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A loud cough resonated within the room, bouncing off the walls made of quartz and calling all of the room’s guests in order.

Once the room was quiet, Thunder took his place at the head of the table. It was a long, oval table made of mahogany, polished to perfection. Each of the clan’s 21 ambassadors had a seat in a plush, cushy armchair, customised to each dragon’s species and shape. They were all of equal status at these meetings, and whoever had something to say would move to the head of the table. This practice had been put in place by Sithis, in an effort to ensure order in these sometimes chaotic sessions. However, it was a rule hardly observed – “Freedom of speech, y’know?” Ember had casually said, feet on the table, admiring his talons – and only Thunder, a stickler for regiment and order, really adhered to it.

“My friends, Sithis has assigned a task to us. He wants us to hold a mock Riot of Rot festival, in preparation for next year’s event.”

The words had barely left Thunder’s maw when a ruckus started.

“It’s November! Riot of Rot was last month!” That would be Pandemic, ever helpful.

“A mock festival? Are you sure he isn’t mocking us?” The usually easy-going Bloodeye also expressed her disbelief.

“Will there be food?” …Ah, Flint.

“You know I’m usually all for whatever Sithis wants to do, right, but doesn’t this seem a little preposterous to you?” Doppler threw in his two cents, a whole slew of words all disturbingly monotonous.

“I mean-“

Thunder slammed his paw on the table, before anyone could go too far. Why was this his job again?

“Shush, my friends. We have business to do, and we will do it well. Sithis is our leader, and we follow his instructions. Ours is not to reason why, ours it but to do and die.”

“…Did he seriously just quote poetry.”

Thunder shot a look at Tidepool. He was proud of his knowledge, alright? Besides, the moment was apt, and the quote insightful. Thunder himself rather lived by those words. If, on top of the work assigned to him, he was to question their validity – Thunder didn’t even want to think of all the sleepless nights he would get.

“As I was saying, we are to hold a mock festival. We can invite one or two clans from other flights, which is where all of you will come in, but it will be relatively small-scale. For now, we are to plan a proposal, write up a scroll for Sithis, and wait for the go ahead. Now, anyone have any suggestions? Bloodeye, Pandemic? Your territory.”

Bloodeye clasped her claws together. When she spoke, it was clear she was taking this seriously. “For the previous years’ fests, the flights have always had a raffle. We could have something similar, but smaller-scale… Maybe a lottery? Every guest is assigned a number when they complete a certain task-“

“And depending on how well-done that task is, they could get more numbers! For example, a pranking competition would be very good.” Pandemic’s eyes narrowed into little slits as a gleeful grin spread across his face. Bloodeye kicked him under the table for his interruption, but otherwise cocked her head as if in agreement.

“Are you sure a pranking competition would do Mother Plaguebringer proud?” Aura’s tone was light, playful almost, but no one could mistake the undertone of contempt.

Pandemic’s chair screeched back as he stood up, an ugly sound to match the ugly picture his grinning face had morphed into. He pulled back his lips in an almost-snarl, ready to defend his suggestion, but an enthusiastic voice cut in.

“Hey, hey, that’s a great idea! We could even engage their creativity by giving them unusual objects to perform their pranks with, such as spices like basil or spearmint.” Cantor had also stood up from his chair, but was spinning his tail in excited little circles. He seemed oblivious to the confrontation that had almost occurred.

“I have to agree,” Hunter carefully placed the plant he was inspecting back in its bottle, “along with spices, we could include various plants and herbs. It could increase their knowledge of botany and healing, and be an educational experience all-round.”

Pandemic sat back in his chair, an annoyed but somewhat pleased look on his face. He had thrown that idea out for a laugh, but it seemed that the others liked it. The clan’s peacekeepers, Yukon and Eidel, shared a meaningful, relieved glance across the table. Luckily, they hadn’t needed to step in.

“Alchemy! We can’t leave out alchemy. They could be required to make various potions with those materials like spices and herbs, too. It doesn’t even have to be pranking, it could just be a spell-making competition?” Doppler’s words were rushed as always, and one would imagine it as excited chatter – if only, being a fae, his words didn’t come out a dead drone.

Warpgrave and Betsalel looked at each other, and Betsalel nodded. Warpgrave spoke for the both of them. “Potions and education would be good, especially if we wish to work with young ones. A bit of fun wouldn’t hurt either though, for mischief usually engages hatchlings.”

“This all sounds wonderful!” Metronome clapped her wings together in an outrageous display of approval. Lisilette, seated next to her, furrowed her brows and scooted farther away. She had been taking minutes, and Metronome’s display had created wind that fluttered her papers. She twitched her whiskers. “If you would please control yourself.”

“Hmm?” Metronome peered at Lisilette, clueless as to the other’s annoyance.

At the other end of the table, Flint shifted his considerable weight from one side to the other. As he stretched his wings, a broad smile spread across his face. “Well, if we are to hold a festival, we certainly must have food, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes!” Almas’ eyes gleamed with something the other dragons had learned long ago to be wary of. A few held their breath as they anticipated Almas’ next words. “We could combine the pranking and potions with the food! Imagine if someone ate a cream puff but exploded into a ball of glitter! Wouldn’t that be simply astounding?”

“Oh yes, yes it would be. We would then be known for having held the best festival in all the lands, surely.” Sarcasm dripped from Neva’s words like water from a glacier. Aura could empathise – the Light dragon wanted nothing more than to be rid of her fellow ambassadors’ company, and curl up somewhere with a book. She was sure Neva shared the same sentiments, although instead of staring at words she’d probably rather stare at falling frozen bits of water. Well, to each her own.

When Fiametta spoke, she had a dreamy look in her eyes. “Explode into a ball of glitter… Or explode into flame? I think the latter would be more visually appealing. Like fireworks…”

Eidel felt like it was time for her to step in. So! These are all lovely suggestions. Let’s wrap up, shall we? A warm smile accompanied her hand signs. So the gist of it so far is a competition utilising all sorts of material and spell-casting knowledge, making sure to include elements of both fun and education.

Lisilette scrambled to both read Eidel’s signs and write the minutes at the same time. She did not catch Thunder’s fond look at her. He always appreciated hard work and dedication, and Lisilette was the epitome of that. Without her, he was sure, the clan would fall apart.

“I like all these ideas so far! Good job, everyone!” Tidepool felt the need to chime in. He was tempted to clap his wings together as well, but had not missed the annoyed looks sent Metronome’s way when she had attempted that. He also did not miss the annoyed looks sent his way now, either. Yikes, had he said something wrong? Aerwyna placed a paw over his reassuringly.

“Well, now that we’ve got Tidepool’s all-important validation,” Aperture drawled, “shall we decide on the specifics? The facts have shown that a combination of eager dragons and creativity with magic has almost always ended in disaster, so we need some sort of safety regulations. It’s for the good of everyone.”

Aura wrapped her tail around Aperture’s in a show of support. Before she could speak, however – “Safety? Don’t be such a wet blanket, Appy. That word is taboo in the world of fun.” Pandemic flashed a toothy smile. ‘Appy’, the toothy smile – these were carefully calculated motions intended to rile up Aperture. They worked. The hackles on the back of Aperture’s neck started to rise, a sign of agitation in the usually calm and collected dragon.

“Now, now, guys? Pandemic, if you would just,” Yukon meaningfully placed a claw over his lips, “I’m sure we can reach a compromise on safety and fun. We are here to worship the Plaguebringer, and she eschews survival, yes? I propose an obstacle course of a sort, maybe a maze, and guests have to use their creativity and magic to reach the end, the goal. The maze could be filled with all sorts of horrors – your thing, Almas. The fastest to reach the goal wins. As we can pre-plan the obstacles and potential solutions, that’s the safety aspect covered. But, there is still the uncertainty and hint of danger – the fun we require. Is that okay with the both of you?”

Pandemic and Aperture looked anywhere but at Yukon. The Ice ambassador smiled, satisfied at his powers of negotiation. Capable, he was.

Thunder stood up from his usual seat and walked to the front of the table again. The quiet murmurings stopped, and attention was once again on him. Others might laugh at conventions and regiment, but – and here Thunder inwardly smirked – they worked. Even the vain Ember had taken his eyes off the shine of his own scales to pay his fullest attention.

“That wraps it up then, I suppose. Well done, each and every one of you. Today’s brainstorming is complete. We have come up with the skeleton of our idea, and handled aspects of both appeal and safety well. Go back to your nests and think of the specifics you’d like to implement, such as obstacles and possible solutions. Each pair of you could come up with one element-related obstacle. We will discuss further in the next meeting. Sound doable?”

“Of course, because some dragons are actually hardworking. Like me.” Lisilette sulked under her breath, but no one could hear.

To the rest, there was only silence. Thunder shuffled the minutes Lisilette had passed to him, neatening the scrolls. “Perfect! Ambassadors dismissed!”

His eyes sparkle dangerously, lit with cunning. His scales reflect the moonlight, shimmering with strength. His claws long and deadly, threatening with their presence. When his wings spread, one imagines they can see the galaxy within.

Such is Cymeri, the admirable leader of Astheryl clan.

Although young, the promising leader possesses the coveted three Bs: brains, beauty, and brawn. With the body of a fighter, he makes for an intimidating presence, and other clans know not to underestimate his prowess. Those who do soon learn their mistake, oftentimes admitting defeat without an all-out war. Cymeri prizes strategy above all else, astute in his deductions as he’s led by the stars. He takes his work seriously, occupied by paperwork in the day and out in the fields at night, peering through a telescope. There are two types of clans he faces – those young, his age, who scoff at the superstitions of the old, and those who are too far gone in their infatuation with the stars. Cymeri finds the perfect balance between the two, leading him to his success. The stars certainly have merit, and it gives Cymeri advantage over the disbelievers. Yet, Cymeri knows to also deal with the cold, hard facts – the paperwork many other leaders scorn in distaste, viewing as beneath them. The stars serve to guide, to prophesise, but do not hold all the answers. That is up to the individual dragon to find, and Cymeri is more than capable.

In addition to brain, Cymeri has the heart for his clanspeople. Unlike many other leaders, he does not hole himself up in solitude, having their members serve him. Cymeri is the leader, but also one with his followers. He can often be seen walking around his clan, greeting the others and attending to any problem or complaint they might have. No matter how small, the other dragons can rest easy, knowing their clan leader will always lend a listening ear. After all, as the saying goes, a good leader takes into account the whole team, not just himself. Cymeri is always open to suggestions, and is sometimes pleasantly delighted by the genius of his other clan members. For his open-mindedness and compassion, Cymeri is a much-loved clan leader.

As if he wasn’t busy enough, Cymeri holds himself to one more responsibility. He is husband and lover to Selene, the most beautiful imperial he’s ever met. She’s soft-spoken but strong, and is Cymeri’s anchor whether he realises it or not. While his role as clan leader is exciting and tumultuous, Selene is stability and warmth, the home he can return to after a weary day’s work.

Cymeri’s life is filled to the brim with his responsibilities. As clan leader, decision-maker, fighter, lover… Many have asked him if it was worth it, if tying himself down to such duties at a young age was really worth it. But while these burdens may be too heavy to bear for others, Cymeri finds they give his shoulders a good workout.

He wouldn’t ask for any other life.

Born with hide the colour of bananas, it didn’t help that Ivan had weird, too-large feathers growing where no other dragon had them. They littered his side from withers to flank, forming swirly patterns that the other dragons had never seen before. Some kind of sorcery? The elders had been reasonable enough to not throw him out based on mere suspicion, but there was no doubt about it – Ivan was an oddity, and an unwelcome one at that. Over-concerned, maternal types would fuss over him incessantly, asking in roundabout ways if his feathers ever caused him any irritation. Greedy for the merest bit of gossip, occasionally even merely curious, everybody was constantly bothering him. Ivan preferred the two-faced elders as the lesser of two evils, however – at least they were mostly harmless, if annoying. The other evil consisted of dragons who openly distrusted him, telling their hatchlings to stay away and openly glaring at him. His peers grew to dislike him, to taunt him, to bully him. Ivan never belonged. Even his own parents were powerless to help, faced by the collective power of the masses. The clan medic was the worst, though, often looking at Ivan with gleaming beady eyes that belied an intense desire to experiment on Ivan. As if! Ivan never felt safe, never felt comfort, never felt the warmth of a supposed ‘home’ he was to have. As he matured, he realised that his clan was no place for him to be, unaccepting of a lone young hatchling who was merely different.

He decided to leave.

The journey was long and arduous, leaving the only place he knew in search of the unknown. He faced many perilous situations, especially when he crossed the Scarred Wasteland. He would never have made it on his own, as fierce as the Plague dragons were, but for one kindly mister who offered him help. He empathised with Ivan, citing a similar backstory of unhappiness and abandoning his old clan. Apologetically, however, the gentleman went on to say that he could not provide Ivan the home he desperately sought, for he was not Clan Leader. He could, however, help smuggle Ivan through the Wastelands in a caravan over to the Windswept Plateau. That way, Ivan wouldn’t be ripped into pieces before his time. Lost and a little more than terrified, Ivan had gladly accepted, naively placing his trust and life in the hands of a stranger. Luckily, his trust was rightly put, and Ivan arrived at the Windswept Plateau without incident.

That was only the beginning of this young dragon’s journey, however. The Plagueling had dropped him off at the Zephyr Steppes, and Ivan had been awed by the vast, luscious greenery of the place. Nearly tripping over his own feet, Ivan gawked at the Wind dragons who inhabited the place, families with fledglings spreading their wings for the first time in their attempts to fly. Bushes lined each grassy steppe, and a warm breeze gently ruffled Ivan’s feathers. For the first time since he could remember, Ivan felt calm, at peace, even among these strangers. He didn’t have to run anymore.

A concerned voice broke him from his reverie. A skydancer, standing proud and tall, had addressed him.

“Hey there, little imp. Are you lost? My name’s Kendall.”

Ivan’s life would never be the same.