Art Sales

@Reefknot Boop! [quote=OnlyOne: Collector of Wishes]Since she was born, OnlyOne has loved collecting. The room in her tree-hut has been chock full of valuables forever. Scraps of silk, discarded antlers, ancient musical instruments—these and more litter the walls and floor. Her clan was not sure what to do with her. She lacked the critical eye of a historian. Everything, from a lowly glass bottle to a priceless painting, intrigued her. She didn’t care about this or that artist, and she wasn’t snooty. Due to her straightforward sensibilities, someone hit on the idea of her keeping the clan’s wishlist. Now she had an excuse to collect! She became cannily able to detect what someone wanted, just by looking at them. And though she wasn’t a critical dragon, she was a great record-keeper. Her clan now eagerly submits requests to her. They come in ones and pairs at twilight, twiddling their thumbs, smiling. She laughs at their hidden eagerness, and searches among her things. Then they wait for Greenskeeper Gathering, when she comes shuffling out of her treasure-room, chortling, a sack full of goodies one her back, ready to dole out silks, scarves, bones, pipes, and cloaks, to all dragons, young and old. [/quote] [quote=Azza, Huntress]Always chilled, she makes her home, lying beneath the loam. Only her snout sticks out. Moss grows in the little crevices of her wings. Her cerise eyes peep, level with the daffodils blooming in the verdant lushness of the Labyrinth. The golden runes trailing her body blend with the sunlight darting between the branches. Vines twine between her horns, and cover her brows with dainty leaves—a floral halo. When the deer inevitably prances by, she reaches out and snaps it up. She is the plague hidden in the breathless heat of the jungle—a veiled hunter. [/quote] That'll be...30g? I forgot my own prices :O

@Caelyn I'm thinking of two long/medium bios and one short? Would that be okay? Or I could pay you for three long bios but you can just do shorter ones if you don't feel inspired for them, no pressure at all? :)

Here's a rough idea of the three bios for the order; Also, would you please not put too much actual gore or anxiety-triggering excessively if you wouldn't mind, please? Apart from vague threats and things to be overcome, and distant sorrows, my clan is a real-world-problems-free-zone. :P :)

One shortish/medium bio for Cloudweaver to flesh out his character more, please? I have written what happened to him to bring him to Oakheart, (basically searched Sornieth for his lost sister) but nothing on what he's like as an individual and I'd love to get a better sense of him :)

A longer bio for Scamp- her coming to Oakheart via an accidental caper overlap with Goldentop; my brainstorming for this is in her bio under the heading of ‘IDEAS’ :D
http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=dragon&id=210672&did=28026306

And a longer bio for Tara, please? She's got a brainstorming section in her bio too- I'd love some lore about her involvement in the incident of the Firefall, the magical attack on Oakheart where everything burned basically? Or just her history leading to Oakheart’s borders in the first place? Both are big meaty subjects and I'm sure there's a lot of potential for drama/interest anywhere you'd like to write about :D
http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=dragon&id=210672&did=27150395

But please forgive me if I'm asking the wrong thing or too much! I don't know what to ask for, what's what you feel like doing, I don't want to pressure you at all <3 and don't worry about the fortune if it's too much trouble, I really don't want to put you out! Only do what's easy or that you feel inspired for, please, I'm totally flexible to your being struck by ideas or not :) and if any of these don't appeal, just let me know and I could pick others :) Thankyou so much in advance!!
-Cat

@CatkinStarchild

You're too kind! :P I'll look into those in greater detail tonight. (Also, what kind of fortune did you want read again? Like I said, I should roll that into this order).

@Ximena Hello! I hope you like this! ^^ (I love shapeshifters!) [quote=Cyrilis] [font=garamond][size=5] I. No one here knew what [i]Cyliris[/i] meant. No, not the rogues, nor the thieves. Even the other Beastclan who made their home here did not know what he truly was. Endless violet-gray twilight spread above the forest. Soon, the first stars would flare to life. The stars always sent such painful thrills through Cyrilis’ body. They made his heart ache and sink. His wings drooped in his perch in the pine tree. They were such heavy wings, too. He was a small dragon, of the smallest species. And yet… [i]Soaring effortlessly through the moonstruck black vault of night sky, wind whipping past his feathers. Embracing the gelid, knife-like keen of the Southern Icefield’s howl. Gliding from star to silver star, tracing his destiny…[/i] In the cold pine tree, Cyliris the Fae Dragon shuddered, and he remembered. II. Even as a Prince, a high-born harpy was expected to learn the art of assassination. It was like the knights in other regions. Knights were dancers, trumpeteers, weavers, and so on. For a harpy, learning how to assassinate others taught many skills that came in handy. For the Prince, the craft taught patience, emotional detachment, grace, and silence. The last part—silence—was the most difficult for any harpy to learn. They had evolved from birds, some said, and were used to chirruping and calling and laughing whenever their hearts beat. But under the tutelage of his master, he learned how to be as silent as the snow before dawn. He remembered, vividly, the two of them bowing to one another on the icy plain before dawn came. The pre-dawn snow sparkled, soft and gray, inviting. Cyrilis’ heart beat in excitement. Then they flew far away from one another. They flew until the other harpy was just a dark dot in their vision. Then they waited. The sun rose, and poured scorching red light onto the hilly snow. This was the most difficult, to approach the other in silence, when the sun was out. Cyrilis flew low to the ground. The wind did not whisper in his feathers. He was silent, silent as the sun high above. His master’s back was turned, scanning the horizon. This was the hardest part. Cyrilis slowed, crept forward. The wind was with him. But Cyrilis did it—he struck his master on his back with the dull blade. The master’s surprised smile warmed Cyrilis’ heart. He was ready. III. But was he? The harpies are known for their viciousness. Like packs of magpies, they tussle, tumble, and fight for honor and rank. Cyrilis was a Prince. He was entitled to rule over this harpy clan in the frozen wastes. But the ruling power was passed on by his father—not gained by Cyrilis himself. Unlike his brave, proud, strong father—with magnificent pluming ice-white wings—Cyrilis was small and dark. Behind his back as a youngling, there were whispers that his mother was a crow. He had short, stout wings and tight features. Yet, all was well while his father ruled the icy wastes. Then, his father died. To die of old age was a great honor in harpy culture. Not many males made it. So Cyrilis’ father was buried with great ceremony in the side of a mountain. So many torches were lit in his memory that the Southern Icefield sparkled like the night sky above. But he had left Cyrilis alone all at once. The mourning period for these harpies was [i]until the next snow storm.[/i] The next snow storm came, and Cyrilis was exiled from the clan. IV. He thought those were the darkest days of his life. Winter had fallen in those lands—the white sun had dipped beneath the mountains for months. Only the stars, with their clear soulful light, shone in Cyrilis’ eyes. He became so weak that he crawled on his elbows and knees. His dark feathers were left in piles behind him. Bitter tears had frozen to his cheeks, full of salt and sorrow. On the second month, he was startled by a warm touch on his shoulder. His old master. Knowing that the tundra does strange things to ears, his master knelt and whispered, “After you left, after your father sailed on, our clan was beset by strange things. Evil things. Our hatchlings won’t hatch. Eggs disappear. We fear it is a witch.” Cyrilis’ eyes widened. The tear-glaze cracked. “We need you,” his master whispered solemnly. Then his master pointed to the west. “Her abode is that way. Go without fear in your heart.” V. Cyrilis had to go. He spent another week strengthening himself. Stretching his wings, fluttering, scraping the frozen tears from his face. His small, dark plumage grew back, stronger. He flexed his powerful feet and cleaned his cheeks. He was ready, but was he? He set out to the west with only the stars to guide him. They wheeled and danced overhead, oblivious to his fate. [i]Go without fear.[/i] Cyrilis tried. But there was fear deep in his heart, a black seed sprouting into a deep black flower. The witch’s hut was made of polished ice and sorcery. The ice was glazed black, shaped like a mausoleum. In its reflection, Cyrilis saw his own fate awaiting him. Fear overcame him, leapt on him with a thousand panting sets of jaws. But it was too late. The witch’s sorcery flailed out of the hut and wrapped around his wings and feet. Ten-thousand mocking black tongues of writhing black plasm cut into him, held him against the snow. Thorns ripped, rended, and tore, streaking toward his heart. The tentacles lifted him up, held him up to the night sky. The stars blazed down without pity. Then the black poured into his chest and saw his greatest fear. [i]He feared…never being able to rule his clan again. He feared never being able to lead the harpies.[/i] The witch laughed into the night. This was too easy. All at once, Cyrilis felt his flesh melting. His wings drooped, became agonizingly heavy. His neck uncurled and kept growing like a weed. His tail feathers dropped away, left a wriggling snake behind instead. His blood froze. The witch dropped him. He landed with a [i]puff[/i] in the ice. He couldn’t move. The wind wasn’t with him. His limbs were too heavy. He was not harpy, but Fae. VI. Since then, Cyrilis has wandered. His heart is too heavy for him to seek out a reverse-changing spell. Even if he were to become the Prince again, what kind of Prince would he be? He feels like a failure. Now, in his pine tree high above the Hidden Haven, he looks at the stars. No one knows this, but [i]Cyrilis[/i] — it means [i]the wind is with me[/i]. [/quote] If you like it, that'll be 65kT! Here is the code for you to copy+paste, since there's some formatting: [code]I. No one here knew what [i]Cyliris[/i] meant. No, not the rogues, nor the thieves. Even the other Beastclan who made their home here did not know what he truly was. Endless violet-gray twilight spread above the forest. Soon, the first stars would flare to life. The stars always sent such painful thrills through Cyrilis’ body. They made his heart ache and sink. His wings drooped in his perch in the pine tree. They were such heavy wings, too. He was a small dragon, of the smallest species. And yet… [i]Soaring effortlessly through the moonstruck black vault of night sky, wind whipping past his feathers. Embracing the gelid, knife-like keen of the Southern Icefield’s howl. Gliding from star to silver star, tracing his destiny…[/i] In the cold pine tree, Cyliris the Fae Dragon shuddered, and he remembered. II. Even as a Prince, a high-born harpy was expected to learn the art of assassination. It was like the knights in other regions. Knights were dancers, trumpeteers, weavers, and so on. For a harpy, learning how to assassinate others taught many skills that came in handy. For the Prince, the craft taught patience, emotional detachment, grace, and silence. The last part—silence—was the most difficult for any harpy to learn. They had evolved from birds, some said, and were used to chirruping and calling and laughing whenever their hearts beat. But under the tutelage of his master, he learned how to be as silent as the snow before dawn. He remembered, vividly, the two of them bowing to one another on the icy plain before dawn came. The pre-dawn snow sparkled, soft and gray, inviting. Cyrilis’ heart beat in excitement. Then they flew far away from one another. They flew until the other harpy was just a dark dot in their vision. Then they waited. The sun rose, and poured scorching red light onto the hilly snow. This was the most difficult, to approach the other in silence, when the sun was out. Cyrilis flew low to the ground. The wind did not whisper in his feathers. He was silent, silent as the sun high above. His master’s back was turned, scanning the horizon. This was the hardest part. Cyrilis slowed, crept forward. The wind was with him. But Cyrilis did it—he struck his master on his back with the dull blade. The master’s surprised smile warmed Cyrilis’ heart. He was ready. III. But was he? The harpies are known for their viciousness. Like packs of magpies, they tussle, tumble, and fight for honor and rank. Cyrilis was a Prince. He was entitled to rule over this harpy clan in the frozen wastes. But the ruling power was passed on by his father—not gained by Cyrilis himself. Unlike his brave, proud, strong father—with magnificent pluming ice-white wings—Cyrilis was small and dark. Behind his back as a youngling, there were whispers that his mother was a crow. He had short, stout wings and tight features. Yet, all was well while his father ruled the icy wastes. Then, his father died. To die of old age was a great honor in harpy culture. Not many males made it. So Cyrilis’ father was buried with great ceremony in the side of a mountain. So many torches were lit in his memory that the Southern Icefield sparkled like the night sky above. But he had left Cyrilis alone all at once. The mourning period for these harpies was [i]until the next snow storm.[/i] The next snow storm came, and Cyrilis was exiled from the clan. IV. He thought those were the darkest days of his life. Winter had fallen in those lands—the white sun had dipped beneath the mountains for months. Only the stars, with their clear soulful light, shone in Cyrilis’ eyes. He became so weak that he crawled on his elbows and knees. His dark feathers were left in piles behind him. Bitter tears had frozen to his cheeks, full of salt and sorrow. On the second month, he was startled by a warm touch on his shoulder. His old master. Knowing that the tundra does strange things to ears, his master knelt and whispered, “After you left, after your father sailed on, our clan was beset by strange things. Evil things. Our hatchlings won’t hatch. Eggs disappear. We fear it is a witch.” Cyrilis’ eyes widened. The tear-glaze cracked. “We need you,” his master whispered solemnly. Then his master pointed to the west. “Her abode is that way. Go without fear in your heart.” V. Cyrilis had to go. He spent another week strengthening himself. Stretching his wings, fluttering, scraping the frozen tears from his face. His small, dark plumage grew back, stronger. He flexed his powerful feet and cleaned his cheeks. He was ready, but was he? He set out to the west with only the stars to guide him. They wheeled and danced overhead, oblivious to his fate. [i]Go without fear.[/i] Cyrilis tried. But there was fear deep in his heart, a black seed sprouting into a deep black flower. The witch’s hut was made of polished ice and sorcery. The ice was glazed black, shaped like a mausoleum. In its reflection, Cyrilis saw his own fate awaiting him. Fear overcame him, leapt on him with a thousand panting sets of jaws. But it was too late. The witch’s sorcery flailed out of the hut and wrapped around his wings and feet. Ten-thousand mocking black tongues of writhing black plasm cut into him, held him against the snow. Thorns ripped, rended, and tore, streaking toward his heart. The tentacles lifted him up, held him up to the night sky. The stars blazed down without pity. Then the black poured into his chest and saw his greatest fear. [i]He feared…never being able to rule his clan again. He feared never being able to lead the harpies.[/i] The witch laughed into the night. This was too easy. All at once, Cyrilis felt his flesh melting. His wings drooped, became agonizingly heavy. His neck uncurled and kept growing like a weed. His tail feathers dropped away, left a wriggling snake behind instead. His blood froze. The witch dropped him. He landed with a [i]puff[/i] in the ice. He couldn’t move. The wind wasn’t with him. His limbs were too heavy. He was not harpy, but Fae. VI. Since then, Cyrilis has wandered. His heart is too heavy for him to seek out a reverse-changing spell. Even if he were to become the Prince again, what kind of Prince would he be? He feels like a failure. Now, in his pine tree high above the Hidden Haven, he looks at the stars. No one knows this, but [i]Cyrilis[/i] — it means [i]the wind is with me[/i]. [/code]

@Caelyn I've updated my post! Thanks so much :D

@Caelyn

-Deep breath- aaahhhhhHHHHH

Thank you! I've read a few of your bios before, I really like your stories. I was very excited to finally order from you.

Also, I didn't know that his name meant that!

@Caelyn If you have a pinglist, could you add me to it? If not, could you tell me when you get an open slot?

@Ximena

^^; I'm so glad you like it! (Also, I made up that meaning for the harpy language...but I think it suits him very well anyway!)

@ScatteredA

Hello there! I will let add you to the pinglist and let you know if I have more openings available. Thanks for stopping by!

@Rook Hello! I hope you like this. ^^ Your pair is very cute; can't help but imagine all the little bickering they have. [quote=Mountains Unseen][font=garamond][size=4] I. He struggled higher. The cliff arced above him, the underside dotted with bushes and scarred by ancient floods. It was difficult to heave his body forward through the brackish undergrowth. But wind whispered in his ears: keep going. Sometimes the wind seemed to come from inside of him. There was something at the top of that mountain. Something precious that he needed for one of his inventions. And with this invention, he would finally be a star, finally be famous and regarded and invited to fancy parties... Worthiness. He clawed up a clod of earth and flung it back. He scrabbled, but he was mired in the dirt. He howled until the ground opened up beneath him and he fell into white. II. "You were shouting in your sleep again," Oberon grumbled in his ear. "And kicking me, besides." "I would never kick you," Orion whispered fervently. "No need for drama." Oberon sniffed again, but he looked concerned. The Imperial's long, elegant muzzle caught the light of the sunrise. Then his ruby eyes slitted. "But you did kick me. What happened?" The mountain. The climbing. Orion's mouth went dry. "Stupid mountain dream again?" Oberon's smile grew sly. He unwound his long, scaly body from his mate's. "It's not stupid," Orion hissed. "It's not, then?" Oberon smiled over his shoulder. He was headed out to forage. "Then go climb it." Orion gaped. "What?!" The thought - that the mountain was real, that it could be climbed - had never occurred to him. And as if Oberon's words were a spell, they conjured the possibility of a struggle, a climb...and rest at the peak of the mountain. Oberon gently rapped on Orion's head. "Anyone home?" "You're brilliant!" Orion gasped. "Perfectly brilliant!" "Funny." Oberon nibbled Orion's neck. "They say that about you." “I’m going to climb it!” “Climb wh – oh. Oh no.” Oberon’s sly smile turned to a frown. “I was joking. There is no mountain.” “No, but there is! I’ve seen it! I’ve dreamt it!” Orion was excited now, bouncing from side to side. Extricating himself from Oberon, he hurried off to prepare, leaving his mate to stare after him. III. Though one couldn't tell from his handsome exterior, Orion's life was a struggle. First, there was the name that rubbed and chafed against his scales like an ill-fitting shoe: Ophelia. Oberon, in his half-joking way, had said he found it rather romantic. But like the name of a fancy restaurant, not like his mate. Orion hated it so hard it was painful. It was a struggle to get the clan to call him something different. A struggle complete his inventor's apprenticeship. A struggle to climb back up from that pit of low self-worth and quiet, sweating desperation. And then there was the fact of his mate: Oberon. Orion was born and bred a Nature dragon. He knew the names of every flower that crept up the path to their home. He had a habit of sniffing moss. He had star charts and blooming patterns memorized, and often engraved them into his inventions. Oberon, on the other hand, had the calm assurance of a Plague dragon, the sureness of a dragon who had seen too many battles and atrocities. Of course Oberon did not dream of climbing unending mountains. Oberon had broken out of the darkness and left it far behind. But in Orion, the darkness lingered. One last battle. One last climb, to prove himself. In his dreams, the mountain loomed. IV. “You don’t have to do this,” Oberon said mildly, once Orion found the mountain he wanted to conquer. The pair of them stood at the base of it. It was literally ripped from Orion’s dreams. The peak formed a half-arch shape, was covered in mossy stones. The surface raced into the sky, high above them, casting them in shade. It would be hard going. “I do have to do this,” Orion said calmly. “Then let me come with you.” “No!” Orion’s body tensed. He softened his voice. “No. I have to do it alone.” For the first time in a long while, anger came into Oberon’s eyes. For a moment, Orion felt very small, and was reminded of the gulf in size between them. “Life is hard enough without you making it harder.” “Perhaps. But I have no control over this.” Orion tilted his head back and gazed, hypnotized, at the peak. Oberon’s voice was deep, dark, sepulchral. “That’s not true. You’ve always had a choice.” Orion looked at his mate’s metal leg, the many scars criss-crossing the faint-green hide. Oberon’s Plague eyes held pity, but also harsh judgment. Orion quivered. “I –“ “Have a choice. Yes, you do. You can choose to climb this mountain. And what are you going to find at the top? Another challenge. I’d guarantee it. You’ll climb it, and you’ll make it, and what’ll you have? Nothing. No.” Oberon thrust a dark claw into Orion’s skinny chest. “The choice has to come from in you. You’ve fought and overcome so many other challenges. But what about the greatest one?” Orion couldn’t breathe. “And what’s the greatest one?” “Telling yourself that you’re worthy.” Oberon paused. “Without climbing a stupid mountain.” Orion shook. Hot tears filled his eyes. In the shade of the mountain, he fell forward onto Oberon’s chest. V. The dreams still trouble Orion. He sees himself at the base of a peak in climbing gear. Or as a young, slim thing lost in a sea of dark bodies. But he’s able to grope forward for the mountain and wake himself up. And he wakes next to Oberon, who slumbers peacefully on. [/quote]

@Caelyn
What a beautiful story!!! So touching and sweet! The lovely way you incorporated all their details, gosh. I couldn't have imagined anything better, thank you so much!!

I'll send the payment right away!

On another note, is there any chance I could order an aesthetic capture of Oberon at this time? Your bio for Orion is just so great, I'd love a little something for Oberon to match. :)