Somewhere, among the hardrock monoliths exposed by the weathering of countless generations of water all in a hurry to go nowhere in particular, there is a curious labyrinth of wooden pathways dancing between the spires - some well-kept, others neglected and rotting from the constant batter of mist and mineral spray.
And every sunrise, on more days than not, a short, stout, scaly priestess or another leads a group of warriors up this path.
They are small and vary from cute to ugly, their crocodilian faces twisted in snarls of cynicism and of nerves, only the priestess keeping any illusion of seeming content in life; they are wise, having lost spear-brothers to the decaying catwalks leading into the treacherous falls and now knowing by heart every plank and rope and that neither can be trusted; and they are unarmed and dressed only in cloth, the queerest habit of theirs, for on this day - as on many other days - they seek a dragon's nest, as their mothers and fathers have done.
As tradition dictates, they shall trade odd social gestures and promise to their families they will not slip and break their necks and die; they shall slowly waddle up the rickety bridges and across the creaking boardwalks and along the claw-worn, slippery-smooth rocks above a jagged abyss well-populated with those who have made this journey before; and they shall reach a wide stone plateau some half-way up the falls. their number blessedly intact, and stop momentarily.
To one side, there shall be - as there always has been - a gentle river, a quiet child of the falls, though wide enough for a whole clan to bathe together; and to the other, there shall be a twisted path of natural stone, meandering to the last, higher outcrop as though confusedly stumbling its way home. Upon the top of that great pillar, jutting out from the rock face like a relief mural of a sceptre, is a sizeable clearing, with seven spires along its edge, curling upwards and conjoining once more, a crown for some mountain-dwelling king.
They will stare for a time at the sheet of woven plant fiber shrouding the crown like a regal mantle, betraying its fabricated nature, blustering from within the sound of a rumbling snoring.
They will whisper between each other a strange language I know well but you do not; some of their number will pale or blush and turn away, throwing off their clothing as they wade into the river, giving no thought to glances at those of the other gender. The remaining few - usually all women, should the term be used loosely - shall inhale anxiously, nod to one another, and ascend the twisted path to the high stone crown, their tough snarls giving way to timid pouts.
They will pause, tremble, reflect on their lives, and enter.
They will blink at the coziness of the retreat; sweep their eyes in awe across the books, scrolls, and tablets strewn all about, written in languages they have never seen, though they thought he would hoard trinkets and hunting trophies like the swamp dragons who attack their livestock; and follow with their gaze the tail they so-nearly stepped on to his massive pumpkins, softly undulating as the dragon's form shifts with each breath, his tremendous erection bobbing with his heartbeat and hard enough to burst.
They'll trade terse whispers. Impossibly huge, they'll say. The cow-king could neither lift nor wound such bounty, they'll conjecture. Our men could neither fight nor mate bearing such fruit, they'll assert. The priestess, pigeon-clawed, stays silent.
Perhaps their breaths will catch in their throats as the dragon uncomfortably shifts and wriggles, their wide eyes locked upon the swaying of his stones as though the dragon's delicates would presently crush every one of them - but he will settle quietly and their bodies will relax.
But, as is their habit, the priestess shall seat herself sensually upon the tail, and she shall kiss the dragon's jewels, slowly and in worship; and she will take the hands of her brave companions, and touch each to his gargantuan plums.
Thus, they believe, will she carry his fertility back to her people as her mother did before her; she and her companions shall be successful in all that they do, and their children shall bear the strength and virility of dragons: toro, the dragon tongue calls it.
All hot and bothered, the silly creatures will flee from the premises as the dragon stirs; their fellows who were too shy to copy their audacity but have bathed in the same water as the dragon's intimate majesty will embrace them, now dried and clothed. They will return home to tell tales of the well-endowed dragon and measure the 'spears' of their males, hoping for growth.
And Hyrdrxes, whose balls are better known than his name, shall once again rue his inability either to fashion a lock or to sleep on his stomach.
But he knows his great fortune in that their obsession with his bollocks is admiring, not hostile.
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I've been wanting to draw dragons and not doing it for probably half my life!
And sure, I wanna draw clean ones too, but I find it much easier to start drawing things when they're well-endowed.
Weelll, Hyrdrxes is about as well-endowed as a dragon can get, and is a wyvern which is closer to an anthro than other dragons, so he was a good choice.
His design isn't 100% finished and I might upgrade this image to fine or shaded at a later date. I might change his colors around, I might add scutae detail to like the shoulders or something, and I don't think I did that great with the wings. Really damn lazy wings.
Warning: he is huge and so is his cock. If cutie-pie Cassia, size queen that she is, sits down and wraps her legs around that dong, his tip will reach past her head. That would be heaven for her, I'm sure.
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