Jormungayl

The true form of Jormungayl is no small matter. Just reaching up to a knee usually requires a ladder. Draconic magic pulses with heat beneath her armored scales and curls from every breath. The light sometimes shimmers with pale iridescence across the membranes of her wings and crests. There's an energy to Jormungayl beyond simple youth and the playing of the light. To the magically sensitive she burns like a star in the night sky once all the veils fall away.

All of this magic is sourced from her belly, so to speak. Anything swallowed by the dragoness travels down her throat and must pass through the crop. There food is stored if the rest of her is too full, a sort of staging area for things awaiting their turn at digestion. The crop itself is just above her collar bones and tends to bulge beneath the scales when stuffed. Jori has control over this part of herself and could store items or transport people. The catch is trying to motivate her to let anyone back out safely.

Just beneath her crop is a chamber lined with rough scales and thick muscles. Here things become rough as the churning tries to break down her meals into smaller chunks. Sometimes tougher objects become lodged in the walls until they can soften up. It wouldn't be unusual to find spare coins or missing jewelry here. For 'guests' of the dragon it's an experience akin to being gently gnawed upon, survivable but hardly restful.

Jormungayl's stomach is a sizable room and it freely stretches as needed. Coming here is something between being wrapped in a hammock and locked in a sauna. Digestive juices pool here as what's left of her meals is churned away into more dragoness. It's also here that Jormungayl draws magic from her meals. Not much leaves for the deeper parts of her gut save a nutrient rich slurry, and the occasional lucky 'guest'.

At the end of everything is the vertical slit beneath her tail, the dragon's cloaca. The slit itself is muscled enough to deny access without her permission, and for good reason. Along with the end of her digestion the scaley lips guard her vaginal canal. Occasionally she's found amusement in introducing smaller races to this bit of draconic anatomy, sometimes to their confusion. It's the sort of education that always winds up a once in a lifetime experience.

They say it's the eyes that lie but hers smolder with a primal magic. Smaller than most in this form, Jori tends to favor short skirts and plain blouses with nothing beneath. The kind of clothing that tears without much prompting. Has the predator turned prey? Sometimes she has, relying on her magic to restore her body later. Sometimes you just need bait for a trap.

There's nothing hidden about her draconic heritage though. Scales sheathe her limbs like fetish wear and crawl up her back. What could have been armor is velvety soft and warm to the touch. A stark contrast with the talons on her feet, tipping her fingers. There's no doubt getting close to this one walks the razor's edge between promised threats and veiled temptations.

Internally she's mimicked a mammal's body quite carefully. Visitors are sure to recognize all the human norms; stomach, womb, and points beyond. The temperature just might be a little higher than usual, a side effect of the draconic magic pulsing through her body. It not only keeps her insides cooking like a private sauna but everything within Jori casts a dim reddish-orange light. Maybe it would be preferable to have darkness but guests are welcome to close their eyes.

This form is how Jori usually presents herself to the world. A dragon without the bulk, able to walk the streets like anyone else and enjoy life among the mortals. Only the stupid and desperate would try to impose on Jori's time in this form when she advertises her nature so openly. The more cunning know what her guise really is, an invitation to play the game with the highest stakes possible.