@Rook
Hello again! This is for Oberon. Is it alright to call it at 35g?
[quote=Oberon]
I.
First came the loud, ringing cry. That cry had a ragged edge of desperation to it. Fury, fear, and hatred all rolled into one clarion scream.
Then came the silence, and that was worse.
It was the silence of the world, of the future — of stars wheeling unseeingly overhead for eons and eons.
Oberon looked down at his arm. It lay uselessly in the blood-packed mud of the battlefield. Silly, to be upset about it. It was just an arm. Now it was gone. It still clutched a blade automatically, by spasm. But to Oberon, looking down at it as if bemused, it was just a useless, pointless thing, no longer a part of him, like a shed scale or an old suit of armor or a book battered beyond repair.
Then he realized he was missing a part of him. And, as it happens to some when they lose a limb, he lost a tiny part of his soul, too. A mist of darkness closed in.
He fell into the mud, whimpering like a lost babe. He was surrounded by carnage, death, warriors far more wounded than he.
The medics crept across the field at dusk and found him—the brave warrior. Whispering and murmuring to one another, they began to tie a tourniquet around his arm. They would say later that he should have died, and that only some cold part of him kept him alive. Bitterness, perhaps, or spite.
Oberon never knew.
II.
He never knew, until later, when he realized he stayed alive to meet Orion.
Orion’s loveliness reached into the dark and grasped some part of him. Sometimes, in his quiet, ponderous way, Oberon fancied that Orion’s soul was gripping his missing arm and shaking it firmly.
Orion did everything to take care of Oberon, even things that Oberon had never thought of.
The inventor was skilled at many things. It was he who replaced Oberon’s wooden arm with a smoothly-jointed metal one, and he who was skilled at oiling the joints. In so many tender ways — with warm sitz baths and home-cooked meals — Orion restored Oberon.
Now he lives peacefully and quietly alongside his mate, and together, they beat back each other’s darkness.
[/quote]
@
Rook
Hello again! This is for Oberon. Is it alright to call it at 35g?
Oberon wrote:
I.
First came the loud, ringing cry. That cry had a ragged edge of desperation to it. Fury, fear, and hatred all rolled into one clarion scream.
Then came the silence, and that was worse.
It was the silence of the world, of the future — of stars wheeling unseeingly overhead for eons and eons.
Oberon looked down at his arm. It lay uselessly in the blood-packed mud of the battlefield. Silly, to be upset about it. It was just an arm. Now it was gone. It still clutched a blade automatically, by spasm. But to Oberon, looking down at it as if bemused, it was just a useless, pointless thing, no longer a part of him, like a shed scale or an old suit of armor or a book battered beyond repair.
Then he realized he was missing a part of him. And, as it happens to some when they lose a limb, he lost a tiny part of his soul, too. A mist of darkness closed in.
He fell into the mud, whimpering like a lost babe. He was surrounded by carnage, death, warriors far more wounded than he.
The medics crept across the field at dusk and found him—the brave warrior. Whispering and murmuring to one another, they began to tie a tourniquet around his arm. They would say later that he should have died, and that only some cold part of him kept him alive. Bitterness, perhaps, or spite.
Oberon never knew.
II.
He never knew, until later, when he realized he stayed alive to meet Orion.
Orion’s loveliness reached into the dark and grasped some part of him. Sometimes, in his quiet, ponderous way, Oberon fancied that Orion’s soul was gripping his missing arm and shaking it firmly.
Orion did everything to take care of Oberon, even things that Oberon had never thought of.
The inventor was skilled at many things. It was he who replaced Oberon’s wooden arm with a smoothly-jointed metal one, and he who was skilled at oiling the joints. In so many tender ways — with warm sitz baths and home-cooked meals — Orion restored Oberon.
Now he lives peacefully and quietly alongside his mate, and together, they beat back each other’s darkness.
@
Caelyn
It's perfect!! Especially that ending line, oh gosh my heart. Thank you so much!!
I'll send the 35g right away :D
@
Caelyn
It's perfect!! Especially that ending line, oh gosh my heart. Thank you so much!!
I'll send the 35g right away :D
Hey, I was hoping I could post this even though you don't have any spots open. If it's not ok I'll take it down.
@Caelyn
Dragon(s) I want done:
[url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=32287403]
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/322875/32287403_350.png[/img]
[/url]
and
[url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=32568265]
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/325683/32568265_350.png[/img]
[/url]
Types of Bio(s): Regular
Calculated Payment(s): 80k
Background (if any): All of it's in Noir's current bio.
Hey, I was hoping I could post this even though you don't have any spots open. If it's not ok I'll take it down.
@
Caelyn
Dragon(s) I want done:
and
Types of Bio(s): Regular
Calculated Payment(s): 80k
Background (if any): All of it's in Noir's current bio.
@KittyCheshire
Hello again! It's truly been fun rounding out your clan with a few more characters. Lati in particular is gorgeous! (Well, they're all gorgeous, but you know what I mean :P)
[quote=Bermuda]
I.
The Plaguemother got done sculpting all of the wizards, witches, and sorceresses for her own ranks.
For the most part, they were dark, deep, and mysterious. They would cast spells that blighted instead of healed.
Deep in this steaming primordial cave, she gazed on them proudly. In the clutches of their Plague eggs, they slept, and the deity could see their peaceful sleep through the pale egg shells.
Making dragons was exhausting. But she wasn’t through yet.
Somebody—it must have been the Glademother—got the idea of making other dragons for other clans. Dragons with other destinies. Not wanting to feel left out, the Plaguemother rolled up her proverbial sleeves, grabbed a large obsidian bowl from her shelf, and set to it.
What did she have in mind? She envied the Tidecaller, actually. So she set about mixing bright blue scales with a little sparkle, like waves in sunlight. She pounded the scales with a black mortar.
Then she added a dash of magic to the glowing bowl.
To her surprise, the bowl spoke. “Ooof! Watch where you’re throwing that!”
The deity blinked hard. “I’m sorry?”
“Where you’re throwing that magic! You want to give me a heart attack?”
The Plaguemother frowned down at the bowl. Now she was mixing the scaly mass with her hands. The mess purred with pleasure.
“That feels nice, at least.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop talking,” the Plaguemother replied.
“Stop talking! Ha! Not a chance.” And so the bowl with the unformed dragon in it chattered merrily into the night about all manner of things, giving Plaguemother a headache she never forgot.
II.
Bermuda wasn’t always the laid-back, easy-to-please sorceress she came off as in Heavenwing Eyrie. In fact, though no one knew this, she used to be a serious student of a magical academy hidden deep in the woods around the Starfall Isles.
The academy was so secretive that it lacked a name. It was only a series of small, cozy huts tucked in the shade of the forest. The buildings drew on the magical power stored within the tree-trunks, as the ancient pines had soaked in the Arcanist’s magic as they grew strong and tall.
But of course, Bermuda wasn’t worried about trees.
She was the best in her class. Her professors always called on her to demonstrate spells, to show off her potions. She got so good, in fact, that this academy wanted to hire her after she graduated.
Bermuda was torn. On one paw, it would be a good life. This magical academy paid well. It was easy work, teaching hatchlings. Besides, it came naturally to her, and she was every young student’s favorite. They crowded around her for tutoring.
On the other paw…well, having to not swear was causing issues. She didn’t feel fulfilled. She didn’t want to use magic only within the realms of the academy — she wanted to go out into the world and show off magic herself. She wanted danger, action, drama…
So, dramatically enough, she set out one night beneath a new moon, without saying goodbye to anyone. She walked toward the center of the isles.
Her professors were disappointed, but not surprised to see her go.
III.
[i]Or I could just become a wanderer,[/i] she mused. The air in this thin, bask-wood forest was rare, delicious. She tramped steadily over pink flower-blooms, beneath garlands of glowing white flower-vines.
Humming off-key to herself, she waved her wand ahead of her. “This is the life,” she said. “No problems, no solutions. Nothing. Why, fancy me wanting a home! How could I ever think such a thing?”
She passed cheerfully through towns. Some of them needed a sorceress, but she wasn’t having any of it. For a few months, she wandered.
Then she ran—[i]smack[/i]—into the aura surrounding Heavenwing Eyrie.
Bermuda was highly attuned to all types of magic, auras included. And the aura hanging around Heavenwing Aura was very noticeable. The air was charged with bitter fear and frustration. And yet, beneath that, hope. Light.
Love.
She gazed on the pavilions and ponds in the clearing ahead, the ancient stone temples. None of them should reflect so much bitterness and evil. And yet, they did. How curious.
Certainly far more curious and interesting than her dumb old school.
Bermuda stood in the forest, ruminating, tasting the air with her eyes closed.
She was discovered by Kirea. The Imperial loomed curiously out of the shadows, frowning down at Bermuda.
“Can I…help you?”
“Ack!” Bermuda gasped. She jabbed her wand at the girl. “Be back, you foul beast!”
“You know, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Kirea said glumly.
Bermuda frowned and tossed her wand aside. “Well…sheesh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s alright.” Kirea’s frown was deep and intent. “Shall you join us for tea or supper?”
At that moment, Bermuda’s stomach growled loudly. If it hadn’t, she would have declined the invitation, and who knows where she might’ve ended up?
Wrapping a paw around Kirea’s arm, Bermuda nodded. “Of course! Let’s go! Say, you’ve got a strange aura around here.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, either.” Kirea let out a little bell-like laugh.
And in her clumsy, unintentional way, Bermuda immediately fell in love with her.
And stayed.
[/quote]
[quote=Kirea]
[b]TW: Transgender struggles with parents; violence[/b]
I.
Ribbons. That’s how she remembered.
Her father Dorian was a large, dark Imperial. A fisherman with a black heart. A strong, simple man, who couldn’t understand his daughter.
Before Heavenwing Eyrie, Kirea lived with her father in the land of the Tidecaller. Kirea never knew what happened to her mother. As a result, they were alone in a small hut on the beach of a cold ocean.
Dorian wanted her to join him on the fish-trawlers. He needed his daughter to make a living, but Kirea couldn’t stand it.
The boats were huge, hulking, oily things that smelled of copper and death. She shuddered every time she had to touch a live fish. Still, she pressed on through the blood. Some dim part of her was bound to please her father.
Even though she knew that she inevitably would not.
Their fight happened one stormy night. Her father caught her tossing the still-living fish overboard. The rain mingled with her salty tears as she freed the fish.
Some part of the fish’s struggle resonated with her: being caught in a net, hoisted out of their homes, forced to breathe the dry air. So she quietly, quietly dumped the struggling ones back into the ocean. She pictured them being free, jetting out into the water, to places unknown.
Then she noticed her father standing over her. A powerful, black shape in a fisherman’s jacket. As the boat pitched and yawed, his eyes crackled with anger.
He struck her then. As blue lightning flickered above, Kirea struck back. The two glared at one another through sheets of stinging rain.
Then they fought on the slick, soaked deck of the ship, struggling for purchase. Her father was snarling. Kirea was wet, though, and slipped out of his grasp.
The Tundra piloting the boat turned it toward the shore. He didn’t like the dynamic between the father and his child anyway. He dumped them back on the beach, and they fought in the brackish sand until sunrise.
The words hurled back and forth hurt far more than the physical wounds.
II.
“I’m leaving,” Kirea said hollowly. The gray dawn illumined their spare hut.
“Kieran —“
“Kirea,” Kirea corrected.
“Kirea, then. This is nonsense.” Her father looked nonplussed. His strong jaw clenched, and Kirea could see the underlying tendons.
“No. I’m forgetting who I truly am.”
“Who cares what you truly are! You’ll grow out of it!”
Dorian knew he’d said the wrong thing. Kirea glared at him. She was carefully wrapping ribbons around her wings and wrists. Ribbons!
“What are the ribbons for?”
“To help me remember who I truly am.”
Dorian was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, he spoke slowly. “If you step out of that door wearing ribbons, you’d best not come back. It’s a harsh world out there.”
Kirea’s gaze was just as hard, dark, and powerful as Dorian’s own.
Without a glance back, Kirea set out into that cruel, harsh world.
III.
And to her surprise, she found it was far less cruel than her old world.
She took passage on an old schooner called The Freedom. There, for the first time, she had her own bunk. Stretched out leisurely on her small white bed, she decked her nails out in blue polish, and wrapped her ribbons more tightly.
After the captain threw his bookkeeper overboard following an argument, he recruited Kirea. He saw the Imperial as a soft-spoken, cheerful girl who could nonetheless wrangle payment out of the most foolhardy of passengers with just a glance.
As she and the captain dined together every evening, Kirea began to piece together a story for herself.
She was—nobility.
“Of course you are,” said the captain, bobbing his head. The Spiral captain was very easygoing, and enjoyed seeing youth make something of themselves.
Kirea flushed at his easy acceptance. She was on the run, though.
“Naturally,” echoed the captain.
And now she wanted a job — more of a quiet job — that entailed making bridges between people.
The Spiral captain chewed his food thoughtfully. “I know a place on the isles that’s trying to rebuild. They could use a nice person like you, they could.”
“You don’t want me?” Kirea asked, feeling a bit sad. The captain’s kindness was different for her.
“It’s not that!” The captain cheerfully poked her shoulder. “I can tell you’re sick of the sea.”
IV.
And that was how she came to Heavenwing Eyrie. That fascinating place was undergoing continual transformation, just like a caterpillar. Just like Kirea herself.
The new ruler, Drema, took a shine to her as soon as Kirea stepped off the dock. Drema rushed forward and embraced Kirea, startling the Imperial. But after her shock wore off, the Imperial embraced her back.
“Come, come,” Drema said. In her eyes and face, there was true nobility — true high-born aspects — and Kirea found herself subconsciously imitating her. “There’s already so much to do. Please join me for dinner, and we’ll talk of our goals.”
As Drema ushered her away from the port, Kirea looked over her shoulder.
The kind Spiral captain winked.
V.
Heavenwing Eyrie accepted Kirea at once for who she was, no questions asked.
And the beautiful, idyllic clan, though it bore the scars of some horrible past, was coming together, blooming, and growing.
So Kirea thought she, too, could grow and bloom, with flowers covering up her past.
She still collected ribbons. Whenever she won a particularly good deal between kingdoms, both Drema and the other trader sent her ribbons of all colors and materials.
And after she found Bermuda wandering through the forest, Kirea knew she was going to have a happy life.
Sometimes her lover finds her sitting by their home’s stone hearth, watching outside the window for something. And perceptive Bermuda knows that Kirea is watching for her father.
And Bermuda knows that if Kirea’s father should ever appear, Bermuda would whack him between the eyes.
[/quote]
[quote=Carulata, the Guard]
I.
“Our clan is still growing,” Drema said ponderously.
Blodau and Kirea waited patiently, watching their ruler.
The high ceiling of their central meeting place was festooned with paper lanterns. Cardboard cut-outs of trees were placed inside of them, and so the wooden walls looked like a shifting forest.
The forest calmed Drema as she thought. When wind blew through the pavilion, the forest shifted with it.
“A warrior,” Drema said.
Blodau stirred. “Is that wise, your highness? We’ve had trouble with fighting in the past. If we bring in someone skilled in it, what’s to say they wouldn’t take over?”
“We can’t worry about that.” Drema’s delicate claws tapped against one another. “What’s to say we won’t be raided without one?”
“I have heard of trouble,” Kirea said softly. “Brewing to the south.”
“It’s decided then.” Drema’s voice sounded as if Kirea’s information had been her deciding factor. But Blodau and Kirea both knew it had been decided long ago. “Find me a warrior.”
II.
Lati. They said she couldn’t be killed.
They must’ve been talking about the physical part of her, for the spiritual part of her felt very dead. It had for some time.
Gazing out of the wagon onto the misty countryside, Carulata felt as if her soul had retracted. Her voice—her sonorous bellow—was gone, too, replaced by an airy whisper.
The wagon creaked to a halt. “We’re here,” the Tundra said.
Carulata stepped outside—carrying nothing at all—and looked.
So. This was to be a pretty, ersatz kingdom with no substance. There were peasants carrying sacks of grain and chatting vibrantly, children running around. Danger looked nonexistent.
But Carulata knew that meant it could be drawing near.
She stalked over to the pale-pink girl wearing the circlet of silver leaves, and bowed low.
For a long moment, Drema said nothing.
Carulata had time to wonder if, perhaps, she too was mute, and to think about the meaning of irony.
Then Drema said, “You’re much larger than I imagined, that’s all.”
Carulata’s brows rose. She lifted her head and came nose-to-nose with Drema.
For a moment, Carulata drifted into the regent’s eyes. The Pearlcatcher leaned nearer, blinking.
Then a cart clattered loudly past, and Drema withdrew.
“Come with me. You’ll be one of my bodyguards.”
With a longsuffering sigh, Carulata went.
III.
So, the ruler wasn’t an airhead after all.
The walls of her study were lined with well-used books, her desk covered with parchment.
Carulata took it all in with a glance, then settled beside the door. Drema settled behind her desk.
No dragon Carulata had met was fully comfortable with her lack of voice. Some—the more annoying ones—felt they had to chatter continuously to fill the silence, as if Carulata was a pit they could fill with words.
And some, like Drema, became just as quiet.
Carulata found herself watching the ruler at work. The delicate scratches of her feather pen, the soft rustle of pages.
A strange ache grew in Carulata’s chest. The ache seemed to dissolve into her bloodstream. Soon it was agony all throughout her veins, stretching out into the very tips of her wings.
As she shuffled about to get more comfortable, she realized:
Drema was her Charge.
Carulata had never put effort into finding her charge. In fact, she considered the quest secondary to being a warrior.
And yet it was obvious. Drema seemed to glow with a hidden, mystical source of inner light.
Suddenly, Drema's eyes flicked up. She looked on Lati, and she knew, as well.
She crossed to Lati and flung her arms around her neck. And for Lati, though it was all in silence, it was like being home at last.
IV.
Now, Carulata – Lati — hides a secret. It’s not like the secrets she had to hide on the battlefield, when one of her own soldiers was slated to be killed, or when their tactics changed to surprise a spy.
Instead, it is the secret of love, and that makes it even harder to bear.
Luckily she has an excuse to be with the ruler so much. As a personal bodyguard, Drema even has the Guardian bathe along with her. After all, no one can tell when danger will strike.
And though Lati is silent, she still struggles to keep her feelings secret, for they could be communicated with a glance, a too-gentle touch.
For now, she stands behind Drema like Drema’s very own shadow, waiting for the day that the two of them can be together in public. Even though that day, like danger itself, seems very far off.
[/quote]
If all is well, that'll be 195kT! ^^ Thank you for your loyal patronage!
@
KittyCheshire
Hello again! It's truly been fun rounding out your clan with a few more characters. Lati in particular is gorgeous! (Well, they're all gorgeous, but you know what I mean :P)
Bermuda wrote:
I.
The Plaguemother got done sculpting all of the wizards, witches, and sorceresses for her own ranks.
For the most part, they were dark, deep, and mysterious. They would cast spells that blighted instead of healed.
Deep in this steaming primordial cave, she gazed on them proudly. In the clutches of their Plague eggs, they slept, and the deity could see their peaceful sleep through the pale egg shells.
Making dragons was exhausting. But she wasn’t through yet.
Somebody—it must have been the Glademother—got the idea of making other dragons for other clans. Dragons with other destinies. Not wanting to feel left out, the Plaguemother rolled up her proverbial sleeves, grabbed a large obsidian bowl from her shelf, and set to it.
What did she have in mind? She envied the Tidecaller, actually. So she set about mixing bright blue scales with a little sparkle, like waves in sunlight. She pounded the scales with a black mortar.
Then she added a dash of magic to the glowing bowl.
To her surprise, the bowl spoke. “Ooof! Watch where you’re throwing that!”
The deity blinked hard. “I’m sorry?”
“Where you’re throwing that magic! You want to give me a heart attack?”
The Plaguemother frowned down at the bowl. Now she was mixing the scaly mass with her hands. The mess purred with pleasure.
“That feels nice, at least.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop talking,” the Plaguemother replied.
“Stop talking! Ha! Not a chance.” And so the bowl with the unformed dragon in it chattered merrily into the night about all manner of things, giving Plaguemother a headache she never forgot.
II.
Bermuda wasn’t always the laid-back, easy-to-please sorceress she came off as in Heavenwing Eyrie. In fact, though no one knew this, she used to be a serious student of a magical academy hidden deep in the woods around the Starfall Isles.
The academy was so secretive that it lacked a name. It was only a series of small, cozy huts tucked in the shade of the forest. The buildings drew on the magical power stored within the tree-trunks, as the ancient pines had soaked in the Arcanist’s magic as they grew strong and tall.
But of course, Bermuda wasn’t worried about trees.
She was the best in her class. Her professors always called on her to demonstrate spells, to show off her potions. She got so good, in fact, that this academy wanted to hire her after she graduated.
Bermuda was torn. On one paw, it would be a good life. This magical academy paid well. It was easy work, teaching hatchlings. Besides, it came naturally to her, and she was every young student’s favorite. They crowded around her for tutoring.
On the other paw…well, having to not swear was causing issues. She didn’t feel fulfilled. She didn’t want to use magic only within the realms of the academy — she wanted to go out into the world and show off magic herself. She wanted danger, action, drama…
So, dramatically enough, she set out one night beneath a new moon, without saying goodbye to anyone. She walked toward the center of the isles.
Her professors were disappointed, but not surprised to see her go.
III.
Or I could just become a wanderer, she mused. The air in this thin, bask-wood forest was rare, delicious. She tramped steadily over pink flower-blooms, beneath garlands of glowing white flower-vines.
Humming off-key to herself, she waved her wand ahead of her. “This is the life,” she said. “No problems, no solutions. Nothing. Why, fancy me wanting a home! How could I ever think such a thing?”
She passed cheerfully through towns. Some of them needed a sorceress, but she wasn’t having any of it. For a few months, she wandered.
Then she ran—smack—into the aura surrounding Heavenwing Eyrie.
Bermuda was highly attuned to all types of magic, auras included. And the aura hanging around Heavenwing Aura was very noticeable. The air was charged with bitter fear and frustration. And yet, beneath that, hope. Light.
Love.
She gazed on the pavilions and ponds in the clearing ahead, the ancient stone temples. None of them should reflect so much bitterness and evil. And yet, they did. How curious.
Certainly far more curious and interesting than her dumb old school.
Bermuda stood in the forest, ruminating, tasting the air with her eyes closed.
She was discovered by Kirea. The Imperial loomed curiously out of the shadows, frowning down at Bermuda.
“Can I…help you?”
“Ack!” Bermuda gasped. She jabbed her wand at the girl. “Be back, you foul beast!”
“You know, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Kirea said glumly.
Bermuda frowned and tossed her wand aside. “Well…sheesh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s alright.” Kirea’s frown was deep and intent. “Shall you join us for tea or supper?”
At that moment, Bermuda’s stomach growled loudly. If it hadn’t, she would have declined the invitation, and who knows where she might’ve ended up?
Wrapping a paw around Kirea’s arm, Bermuda nodded. “Of course! Let’s go! Say, you’ve got a strange aura around here.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, either.” Kirea let out a little bell-like laugh.
And in her clumsy, unintentional way, Bermuda immediately fell in love with her.
And stayed.
Kirea wrote:
TW: Transgender struggles with parents; violence
I.
Ribbons. That’s how she remembered.
Her father Dorian was a large, dark Imperial. A fisherman with a black heart. A strong, simple man, who couldn’t understand his daughter.
Before Heavenwing Eyrie, Kirea lived with her father in the land of the Tidecaller. Kirea never knew what happened to her mother. As a result, they were alone in a small hut on the beach of a cold ocean.
Dorian wanted her to join him on the fish-trawlers. He needed his daughter to make a living, but Kirea couldn’t stand it.
The boats were huge, hulking, oily things that smelled of copper and death. She shuddered every time she had to touch a live fish. Still, she pressed on through the blood. Some dim part of her was bound to please her father.
Even though she knew that she inevitably would not.
Their fight happened one stormy night. Her father caught her tossing the still-living fish overboard. The rain mingled with her salty tears as she freed the fish.
Some part of the fish’s struggle resonated with her: being caught in a net, hoisted out of their homes, forced to breathe the dry air. So she quietly, quietly dumped the struggling ones back into the ocean. She pictured them being free, jetting out into the water, to places unknown.
Then she noticed her father standing over her. A powerful, black shape in a fisherman’s jacket. As the boat pitched and yawed, his eyes crackled with anger.
He struck her then. As blue lightning flickered above, Kirea struck back. The two glared at one another through sheets of stinging rain.
Then they fought on the slick, soaked deck of the ship, struggling for purchase. Her father was snarling. Kirea was wet, though, and slipped out of his grasp.
The Tundra piloting the boat turned it toward the shore. He didn’t like the dynamic between the father and his child anyway. He dumped them back on the beach, and they fought in the brackish sand until sunrise.
The words hurled back and forth hurt far more than the physical wounds.
II.
“I’m leaving,” Kirea said hollowly. The gray dawn illumined their spare hut.
“Kieran —“
“Kirea,” Kirea corrected.
“Kirea, then. This is nonsense.” Her father looked nonplussed. His strong jaw clenched, and Kirea could see the underlying tendons.
“No. I’m forgetting who I truly am.”
“Who cares what you truly are! You’ll grow out of it!”
Dorian knew he’d said the wrong thing. Kirea glared at him. She was carefully wrapping ribbons around her wings and wrists. Ribbons!
“What are the ribbons for?”
“To help me remember who I truly am.”
Dorian was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, he spoke slowly. “If you step out of that door wearing ribbons, you’d best not come back. It’s a harsh world out there.”
Kirea’s gaze was just as hard, dark, and powerful as Dorian’s own.
Without a glance back, Kirea set out into that cruel, harsh world.
III.
And to her surprise, she found it was far less cruel than her old world.
She took passage on an old schooner called The Freedom. There, for the first time, she had her own bunk. Stretched out leisurely on her small white bed, she decked her nails out in blue polish, and wrapped her ribbons more tightly.
After the captain threw his bookkeeper overboard following an argument, he recruited Kirea. He saw the Imperial as a soft-spoken, cheerful girl who could nonetheless wrangle payment out of the most foolhardy of passengers with just a glance.
As she and the captain dined together every evening, Kirea began to piece together a story for herself.
She was—nobility.
“Of course you are,” said the captain, bobbing his head. The Spiral captain was very easygoing, and enjoyed seeing youth make something of themselves.
Kirea flushed at his easy acceptance. She was on the run, though.
“Naturally,” echoed the captain.
And now she wanted a job — more of a quiet job — that entailed making bridges between people.
The Spiral captain chewed his food thoughtfully. “I know a place on the isles that’s trying to rebuild. They could use a nice person like you, they could.”
“You don’t want me?” Kirea asked, feeling a bit sad. The captain’s kindness was different for her.
“It’s not that!” The captain cheerfully poked her shoulder. “I can tell you’re sick of the sea.”
IV.
And that was how she came to Heavenwing Eyrie. That fascinating place was undergoing continual transformation, just like a caterpillar. Just like Kirea herself.
The new ruler, Drema, took a shine to her as soon as Kirea stepped off the dock. Drema rushed forward and embraced Kirea, startling the Imperial. But after her shock wore off, the Imperial embraced her back.
“Come, come,” Drema said. In her eyes and face, there was true nobility — true high-born aspects — and Kirea found herself subconsciously imitating her. “There’s already so much to do. Please join me for dinner, and we’ll talk of our goals.”
As Drema ushered her away from the port, Kirea looked over her shoulder.
The kind Spiral captain winked.
V.
Heavenwing Eyrie accepted Kirea at once for who she was, no questions asked.
And the beautiful, idyllic clan, though it bore the scars of some horrible past, was coming together, blooming, and growing.
So Kirea thought she, too, could grow and bloom, with flowers covering up her past.
She still collected ribbons. Whenever she won a particularly good deal between kingdoms, both Drema and the other trader sent her ribbons of all colors and materials.
And after she found Bermuda wandering through the forest, Kirea knew she was going to have a happy life.
Sometimes her lover finds her sitting by their home’s stone hearth, watching outside the window for something. And perceptive Bermuda knows that Kirea is watching for her father.
And Bermuda knows that if Kirea’s father should ever appear, Bermuda would whack him between the eyes.
Carulata, the Guard wrote:
I.
“Our clan is still growing,” Drema said ponderously.
Blodau and Kirea waited patiently, watching their ruler.
The high ceiling of their central meeting place was festooned with paper lanterns. Cardboard cut-outs of trees were placed inside of them, and so the wooden walls looked like a shifting forest.
The forest calmed Drema as she thought. When wind blew through the pavilion, the forest shifted with it.
“A warrior,” Drema said.
Blodau stirred. “Is that wise, your highness? We’ve had trouble with fighting in the past. If we bring in someone skilled in it, what’s to say they wouldn’t take over?”
“We can’t worry about that.” Drema’s delicate claws tapped against one another. “What’s to say we won’t be raided without one?”
“I have heard of trouble,” Kirea said softly. “Brewing to the south.”
“It’s decided then.” Drema’s voice sounded as if Kirea’s information had been her deciding factor. But Blodau and Kirea both knew it had been decided long ago. “Find me a warrior.”
II.
Lati. They said she couldn’t be killed.
They must’ve been talking about the physical part of her, for the spiritual part of her felt very dead. It had for some time.
Gazing out of the wagon onto the misty countryside, Carulata felt as if her soul had retracted. Her voice—her sonorous bellow—was gone, too, replaced by an airy whisper.
The wagon creaked to a halt. “We’re here,” the Tundra said.
Carulata stepped outside—carrying nothing at all—and looked.
So. This was to be a pretty, ersatz kingdom with no substance. There were peasants carrying sacks of grain and chatting vibrantly, children running around. Danger looked nonexistent.
But Carulata knew that meant it could be drawing near.
She stalked over to the pale-pink girl wearing the circlet of silver leaves, and bowed low.
For a long moment, Drema said nothing.
Carulata had time to wonder if, perhaps, she too was mute, and to think about the meaning of irony.
Then Drema said, “You’re much larger than I imagined, that’s all.”
Carulata’s brows rose. She lifted her head and came nose-to-nose with Drema.
For a moment, Carulata drifted into the regent’s eyes. The Pearlcatcher leaned nearer, blinking.
Then a cart clattered loudly past, and Drema withdrew.
“Come with me. You’ll be one of my bodyguards.”
With a longsuffering sigh, Carulata went.
III.
So, the ruler wasn’t an airhead after all.
The walls of her study were lined with well-used books, her desk covered with parchment.
Carulata took it all in with a glance, then settled beside the door. Drema settled behind her desk.
No dragon Carulata had met was fully comfortable with her lack of voice. Some—the more annoying ones—felt they had to chatter continuously to fill the silence, as if Carulata was a pit they could fill with words.
And some, like Drema, became just as quiet.
Carulata found herself watching the ruler at work. The delicate scratches of her feather pen, the soft rustle of pages.
A strange ache grew in Carulata’s chest. The ache seemed to dissolve into her bloodstream. Soon it was agony all throughout her veins, stretching out into the very tips of her wings.
As she shuffled about to get more comfortable, she realized:
Drema was her Charge.
Carulata had never put effort into finding her charge. In fact, she considered the quest secondary to being a warrior.
And yet it was obvious. Drema seemed to glow with a hidden, mystical source of inner light.
Suddenly, Drema's eyes flicked up. She looked on Lati, and she knew, as well.
She crossed to Lati and flung her arms around her neck. And for Lati, though it was all in silence, it was like being home at last.
IV.
Now, Carulata – Lati — hides a secret. It’s not like the secrets she had to hide on the battlefield, when one of her own soldiers was slated to be killed, or when their tactics changed to surprise a spy.
Instead, it is the secret of love, and that makes it even harder to bear.
Luckily she has an excuse to be with the ruler so much. As a personal bodyguard, Drema even has the Guardian bathe along with her. After all, no one can tell when danger will strike.
And though Lati is silent, she still struggles to keep her feelings secret, for they could be communicated with a glance, a too-gentle touch.
For now, she stands behind Drema like Drema’s very own shadow, waiting for the day that the two of them can be together in public. Even though that day, like danger itself, seems very far off.
If all is well, that'll be 195kT! ^^ Thank you for your loyal patronage!
@ScatteredA
Tfw I just finished them :P
[quote=Noir]
In times like these, she feels helpless.
The sun edges beneath the gray horizon. Her mother sets up watch, like a living statue, gazing forever out the window. She waits for one dragon’s return — one dragon who won’t come back.
“Mother,” Noir says, and she hates her own voice. Unlike when she’s giving speeches to the rest of her clan, her voice with her mother is scratchy, soft, and hesitant. It’s the voice of a hatchling who never grew up. Sometimes Noir thinks that, inside her cold exterior, there’s a tiny child peeping sadly forever.
Does she miss Anubis? She doesn’t know anymore. Her father left too long ago to remember. Noir sees him as a shadow striding out the door, heading for a brighter destiny. Leaving living shades like Noir and her mother alone on this earth.
Noir clears her throat. “Mother, you have to eat something.”
Her mother doesn’t move. Noir takes the bone-broth off the stove and places it before her mother. She wafts the hearty smell into her mother’s nostrils, hoping that it triggers something. Hunger. A memory of other bone-broths. It was her mother’s special soup.
For a moment Noir stares blankly. She waits for time to stop.
Then someone clears his throat, and time starts up again.
Alec stands in the doorway. “She’ll eat eventually. She always does.”
Half-relieved, Noir follows Alec outside, into the night.
~*~
Those looking at Noir never see a hatchling. They see a dragon with a soul as lofty and arched as the sky; one with the power of hidden, silent places.
Alec sees this, too. The pair is bound together by mutual admiration, not romantic love. Of course Alec sees Noir as a great leader. A bit of a wanderer, Alec is more impressed by Noir’s leadership skills than any of her assets. And, knowing that Noir’s bleak upbringing has left her with no need or want for romance, he is patient and kind with her. They are friends, but special friends.
Though Alec’s children won’t be his own, he hopes that they open up some small part of Noir’s soul. He hopes that the children bring a little bit more light into those silent spaces inside of her.
But if they don’t, he is happy to love Noir eternally, just the way she is.
[/quote]
[quote=Alec]He remembers the first day he met her.
It was three days after her father had walked on, into the light. Sometimes that light calls dragons and they never come back.
Alec was younger, then. It was harder for him to understand.
He just understood that something inside of him loved the girl before him. Was she crying? No, she was silent. Silent and stony as her mother railed and wept. That girl glared out at the world, determined to never let it take advantage of her.
Even then, Alec knew he loved her.
~*~
It makes sense that Alec gets a lot of questions. Their life circumstances were just so strange. First Midnight adopted him, plucking Alec’s egg from a clutch that his parents were going to throw out. They didn’t believe that egg would ever hatch — it had taken so long, and had grown a thin white film all around it, like a veil of lace.
But Midnight saw into the heart of that egg, and knew what it would become.
Midnight, a traveler, raised Alec on the road. He was a good father. He always answered Alec’s many questions, and played with the babe every time they stopped. But as Midnight grew older, he realized that the road was no place for a young hatchling.
They stopped at the first clan they came to, which happened to be Dryad’s, just after her husband had gone missing.
Midnight saw a potential purpose here. Alec saw Noir, and was drawn to her. Together, Midnight and Alec ingratiated themselves, slowly becoming more and more useful.
Even now, Alec wonders. Is he truly drawn to Noir, or is he afraid of being cast out onto the road again?
Then he sees Noir’s brave face, her sarcastic sighs and cold glances, and knows that he’s truly drawn to her.
[/quote]
I really hope you like these! If you do, that comes to 80g!
@
ScatteredA
Tfw I just finished them :P
Noir wrote:
In times like these, she feels helpless.
The sun edges beneath the gray horizon. Her mother sets up watch, like a living statue, gazing forever out the window. She waits for one dragon’s return — one dragon who won’t come back.
“Mother,” Noir says, and she hates her own voice. Unlike when she’s giving speeches to the rest of her clan, her voice with her mother is scratchy, soft, and hesitant. It’s the voice of a hatchling who never grew up. Sometimes Noir thinks that, inside her cold exterior, there’s a tiny child peeping sadly forever.
Does she miss Anubis? She doesn’t know anymore. Her father left too long ago to remember. Noir sees him as a shadow striding out the door, heading for a brighter destiny. Leaving living shades like Noir and her mother alone on this earth.
Noir clears her throat. “Mother, you have to eat something.”
Her mother doesn’t move. Noir takes the bone-broth off the stove and places it before her mother. She wafts the hearty smell into her mother’s nostrils, hoping that it triggers something. Hunger. A memory of other bone-broths. It was her mother’s special soup.
For a moment Noir stares blankly. She waits for time to stop.
Then someone clears his throat, and time starts up again.
Alec stands in the doorway. “She’ll eat eventually. She always does.”
Half-relieved, Noir follows Alec outside, into the night.
~*~
Those looking at Noir never see a hatchling. They see a dragon with a soul as lofty and arched as the sky; one with the power of hidden, silent places.
Alec sees this, too. The pair is bound together by mutual admiration, not romantic love. Of course Alec sees Noir as a great leader. A bit of a wanderer, Alec is more impressed by Noir’s leadership skills than any of her assets. And, knowing that Noir’s bleak upbringing has left her with no need or want for romance, he is patient and kind with her. They are friends, but special friends.
Though Alec’s children won’t be his own, he hopes that they open up some small part of Noir’s soul. He hopes that the children bring a little bit more light into those silent spaces inside of her.
But if they don’t, he is happy to love Noir eternally, just the way she is.
Alec wrote:
He remembers the first day he met her.
It was three days after her father had walked on, into the light. Sometimes that light calls dragons and they never come back.
Alec was younger, then. It was harder for him to understand.
He just understood that something inside of him loved the girl before him. Was she crying? No, she was silent. Silent and stony as her mother railed and wept. That girl glared out at the world, determined to never let it take advantage of her.
Even then, Alec knew he loved her.
~*~
It makes sense that Alec gets a lot of questions. Their life circumstances were just so strange. First Midnight adopted him, plucking Alec’s egg from a clutch that his parents were going to throw out. They didn’t believe that egg would ever hatch — it had taken so long, and had grown a thin white film all around it, like a veil of lace.
But Midnight saw into the heart of that egg, and knew what it would become.
Midnight, a traveler, raised Alec on the road. He was a good father. He always answered Alec’s many questions, and played with the babe every time they stopped. But as Midnight grew older, he realized that the road was no place for a young hatchling.
They stopped at the first clan they came to, which happened to be Dryad’s, just after her husband had gone missing.
Midnight saw a potential purpose here. Alec saw Noir, and was drawn to her. Together, Midnight and Alec ingratiated themselves, slowly becoming more and more useful.
Even now, Alec wonders. Is he truly drawn to Noir, or is he afraid of being cast out onto the road again?
Then he sees Noir’s brave face, her sarcastic sighs and cold glances, and knows that he’s truly drawn to her.
I really hope you like these! If you do, that comes to 80g!
@
AtticaIonia
If we're being 100% honest...I can do one long bio for you and any combination of aesthetic captures up through regular bio. Is that reasonable? ^^ If so, feel free to ping me with your order!
@
AtticaIonia
If we're being 100% honest...I can do one long bio for you and any combination of aesthetic captures up through regular bio. Is that reasonable? ^^ If so, feel free to ping me with your order!
