Stunned, concussed, it remained frozen as the Barroth smacked its head down again and again, brown water spraying out each time. Bleeding and dazed, it finally came to its senses, squirming out of the way of a fourth follow-up blow and splashing to the edge of the bog. There it leapt back out onto the sun-drenched rocks without a backwards glance. Territory suitably defended, the Barroth wandered to the deepest part of its quagmire, submerged almost completely. There it waited out the rest of the scorching desert day in peace.

The sun was setting over the lowlands, suffusing the sky with a glorious golden hue. Everywhere around noise could be heard – the tweeting of birds, chirping of insects, the splashing of waves. The Anjanath was not interested in any of these sounds. Instead, the hulking theropod was perched on the edge of the treeline, sniffing curiously at the air. Though similar in structure to other Brute Wyverns – tall, bipedal, and with a large tail for balance – the Anjanath had several unique features, including smooth pink skin and tufts of black feathers running along its back. Its most unusual feature, however, was its large nose crest. Normally this lay flat against the skull, but it could be inflated and extended into its current bulbous shape, giving the Anjanath a superlative sense of smell. It was with this organ the Anjanath sniffed the evening air. Various scents filled its nostrils – the salt of the ocean, the loamy jungle soils – but none of these was as intriguing as another key scent. Tonight the Anjanath could smell carrion. Pausing only to snort a chunk of mucus onto a nearby tree (thereby marking its territory), the Anjanath descended from the forest, following the path of a river trickling downhill towards the beach. The tree cover vanished, replaced quickly by grasslands, verdant and lush. The sweet, sickly smell of dead flesh grew thicker in the air; the Anjanath followed the trail, prowling stealthily along the riverbank. Within minutes the corpse came into view; an Aptonoth, lying dead by the riverside. Distantly the lowing of the heard drifted over on the wind as they foraged the area; with no visible wounds, the carcass must have belonged to an old or sick individual. The Anjanath knew only that it needed to feed. It roared a warning at the Revoltures, carrion-eating birds, already pecking at the body. They scattered, flying off in all directions, but did not travel far – they knew their turn would come. Without ceremony the Anajanth began to consume its meal, tearing chunks from the carcass with its powerful jaws. Skin, muscle, bone – all were crunched and swallowed. Abruptly the wind rose up, whipping the grass back and forth. The Anjanath looked up from its food – another visitor had arrived, seemingly from nowhere. A large, silver-grey dragon, with wings running the length of its body and enveloped in a shroud of wind – a legendary Elder Dragon, the Kushala Daora. Kushala Daora are fearsome creatures, and normally more than able to vanquish an Anjanath – but on this occasion something was wrong. The Elder Dragon dropped from the sky, blasting wind all over the vicinity, but it landed awkwardly, one foreleg buckling under its own weight. It spied the carcass – an easy, replenishing meal – then locked its gaze with the theropod standing over it. They sized each other up, roaring aggressively. The Kushala Daora took a step forward, holding its injured foreleg off the ground, trying to intimidate the other scavenger away without the need for a fight. Holding its ground, the Anjanath stood firm – before unfurling its large, yellow sails from its back. The sudden change in appearance made it appear much larger, more aggressive. Flinching, the Kushala Daora took half a step back, suddenly confused and uncertain. Sensing victory, the Anjanath advanced from the carcass, lowering its head and spitting a thin tongue of flame at its competitor. Most of it was dissipated in the Elder Dragon’s windy aura, but it had the desired effect nonetheless; the Kushala Daora roared in surprise and frustration, scurrying further back. With rapid slams of its huge wings, it took to the air once more, the force of the disturbance almost blowing the Aptonoth carcass away. Wings beating and filling the air below with turbulence, it flew over towards the forest, and out of sight. Satisfied, the Anjanath returned to its meal, devouring the whole corpse in a matter of minutes. When it was finished, it raised its nose to the air again, another smell drifting up from the shoreline – more carrion.

The room in front of Eammon vanished in an instant.

Ok, I didn't enjoy it quite as much Crown of the Sunken King, but it's still a very enjoyable piece of DLC. Got some serious Stonefang Tunnel vibes in places, which can only be a good thing. Plus two very good boss-fights (the less said about the recycled one, the better).

So today for the fairly terrible, generic YA fantasy novel I'm writing, I cobbled together a chapter about a grave-robbery gone wrong... and there wasn't even any corpse resurrection!  Maybe I can add living dead later on.

So the problem with doing anything creative - writing, drawing, anything like that - is that you start off with an idea in your mind. And the idea is always perfect, glorious, untouchable. But then you try to transfer the idea into a form where other people can appreciate its brilliance, either by writing, drawing, etc, and it always ends up imperfect. The shading's not quite right, or the dialogue isn't flowing, or whatever. And it's so frustrating... but all you can do is keep trying, and get better, until your work bears at least a crude resemblance to your ideas.