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TOPIC | | Bios / Lore | ~ Closed
@CayCay
Boop! Hello again! ^^ I hope you like this!
[quote=Mother // Daughter]
“Make sure to dry your wings fully. Wash your face — you have to cleanse deep between your scales. Dress warmly at night, even if it’s summer. Don’t go too deep into the woods. Stay away from shadows — I’ve heard the Shade’s active again.”
Azalea leaned back and let her eyes cross. Her gaze was glassy, her head ringing from all the instructions.
“Always travel in pairs. Don’t be out past midnight. And lastly, don’t go.”
Azalea snapped back to attention. Her mother — a brave warrior — turned into a ruffled hen when it came to her daughter. Now she gazed steadily at Azalea with dark blue eyes.
It was rare to see Lily so angry. Her anger was frost-cold, and prominent in her face.
“You haven’t been listening.”
“Mother!” Azalea snapped. “I have been. It’s a lot to take in.”
“You don’t care about me or yourself.” To Azalea’s surprise, tears were brimming in Lily’s eyes.
“That’s not true!” Azalea snarled. She stomped her foot and growled. “You — can’t always be like this! Other hatchlings my age go hunting. They fight with one another. And here I am, wanting to go to a friendly tribe’s Moonlight Rite —“
“But we don’t know those dragons,” Lily whispered.
At her mother’s words, Azalea’s anger shriveled into ash. She looked down at the ground of their small hut, grinding her teeth.
“I’m not a prisoner,” she managed to say. “I’m your daughter.”
“I know.” Lily swallowed hard. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
~*~
After Lily lost six children, Azalea was a miracle in more ways than one.
She was a little daughter, just like Lily had always wanted. Her skin was smooth and pale, her ruff shiny.
All went well, with Lily pouring affection onto Azalea, until the Wildclaw grew a mind of her own.
Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. After all, Lily had been just as stubborn, gruff, and tenacious at that age. But softened by her life circumstances, Azalea’s lashing out was almost intolerable.
Now the clan listens to their heated arguments, which can last for hours and hours, and always end in weeping and sorrow.
Azalea maintains that she’s doing the right thing. She wants to be free. She wants to experience things — she craves fresh air and friends.
But Lily simply won’t have it. She watches Azalea’s every move and constantly hovers over here, giving unwanted advice.
The clan doesn’t know if the pair will reconcile their differences, but prays they reach an agreement soon.
[/quote]
If this is sufficient, that'll be either 40kT or 40g! ^^
@CayCay
Boop! Hello again! ^^ I hope you like this!
If this is sufficient, that'll be either 40kT or 40g! ^^
Boop! Hello again! ^^ I hope you like this!
Mother // Daughter wrote:
“Make sure to dry your wings fully. Wash your face — you have to cleanse deep between your scales. Dress warmly at night, even if it’s summer. Don’t go too deep into the woods. Stay away from shadows — I’ve heard the Shade’s active again.”
Azalea leaned back and let her eyes cross. Her gaze was glassy, her head ringing from all the instructions.
“Always travel in pairs. Don’t be out past midnight. And lastly, don’t go.”
Azalea snapped back to attention. Her mother — a brave warrior — turned into a ruffled hen when it came to her daughter. Now she gazed steadily at Azalea with dark blue eyes.
It was rare to see Lily so angry. Her anger was frost-cold, and prominent in her face.
“You haven’t been listening.”
“Mother!” Azalea snapped. “I have been. It’s a lot to take in.”
“You don’t care about me or yourself.” To Azalea’s surprise, tears were brimming in Lily’s eyes.
“That’s not true!” Azalea snarled. She stomped her foot and growled. “You — can’t always be like this! Other hatchlings my age go hunting. They fight with one another. And here I am, wanting to go to a friendly tribe’s Moonlight Rite —“
“But we don’t know those dragons,” Lily whispered.
At her mother’s words, Azalea’s anger shriveled into ash. She looked down at the ground of their small hut, grinding her teeth.
“I’m not a prisoner,” she managed to say. “I’m your daughter.”
“I know.” Lily swallowed hard. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
~*~
After Lily lost six children, Azalea was a miracle in more ways than one.
She was a little daughter, just like Lily had always wanted. Her skin was smooth and pale, her ruff shiny.
All went well, with Lily pouring affection onto Azalea, until the Wildclaw grew a mind of her own.
Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. After all, Lily had been just as stubborn, gruff, and tenacious at that age. But softened by her life circumstances, Azalea’s lashing out was almost intolerable.
Now the clan listens to their heated arguments, which can last for hours and hours, and always end in weeping and sorrow.
Azalea maintains that she’s doing the right thing. She wants to be free. She wants to experience things — she craves fresh air and friends.
But Lily simply won’t have it. She watches Azalea’s every move and constantly hovers over here, giving unwanted advice.
The clan doesn’t know if the pair will reconcile their differences, but prays they reach an agreement soon.
Azalea leaned back and let her eyes cross. Her gaze was glassy, her head ringing from all the instructions.
“Always travel in pairs. Don’t be out past midnight. And lastly, don’t go.”
Azalea snapped back to attention. Her mother — a brave warrior — turned into a ruffled hen when it came to her daughter. Now she gazed steadily at Azalea with dark blue eyes.
It was rare to see Lily so angry. Her anger was frost-cold, and prominent in her face.
“You haven’t been listening.”
“Mother!” Azalea snapped. “I have been. It’s a lot to take in.”
“You don’t care about me or yourself.” To Azalea’s surprise, tears were brimming in Lily’s eyes.
“That’s not true!” Azalea snarled. She stomped her foot and growled. “You — can’t always be like this! Other hatchlings my age go hunting. They fight with one another. And here I am, wanting to go to a friendly tribe’s Moonlight Rite —“
“But we don’t know those dragons,” Lily whispered.
At her mother’s words, Azalea’s anger shriveled into ash. She looked down at the ground of their small hut, grinding her teeth.
“I’m not a prisoner,” she managed to say. “I’m your daughter.”
“I know.” Lily swallowed hard. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
~*~
After Lily lost six children, Azalea was a miracle in more ways than one.
She was a little daughter, just like Lily had always wanted. Her skin was smooth and pale, her ruff shiny.
All went well, with Lily pouring affection onto Azalea, until the Wildclaw grew a mind of her own.
Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. After all, Lily had been just as stubborn, gruff, and tenacious at that age. But softened by her life circumstances, Azalea’s lashing out was almost intolerable.
Now the clan listens to their heated arguments, which can last for hours and hours, and always end in weeping and sorrow.
Azalea maintains that she’s doing the right thing. She wants to be free. She wants to experience things — she craves fresh air and friends.
But Lily simply won’t have it. She watches Azalea’s every move and constantly hovers over here, giving unwanted advice.
The clan doesn’t know if the pair will reconcile their differences, but prays they reach an agreement soon.
If this is sufficient, that'll be either 40kT or 40g! ^^
@Caelyn
I love it! I'll pay you as soon as I finish bonding with the fams and grinding in the Coli for the day!
I love it! I'll pay you as soon as I finish bonding with the fams and grinding in the Coli for the day!
@Caelyn
I love it! I'll pay you as soon as I finish bonding with the fams and grinding in the Coli for the day!
I love it! I'll pay you as soon as I finish bonding with the fams and grinding in the Coli for the day!
@AtticaIonia & @Catkinstarchild
Haven't forgotten you two! I hope to have your lore ready by next Wednesday at the latest! (One's early twenties are a horrible mess >_<)
Haven't forgotten you two! I hope to have your lore ready by next Wednesday at the latest! (One's early twenties are a horrible mess >_<)
@AtticaIonia & @Catkinstarchild
Haven't forgotten you two! I hope to have your lore ready by next Wednesday at the latest! (One's early twenties are a horrible mess >_<)
Haven't forgotten you two! I hope to have your lore ready by next Wednesday at the latest! (One's early twenties are a horrible mess >_<)
@AtticaIonia
Hello again, and sorry for the delay! Here are Bashok and Aquila's lore!
[quote=Bashok, Destroyer]
I.
Eerie flame crackled across his claw-tips.
If anyone had been watching, they’d have seen his lips split in a tooth-filled grin. Flickering across filed canines, the red firelight looked like blood.
Like his anger, the licking flames were uncontrollable. Sometimes fire ebbed from his eyes or crackled through his mane.
Now, he hoped the star-studded night was bright enough to hide the fire, but dark enough to hide his form.
[i]I’ve been waiting for this.[/I]
Bashok, destroyer, crouched on the other side of the Warren’s bone-thorned bridge. He was waiting for the watchman, high in his tower across the way, to bend his head forward for a snooze.
Bashok’s sharp eyes caught the swaying of the watchman. His own inner voice whispered a lullaby: [i]sleep, sleep…you won’t be getting much rest soon.[/i]
The watchman dozed off.
Bashok sprang forward. He cleared the bridge with a single leap, puffing up dust and moss on the other side.
A few faint embers caught in his mane, then went out.
He lifted his nose, scenting the night air. Smothered camp fires, remnants of dinners, mulled wine, spiced ale —
Then: her.
Ashabellenar’s scent wafted toward him. Crushed lavender punctuated by juniper berries.
Unmistakable.
Grinning — points of fire burning in his canines — he set off into the night, to find her.
~*~
Bashok blew into the Warren like a dark wind.
Unsure of how much truth he spoke, the Warren-dwellers gave the Plague dragon a wide berth. His smoky scent, his blood-colored gaze, his crackling mane, and his laughing looks quickly lost him favor among the more peaceful denizens.
Still, he ignored them, hunting for his sister.
But if a dragon does not want to be found in the Warrens, they won’t be. Not until they’re ready.
Ashabellanar has been taking full advantage of the strange interplay between light and dark here, using her shapeshifting magic to keep her brother off the trail.
Sometimes Bashok sees the strangest things, like the flash of red hair among the forest…or ruby eyes peering back at him from the shade.
He waits, knowing that she can’t ignore him forever.
[/quote]
[quote=Aquila's Aesthetic]Bowing her snowy head over an ebony desk —
Notebooks open, splattered with black ink —
[i]What happened here? A murder of ideas?[/i]
She yawns by purple candle flame. The tools of her trade, bell, book, and candle, all gather around her. Through these implements the Arcanist speaks.
Sometimes her lovely bright-pink eyes go a little dim, a bit crossed, and she begins to write, splashing lavender ink across pale white parchment. The words are not her own, but another’s — another’s voice speaking through the jerky movements of her feather quill.
When she’s done, she folds her papers and abruptly goes to sleep, before passing on the Arcanist’s will to other dragons — who gaze at her in wonder.
[/quote]
If you're pleased with these two pieces, your total comes to 50g or 48kT (I think...I've already forgotten my own prices T_T)
@AtticaIonia
Hello again, and sorry for the delay! Here are Bashok and Aquila's lore!
If you're pleased with these two pieces, your total comes to 50g or 48kT (I think...I've already forgotten my own prices T_T)
Hello again, and sorry for the delay! Here are Bashok and Aquila's lore!
Bashok, Destroyer wrote:
I.
Eerie flame crackled across his claw-tips.
If anyone had been watching, they’d have seen his lips split in a tooth-filled grin. Flickering across filed canines, the red firelight looked like blood.
Like his anger, the licking flames were uncontrollable. Sometimes fire ebbed from his eyes or crackled through his mane.
Now, he hoped the star-studded night was bright enough to hide the fire, but dark enough to hide his form.
I’ve been waiting for this.
Bashok, destroyer, crouched on the other side of the Warren’s bone-thorned bridge. He was waiting for the watchman, high in his tower across the way, to bend his head forward for a snooze.
Bashok’s sharp eyes caught the swaying of the watchman. His own inner voice whispered a lullaby: sleep, sleep…you won’t be getting much rest soon.
The watchman dozed off.
Bashok sprang forward. He cleared the bridge with a single leap, puffing up dust and moss on the other side.
A few faint embers caught in his mane, then went out.
He lifted his nose, scenting the night air. Smothered camp fires, remnants of dinners, mulled wine, spiced ale —
Then: her.
Ashabellenar’s scent wafted toward him. Crushed lavender punctuated by juniper berries.
Unmistakable.
Grinning — points of fire burning in his canines — he set off into the night, to find her.
~*~
Bashok blew into the Warren like a dark wind.
Unsure of how much truth he spoke, the Warren-dwellers gave the Plague dragon a wide berth. His smoky scent, his blood-colored gaze, his crackling mane, and his laughing looks quickly lost him favor among the more peaceful denizens.
Still, he ignored them, hunting for his sister.
But if a dragon does not want to be found in the Warrens, they won’t be. Not until they’re ready.
Ashabellanar has been taking full advantage of the strange interplay between light and dark here, using her shapeshifting magic to keep her brother off the trail.
Sometimes Bashok sees the strangest things, like the flash of red hair among the forest…or ruby eyes peering back at him from the shade.
He waits, knowing that she can’t ignore him forever.
Eerie flame crackled across his claw-tips.
If anyone had been watching, they’d have seen his lips split in a tooth-filled grin. Flickering across filed canines, the red firelight looked like blood.
Like his anger, the licking flames were uncontrollable. Sometimes fire ebbed from his eyes or crackled through his mane.
Now, he hoped the star-studded night was bright enough to hide the fire, but dark enough to hide his form.
I’ve been waiting for this.
Bashok, destroyer, crouched on the other side of the Warren’s bone-thorned bridge. He was waiting for the watchman, high in his tower across the way, to bend his head forward for a snooze.
Bashok’s sharp eyes caught the swaying of the watchman. His own inner voice whispered a lullaby: sleep, sleep…you won’t be getting much rest soon.
The watchman dozed off.
Bashok sprang forward. He cleared the bridge with a single leap, puffing up dust and moss on the other side.
A few faint embers caught in his mane, then went out.
He lifted his nose, scenting the night air. Smothered camp fires, remnants of dinners, mulled wine, spiced ale —
Then: her.
Ashabellenar’s scent wafted toward him. Crushed lavender punctuated by juniper berries.
Unmistakable.
Grinning — points of fire burning in his canines — he set off into the night, to find her.
~*~
Bashok blew into the Warren like a dark wind.
Unsure of how much truth he spoke, the Warren-dwellers gave the Plague dragon a wide berth. His smoky scent, his blood-colored gaze, his crackling mane, and his laughing looks quickly lost him favor among the more peaceful denizens.
Still, he ignored them, hunting for his sister.
But if a dragon does not want to be found in the Warrens, they won’t be. Not until they’re ready.
Ashabellanar has been taking full advantage of the strange interplay between light and dark here, using her shapeshifting magic to keep her brother off the trail.
Sometimes Bashok sees the strangest things, like the flash of red hair among the forest…or ruby eyes peering back at him from the shade.
He waits, knowing that she can’t ignore him forever.
Aquila's Aesthetic wrote:
Bowing her snowy head over an ebony desk —
Notebooks open, splattered with black ink —
What happened here? A murder of ideas?
She yawns by purple candle flame. The tools of her trade, bell, book, and candle, all gather around her. Through these implements the Arcanist speaks.
Sometimes her lovely bright-pink eyes go a little dim, a bit crossed, and she begins to write, splashing lavender ink across pale white parchment. The words are not her own, but another’s — another’s voice speaking through the jerky movements of her feather quill.
When she’s done, she folds her papers and abruptly goes to sleep, before passing on the Arcanist’s will to other dragons — who gaze at her in wonder.
Notebooks open, splattered with black ink —
What happened here? A murder of ideas?
She yawns by purple candle flame. The tools of her trade, bell, book, and candle, all gather around her. Through these implements the Arcanist speaks.
Sometimes her lovely bright-pink eyes go a little dim, a bit crossed, and she begins to write, splashing lavender ink across pale white parchment. The words are not her own, but another’s — another’s voice speaking through the jerky movements of her feather quill.
When she’s done, she folds her papers and abruptly goes to sleep, before passing on the Arcanist’s will to other dragons — who gaze at her in wonder.
If you're pleased with these two pieces, your total comes to 50g or 48kT (I think...I've already forgotten my own prices T_T)
@Caelyn I absolutely love them! They are perfect, and Bashok! You did exactly what I knew you would, and that is make it awesome. I can imagine the uproar he caused upon arrival. Thank you so much! Sending payment now.
@Caelyn I absolutely love them! They are perfect, and Bashok! You did exactly what I knew you would, and that is make it awesome. I can imagine the uproar he caused upon arrival. Thank you so much! Sending payment now.
Snailbert has my Wishlist he is a good Snail
@CatkinStarchild
Hey-o, Cat! I forget what time zone you're in, but I feel so bad for making you wait that I'm uploading your bios in chunks, just in case you are awake and online.
Here's Cloudweaver's up first!
Hey-o, Cat! I forget what time zone you're in, but I feel so bad for making you wait that I'm uploading your bios in chunks, just in case you are awake and online.
Here's Cloudweaver's up first!
The Silk Dress wrote:
The silk streamed down from the clan’s trees, threads catching the light in little opalescent rainbows.
Cloudweaver capered back and forth, picking up the strands. He had a little leather pouch slung over his hip. The inside of it was already clustered full of milk-white threads, a tangle of them. He stayed inside the silk grove, picking and plucking, as the sun went down and stained the ground orange.
He heard sudden footsteps and hurriedly hid the pouch in a bush. Celandine came trotting up, tail swishing, eyes curious and alert.
“And what have you been doing here all day, brother?”
“N – nothing,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “Nothing at all. Don’t you think the grove looks pretty at spring time?”
Celandine looked around, brows high on her face. “Looks a bit weird, with all the silk threads blowing all over the place.”
Indeed, the silken threads gusted in the light breeze, bathing the two dragons in softness.
Cloudweaver plucked one off of his sister’s face. “Have you never looked at them in the moonlight?”
“No, and I imagine they’re a bit weird then, too. Like you.” She playfully stuck out her tongue, then unpacked a little dinner for him. Oranges, rinds of white cheese, crumbly honey-bread, an uncorked jug of apple mead. Enough to last several days. “But our parents realize that you get like this sometimes, so I’ve run out here to give you dinner.”
“Thanks.” He bowed formally until she left him, murmuring beneath her breath about weird brothers.
After chowing down on half the food, Cloudweaver sighed, and got back to work.
After all, Celandine’s birthday was in only two days.
~*~
No one knows where Cloudweaver learned to make things. Some say he was born with the gift already firmly in hand.
Whether that’s true or not, Cloudweaver delighted in weaving, sewing, and painting, because his creations delighted everyone.
He loved no one more in those days, however, than his sister. But this gift had to be a surprise.
Celandine had a propensity for spoiling surprises. She didn’t do it intentionally — she always stumbled across her parents’ wrapped gifts days before the Yule celebration, or blurted out mother’s gifts for father, and so on.
That was how Cloudweaver hit upon a plan: his gift for Celandine must be made within hours of her birthday. No way for her to stumble across it early. No way for her to ruin her surprise. Just pure, unadulterated joy at her feast.
This scheme was typical of Cloudweaver. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, yet earnest. His clan all adored his skill at kite-making and toy-making. His greatest triumph, before Celandine’s gift, was a walking puppet of the Glademother. The cunning sequin-leaves on her shoulder-trees sparkled at Greenskeeper Gathering in the firelight.
~*~
In the present, though, he had no time to ruminate on past triumphs. He was too busy weaving.
Once he had collected enough silk, the cloth took shape beneath his paws as if by magic. It was like pressing his paws into cold water, and the eddies that resulted were the cloth.
Slowly, in the moonlight, the dress was given form. Silken drapes would drift past Celandine’s knees. Her neck would be adorned by little white-silk flowers.
Then, as the sun rose, and the dress caught the dawn-light, he reached again into his pouch.
Hidden within was a small bag of pretty stones Celandine had collected. Always she told him you must put some of these in your creations!
She didn’t know he had been saving them for years.
Now, as the sun rose and fell on the grove again — and, thankfully, Celandine was distracted by their parents — Cloudweaver stitched each shining fragment carefully into the cloth. He worked by a jar of fireflies, which he released when the sun rose again.
Carefully, he shook the dress out. It rattled like faraway music.
Everything — from bows to flowers to silk to veil — was perfect. The rocks caught the light with sparkling alacrity.
Breathing out slowly, Cloudweaver flung the dress over his shoulder and hurried out of the silk grove, to Celandine’s birthday party.
~*~
Their family, well-loved by everyone, was surrounded by dragons from the clan. An open-air picnic sat beneath a sky steeped in violet twilight, with stars beginning to shine through the dark blue high overhead.
Cloudweaver caught the look on Celandine’s face and was flattered. Even now, with all the dragons gathered around, she looked pensive. Because he wasn’t there.
Exhausted by his labors, he fluttered and landed before her. Without fanfare, he shook the dress out before her.
Everyone gasped.
Later, no one could ever agree what color it was. Was it the lightest, softest blue, like a jaybird’s egg? Was it pure, frothing white like an ocean?
What they did agree on was the tears that filled Celandine’s eyes, as she stumbled forward to hug Cloudweaver close.
Cloudweaver capered back and forth, picking up the strands. He had a little leather pouch slung over his hip. The inside of it was already clustered full of milk-white threads, a tangle of them. He stayed inside the silk grove, picking and plucking, as the sun went down and stained the ground orange.
He heard sudden footsteps and hurriedly hid the pouch in a bush. Celandine came trotting up, tail swishing, eyes curious and alert.
“And what have you been doing here all day, brother?”
“N – nothing,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “Nothing at all. Don’t you think the grove looks pretty at spring time?”
Celandine looked around, brows high on her face. “Looks a bit weird, with all the silk threads blowing all over the place.”
Indeed, the silken threads gusted in the light breeze, bathing the two dragons in softness.
Cloudweaver plucked one off of his sister’s face. “Have you never looked at them in the moonlight?”
“No, and I imagine they’re a bit weird then, too. Like you.” She playfully stuck out her tongue, then unpacked a little dinner for him. Oranges, rinds of white cheese, crumbly honey-bread, an uncorked jug of apple mead. Enough to last several days. “But our parents realize that you get like this sometimes, so I’ve run out here to give you dinner.”
“Thanks.” He bowed formally until she left him, murmuring beneath her breath about weird brothers.
After chowing down on half the food, Cloudweaver sighed, and got back to work.
After all, Celandine’s birthday was in only two days.
~*~
No one knows where Cloudweaver learned to make things. Some say he was born with the gift already firmly in hand.
Whether that’s true or not, Cloudweaver delighted in weaving, sewing, and painting, because his creations delighted everyone.
He loved no one more in those days, however, than his sister. But this gift had to be a surprise.
Celandine had a propensity for spoiling surprises. She didn’t do it intentionally — she always stumbled across her parents’ wrapped gifts days before the Yule celebration, or blurted out mother’s gifts for father, and so on.
That was how Cloudweaver hit upon a plan: his gift for Celandine must be made within hours of her birthday. No way for her to stumble across it early. No way for her to ruin her surprise. Just pure, unadulterated joy at her feast.
This scheme was typical of Cloudweaver. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, yet earnest. His clan all adored his skill at kite-making and toy-making. His greatest triumph, before Celandine’s gift, was a walking puppet of the Glademother. The cunning sequin-leaves on her shoulder-trees sparkled at Greenskeeper Gathering in the firelight.
~*~
In the present, though, he had no time to ruminate on past triumphs. He was too busy weaving.
Once he had collected enough silk, the cloth took shape beneath his paws as if by magic. It was like pressing his paws into cold water, and the eddies that resulted were the cloth.
Slowly, in the moonlight, the dress was given form. Silken drapes would drift past Celandine’s knees. Her neck would be adorned by little white-silk flowers.
Then, as the sun rose, and the dress caught the dawn-light, he reached again into his pouch.
Hidden within was a small bag of pretty stones Celandine had collected. Always she told him you must put some of these in your creations!
She didn’t know he had been saving them for years.
Now, as the sun rose and fell on the grove again — and, thankfully, Celandine was distracted by their parents — Cloudweaver stitched each shining fragment carefully into the cloth. He worked by a jar of fireflies, which he released when the sun rose again.
Carefully, he shook the dress out. It rattled like faraway music.
Everything — from bows to flowers to silk to veil — was perfect. The rocks caught the light with sparkling alacrity.
Breathing out slowly, Cloudweaver flung the dress over his shoulder and hurried out of the silk grove, to Celandine’s birthday party.
~*~
Their family, well-loved by everyone, was surrounded by dragons from the clan. An open-air picnic sat beneath a sky steeped in violet twilight, with stars beginning to shine through the dark blue high overhead.
Cloudweaver caught the look on Celandine’s face and was flattered. Even now, with all the dragons gathered around, she looked pensive. Because he wasn’t there.
Exhausted by his labors, he fluttered and landed before her. Without fanfare, he shook the dress out before her.
Everyone gasped.
Later, no one could ever agree what color it was. Was it the lightest, softest blue, like a jaybird’s egg? Was it pure, frothing white like an ocean?
What they did agree on was the tears that filled Celandine’s eyes, as she stumbled forward to hug Cloudweaver close.
@CatkinStarchild
Hey-o, Cat! I forget what time zone you're in, but I feel so bad for making you wait that I'm uploading your bios in chunks, just in case you are awake and online.
Here's Cloudweaver's up first!
Hey-o, Cat! I forget what time zone you're in, but I feel so bad for making you wait that I'm uploading your bios in chunks, just in case you are awake and online.
Here's Cloudweaver's up first!
The Silk Dress wrote:
The silk streamed down from the clan’s trees, threads catching the light in little opalescent rainbows.
Cloudweaver capered back and forth, picking up the strands. He had a little leather pouch slung over his hip. The inside of it was already clustered full of milk-white threads, a tangle of them. He stayed inside the silk grove, picking and plucking, as the sun went down and stained the ground orange.
He heard sudden footsteps and hurriedly hid the pouch in a bush. Celandine came trotting up, tail swishing, eyes curious and alert.
“And what have you been doing here all day, brother?”
“N – nothing,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “Nothing at all. Don’t you think the grove looks pretty at spring time?”
Celandine looked around, brows high on her face. “Looks a bit weird, with all the silk threads blowing all over the place.”
Indeed, the silken threads gusted in the light breeze, bathing the two dragons in softness.
Cloudweaver plucked one off of his sister’s face. “Have you never looked at them in the moonlight?”
“No, and I imagine they’re a bit weird then, too. Like you.” She playfully stuck out her tongue, then unpacked a little dinner for him. Oranges, rinds of white cheese, crumbly honey-bread, an uncorked jug of apple mead. Enough to last several days. “But our parents realize that you get like this sometimes, so I’ve run out here to give you dinner.”
“Thanks.” He bowed formally until she left him, murmuring beneath her breath about weird brothers.
After chowing down on half the food, Cloudweaver sighed, and got back to work.
After all, Celandine’s birthday was in only two days.
~*~
No one knows where Cloudweaver learned to make things. Some say he was born with the gift already firmly in hand.
Whether that’s true or not, Cloudweaver delighted in weaving, sewing, and painting, because his creations delighted everyone.
He loved no one more in those days, however, than his sister. But this gift had to be a surprise.
Celandine had a propensity for spoiling surprises. She didn’t do it intentionally — she always stumbled across her parents’ wrapped gifts days before the Yule celebration, or blurted out mother’s gifts for father, and so on.
That was how Cloudweaver hit upon a plan: his gift for Celandine must be made within hours of her birthday. No way for her to stumble across it early. No way for her to ruin her surprise. Just pure, unadulterated joy at her feast.
This scheme was typical of Cloudweaver. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, yet earnest. His clan all adored his skill at kite-making and toy-making. His greatest triumph, before Celandine’s gift, was a walking puppet of the Glademother. The cunning sequin-leaves on her shoulder-trees sparkled at Greenskeeper Gathering in the firelight.
~*~
In the present, though, he had no time to ruminate on past triumphs. He was too busy weaving.
Once he had collected enough silk, the cloth took shape beneath his paws as if by magic. It was like pressing his paws into cold water, and the eddies that resulted were the cloth.
Slowly, in the moonlight, the dress was given form. Silken drapes would drift past Celandine’s knees. Her neck would be adorned by little white-silk flowers.
Then, as the sun rose, and the dress caught the dawn-light, he reached again into his pouch.
Hidden within was a small bag of pretty stones Celandine had collected. Always she told him you must put some of these in your creations!
She didn’t know he had been saving them for years.
Now, as the sun rose and fell on the grove again — and, thankfully, Celandine was distracted by their parents — Cloudweaver stitched each shining fragment carefully into the cloth. He worked by a jar of fireflies, which he released when the sun rose again.
Carefully, he shook the dress out. It rattled like faraway music.
Everything — from bows to flowers to silk to veil — was perfect. The rocks caught the light with sparkling alacrity.
Breathing out slowly, Cloudweaver flung the dress over his shoulder and hurried out of the silk grove, to Celandine’s birthday party.
~*~
Their family, well-loved by everyone, was surrounded by dragons from the clan. An open-air picnic sat beneath a sky steeped in violet twilight, with stars beginning to shine through the dark blue high overhead.
Cloudweaver caught the look on Celandine’s face and was flattered. Even now, with all the dragons gathered around, she looked pensive. Because he wasn’t there.
Exhausted by his labors, he fluttered and landed before her. Without fanfare, he shook the dress out before her.
Everyone gasped.
Later, no one could ever agree what color it was. Was it the lightest, softest blue, like a jaybird’s egg? Was it pure, frothing white like an ocean?
What they did agree on was the tears that filled Celandine’s eyes, as she stumbled forward to hug Cloudweaver close.
Cloudweaver capered back and forth, picking up the strands. He had a little leather pouch slung over his hip. The inside of it was already clustered full of milk-white threads, a tangle of them. He stayed inside the silk grove, picking and plucking, as the sun went down and stained the ground orange.
He heard sudden footsteps and hurriedly hid the pouch in a bush. Celandine came trotting up, tail swishing, eyes curious and alert.
“And what have you been doing here all day, brother?”
“N – nothing,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “Nothing at all. Don’t you think the grove looks pretty at spring time?”
Celandine looked around, brows high on her face. “Looks a bit weird, with all the silk threads blowing all over the place.”
Indeed, the silken threads gusted in the light breeze, bathing the two dragons in softness.
Cloudweaver plucked one off of his sister’s face. “Have you never looked at them in the moonlight?”
“No, and I imagine they’re a bit weird then, too. Like you.” She playfully stuck out her tongue, then unpacked a little dinner for him. Oranges, rinds of white cheese, crumbly honey-bread, an uncorked jug of apple mead. Enough to last several days. “But our parents realize that you get like this sometimes, so I’ve run out here to give you dinner.”
“Thanks.” He bowed formally until she left him, murmuring beneath her breath about weird brothers.
After chowing down on half the food, Cloudweaver sighed, and got back to work.
After all, Celandine’s birthday was in only two days.
~*~
No one knows where Cloudweaver learned to make things. Some say he was born with the gift already firmly in hand.
Whether that’s true or not, Cloudweaver delighted in weaving, sewing, and painting, because his creations delighted everyone.
He loved no one more in those days, however, than his sister. But this gift had to be a surprise.
Celandine had a propensity for spoiling surprises. She didn’t do it intentionally — she always stumbled across her parents’ wrapped gifts days before the Yule celebration, or blurted out mother’s gifts for father, and so on.
That was how Cloudweaver hit upon a plan: his gift for Celandine must be made within hours of her birthday. No way for her to stumble across it early. No way for her to ruin her surprise. Just pure, unadulterated joy at her feast.
This scheme was typical of Cloudweaver. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, yet earnest. His clan all adored his skill at kite-making and toy-making. His greatest triumph, before Celandine’s gift, was a walking puppet of the Glademother. The cunning sequin-leaves on her shoulder-trees sparkled at Greenskeeper Gathering in the firelight.
~*~
In the present, though, he had no time to ruminate on past triumphs. He was too busy weaving.
Once he had collected enough silk, the cloth took shape beneath his paws as if by magic. It was like pressing his paws into cold water, and the eddies that resulted were the cloth.
Slowly, in the moonlight, the dress was given form. Silken drapes would drift past Celandine’s knees. Her neck would be adorned by little white-silk flowers.
Then, as the sun rose, and the dress caught the dawn-light, he reached again into his pouch.
Hidden within was a small bag of pretty stones Celandine had collected. Always she told him you must put some of these in your creations!
She didn’t know he had been saving them for years.
Now, as the sun rose and fell on the grove again — and, thankfully, Celandine was distracted by their parents — Cloudweaver stitched each shining fragment carefully into the cloth. He worked by a jar of fireflies, which he released when the sun rose again.
Carefully, he shook the dress out. It rattled like faraway music.
Everything — from bows to flowers to silk to veil — was perfect. The rocks caught the light with sparkling alacrity.
Breathing out slowly, Cloudweaver flung the dress over his shoulder and hurried out of the silk grove, to Celandine’s birthday party.
~*~
Their family, well-loved by everyone, was surrounded by dragons from the clan. An open-air picnic sat beneath a sky steeped in violet twilight, with stars beginning to shine through the dark blue high overhead.
Cloudweaver caught the look on Celandine’s face and was flattered. Even now, with all the dragons gathered around, she looked pensive. Because he wasn’t there.
Exhausted by his labors, he fluttered and landed before her. Without fanfare, he shook the dress out before her.
Everyone gasped.
Later, no one could ever agree what color it was. Was it the lightest, softest blue, like a jaybird’s egg? Was it pure, frothing white like an ocean?
What they did agree on was the tears that filled Celandine’s eyes, as she stumbled forward to hug Cloudweaver close.
@CatkinStarchild
[quote=Scrump?]
I.
This…was the big one.
The jewels glistened in the windows of the shop. Inviting. Tantalizing. There were teal gemstones, layers of pearls, and sparkling diamonds, all in luscious piles on soft blue cloth.
Why, if they didn’t want to be taken, were they arranged in such a lovely way?
Snapping her goggles back over her eyes, Scamp crouched down. The old shopkeeper who kept this store was preparing to lock up for the night.
For the most part, thievery was slow in this town. There were the birdhouses, which didn’t fetch much money — and which got Scamp pecked sometimes, besides. There was the delicious temptation of apple pies resting in windows (but Scamp always ate those before she could sell them again).
So it seemed strange that in the middle of this little burg a gem shop had opened. Scamp had heard from her connections that all the gems were real. The more superstitious members of her crew were convinced no dragon was so easily fooled — they thought the old man had to be a wizard, a sorcerer —
Or at the very least, he had to have some sort of alarm system.
The old Snapper, whistling, shut and locked his door. His porch lantern remained on, burning precious oil. But he could afford it. As the only jeweler for a hundred miles, he made plenty of coin. Everywhere, no matter how poor, had dragons looking to buy their loved ones pretty things.
Scamp’s heart was beating hard, like a fist rapping on an iron door. Across the road and hidden in a grassy ditch, she watched as the Snapper strolled slowly through the night, twirling a key around his portly claw.
As he vanished around a corner, his eyes were fixed on the moon. Perhaps he was thinking of loves long past…or loves waiting for him at home.
Never mind that. Scamp cleared sudden tears with a scowl. It was show-time.
Quick as a flash, her small shadowy form darted across the road. Her paw quivered a bit, but with her expertise, the lock soon sprang open. Breathing slowly out, checking for intruders, she pressed her shoulder against the door until it slid open, revealing all the jewels —
And a gape-mouthed Fae that shone like gold. Goldentop was quick to hide her surprise, but Scamp saw it anyway.
“Excuse me, miss!” Goldentop snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s a fine question to ask me.” Scamp stomped her foot. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
“I,” Goldentop sniffed, raising her nose as high as it would go. “Am the evening jewel inspector, thank you!”
“Jewel inspector, huh?” [i]Goodness,[/i] Scamp thought. [i]Wish I’d thought of that one.[/i] “So, does that inspection involve chucking all these jewels into a bag on your hip?”
Goldentop froze, then scowled. She’d thought the bag was hidden. “It’s none of your business what an inspection entails.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” Scamp pointed behind Goldentop.
Goldentop huffed. “I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one!”
“Then be stupid!” Scamp growled. “There’s a seeker orb behind you, showing the old shopkeeper’s home. As soon as he gets there, he’ll see us in here.”
Goldentop snatched a glance behind her and saw it was true: there was, indeed, a huge glass globe hanging on the wall. The globe showed a sensible living room in a warm, cozy house.
Scamp wanted nothing more than to have a house like that.
But right now? Not bloody likely.
“Alright, alright.” Goldentop rubbed her forehead. “Shall we split it 50/50?”
“50/50? Try 70/40, miss!”
“That doesn’t even add up!”
Scamp flushed down to her toes. “70/20, then!”
“That doesn’t add up, either! And we don’t have time to argue!”
They both startled as a small pet ran across the room in the seeker’s orb. The Nekomata probably heard her master coming home.
Scamp blushed so hard she felt like she was burning. “I’ve been casing this joint for three full weeks! You can’t take my jewels!”
“They’re not yours, are they? They’re the owner’s!”
“Not for long!” Scamp darted forward and began tossing the jewels willy-nilly into her bag while Goldentop gaped, then grew furious.
“You’re nuts. You have no form. And you’re going to scratch some of the diamonds!”
“Hang the diamonds! We’re going to get beaten if we don’t get out of here!”
At that moment, the Snapper entered his home. Goldentop yanked Scamp over against the wall, into a darker corner. The two watched, not breathing, as the Snapper knelt and scratched his Nekomata behind the ears.
“[i]That’s a good kitty,[/i]” Scamp and Goldentop heard him say. “[i]Yes you are, little one. Yes you are.[/i]”
“At least he likes cats,” Scamp whispered loudly, and Goldentop kicked her.
The Snapper looked up. They made awkward eye-contact via the glass orbs.
Then all at once, the Snapper was flying back out of his house, out of view of the seeker’s orb. Scamp flailed backward as Goldentop clawed and smacked her. The two hissed at one another like wild cats.
Then Goldentop suddenly stopped. Her eyes grew wide and dark.
Thinking the Snapper had magically teleported back already, Scamp gasped. “I’m too young to die!”
“No! Not that!” Goldentop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Are you…Atala?”
“Ata-who?” sputtered Scamp. “I don’t have time for this. Not at all.”
“No, wait — who are your parents, little one?”
“Little one, she says. I’m not much littler than you, pal.” Scamp poked Goldentop in the chest with a foreclaw. “And I don’t appreciate being called little.”
“Who are your parents?” Goldentop repeated.
Scamp flushed even brighter. “I don’t know. What’s it to you?”
Goldentop spread her shimmering, golden wings over Scamp like a cloak. Before Scamp could scream, Goldentop hushed her with a thumb on her lips. “You’re coming with me.”
The last thing Scamp heard was the door creaking open and the old Snapper shouting “HEY!” before the world vanished in a puff of golden dust.
II.
“I just thought you’d be interested in learning where your daughter was, is all…O Venerable King Fae.” Goldentop bowed low.
She had waited for Atala to conclude his weekly meeting of the Fae before accosting him. She told him everything, from the jewels in the store to her most unlikely capture.
“And you believe this — Scrump?”
“Scamp, O Gracious One,” Goldentop said, unable to hide a snicker.
“She’s my —“
“Oh, yes, your Honor.”
Hidden in the trees, unconvinced that Goldentop wasn’t leading her to her doom, Scamp glowered. Scrump. The nerve of —
Goldentop drew back a bough and waved Scamp forward. Indignantly, she strolled out of her hiding place, then bowed to the Venerable Fae or whatever he was.
The Venerable Fae didn’t respond for a long time.
At last, irritated, Scamp opened her eyes —
Only to find a familiar Fae standing before her.
Her mind didn’t recognize him. Instead, she felt a warmth blooming inside of her, like a rose when exposed to noontide sun.
Atala’s glassy eyes were filmy with tears. He scrubbed them away, then embraced her. “Daughter. My daughter, Scrimp.”
“It’s [i]Scamp[/i]. And what’s this daughter business, old codger?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying. Then she blinked hard and squinted at Atala. “[i]Dad[/i]?”
“I just love happy endings,” Goldentop said, chuckling, leaning back and watching the two hug.
III.
No more big busts. No more [i]this is the one[/i] type jobs.
Now, aboard [i]The Grand Larceny[/i], Scamp is an Acquisitions Expert. Sometimes this involves getting supplies for the ship, such as food for the sailors. Other times, it involves slightly shadier schemes.
Regardless, she welcomes [i]The Grand Larceny[/i] as an option for escape, even if it [i]is[/i] run by Goldentop. Sometimes it’s good to get away from Atala…and sometimes it’s good to go back to him.
[/quote]
One more! ^^
@CatkinStarchild
One more! ^^
Scrump? wrote:
I.
This…was the big one.
The jewels glistened in the windows of the shop. Inviting. Tantalizing. There were teal gemstones, layers of pearls, and sparkling diamonds, all in luscious piles on soft blue cloth.
Why, if they didn’t want to be taken, were they arranged in such a lovely way?
Snapping her goggles back over her eyes, Scamp crouched down. The old shopkeeper who kept this store was preparing to lock up for the night.
For the most part, thievery was slow in this town. There were the birdhouses, which didn’t fetch much money — and which got Scamp pecked sometimes, besides. There was the delicious temptation of apple pies resting in windows (but Scamp always ate those before she could sell them again).
So it seemed strange that in the middle of this little burg a gem shop had opened. Scamp had heard from her connections that all the gems were real. The more superstitious members of her crew were convinced no dragon was so easily fooled — they thought the old man had to be a wizard, a sorcerer —
Or at the very least, he had to have some sort of alarm system.
The old Snapper, whistling, shut and locked his door. His porch lantern remained on, burning precious oil. But he could afford it. As the only jeweler for a hundred miles, he made plenty of coin. Everywhere, no matter how poor, had dragons looking to buy their loved ones pretty things.
Scamp’s heart was beating hard, like a fist rapping on an iron door. Across the road and hidden in a grassy ditch, she watched as the Snapper strolled slowly through the night, twirling a key around his portly claw.
As he vanished around a corner, his eyes were fixed on the moon. Perhaps he was thinking of loves long past…or loves waiting for him at home.
Never mind that. Scamp cleared sudden tears with a scowl. It was show-time.
Quick as a flash, her small shadowy form darted across the road. Her paw quivered a bit, but with her expertise, the lock soon sprang open. Breathing slowly out, checking for intruders, she pressed her shoulder against the door until it slid open, revealing all the jewels —
And a gape-mouthed Fae that shone like gold. Goldentop was quick to hide her surprise, but Scamp saw it anyway.
“Excuse me, miss!” Goldentop snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s a fine question to ask me.” Scamp stomped her foot. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
“I,” Goldentop sniffed, raising her nose as high as it would go. “Am the evening jewel inspector, thank you!”
“Jewel inspector, huh?” Goodness, Scamp thought. Wish I’d thought of that one. “So, does that inspection involve chucking all these jewels into a bag on your hip?”
Goldentop froze, then scowled. She’d thought the bag was hidden. “It’s none of your business what an inspection entails.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” Scamp pointed behind Goldentop.
Goldentop huffed. “I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one!”
“Then be stupid!” Scamp growled. “There’s a seeker orb behind you, showing the old shopkeeper’s home. As soon as he gets there, he’ll see us in here.”
Goldentop snatched a glance behind her and saw it was true: there was, indeed, a huge glass globe hanging on the wall. The globe showed a sensible living room in a warm, cozy house.
Scamp wanted nothing more than to have a house like that.
But right now? Not bloody likely.
“Alright, alright.” Goldentop rubbed her forehead. “Shall we split it 50/50?”
“50/50? Try 70/40, miss!”
“That doesn’t even add up!”
Scamp flushed down to her toes. “70/20, then!”
“That doesn’t add up, either! And we don’t have time to argue!”
They both startled as a small pet ran across the room in the seeker’s orb. The Nekomata probably heard her master coming home.
Scamp blushed so hard she felt like she was burning. “I’ve been casing this joint for three full weeks! You can’t take my jewels!”
“They’re not yours, are they? They’re the owner’s!”
“Not for long!” Scamp darted forward and began tossing the jewels willy-nilly into her bag while Goldentop gaped, then grew furious.
“You’re nuts. You have no form. And you’re going to scratch some of the diamonds!”
“Hang the diamonds! We’re going to get beaten if we don’t get out of here!”
At that moment, the Snapper entered his home. Goldentop yanked Scamp over against the wall, into a darker corner. The two watched, not breathing, as the Snapper knelt and scratched his Nekomata behind the ears.
“That’s a good kitty,” Scamp and Goldentop heard him say. “Yes you are, little one. Yes you are.”
“At least he likes cats,” Scamp whispered loudly, and Goldentop kicked her.
The Snapper looked up. They made awkward eye-contact via the glass orbs.
Then all at once, the Snapper was flying back out of his house, out of view of the seeker’s orb. Scamp flailed backward as Goldentop clawed and smacked her. The two hissed at one another like wild cats.
Then Goldentop suddenly stopped. Her eyes grew wide and dark.
Thinking the Snapper had magically teleported back already, Scamp gasped. “I’m too young to die!”
“No! Not that!” Goldentop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Are you…Atala?”
“Ata-who?” sputtered Scamp. “I don’t have time for this. Not at all.”
“No, wait — who are your parents, little one?”
“Little one, she says. I’m not much littler than you, pal.” Scamp poked Goldentop in the chest with a foreclaw. “And I don’t appreciate being called little.”
“Who are your parents?” Goldentop repeated.
Scamp flushed even brighter. “I don’t know. What’s it to you?”
Goldentop spread her shimmering, golden wings over Scamp like a cloak. Before Scamp could scream, Goldentop hushed her with a thumb on her lips. “You’re coming with me.”
The last thing Scamp heard was the door creaking open and the old Snapper shouting “HEY!” before the world vanished in a puff of golden dust.
II.
“I just thought you’d be interested in learning where your daughter was, is all…O Venerable King Fae.” Goldentop bowed low.
She had waited for Atala to conclude his weekly meeting of the Fae before accosting him. She told him everything, from the jewels in the store to her most unlikely capture.
“And you believe this — Scrump?”
“Scamp, O Gracious One,” Goldentop said, unable to hide a snicker.
“She’s my —“
“Oh, yes, your Honor.”
Hidden in the trees, unconvinced that Goldentop wasn’t leading her to her doom, Scamp glowered. Scrump. The nerve of —
Goldentop drew back a bough and waved Scamp forward. Indignantly, she strolled out of her hiding place, then bowed to the Venerable Fae or whatever he was.
The Venerable Fae didn’t respond for a long time.
At last, irritated, Scamp opened her eyes —
Only to find a familiar Fae standing before her.
Her mind didn’t recognize him. Instead, she felt a warmth blooming inside of her, like a rose when exposed to noontide sun.
Atala’s glassy eyes were filmy with tears. He scrubbed them away, then embraced her. “Daughter. My daughter, Scrimp.”
“It’s Scamp. And what’s this daughter business, old codger?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying. Then she blinked hard and squinted at Atala. “Dad?”
“I just love happy endings,” Goldentop said, chuckling, leaning back and watching the two hug.
III.
No more big busts. No more this is the one type jobs.
Now, aboard The Grand Larceny, Scamp is an Acquisitions Expert. Sometimes this involves getting supplies for the ship, such as food for the sailors. Other times, it involves slightly shadier schemes.
Regardless, she welcomes The Grand Larceny as an option for escape, even if it is run by Goldentop. Sometimes it’s good to get away from Atala…and sometimes it’s good to go back to him.
This…was the big one.
The jewels glistened in the windows of the shop. Inviting. Tantalizing. There were teal gemstones, layers of pearls, and sparkling diamonds, all in luscious piles on soft blue cloth.
Why, if they didn’t want to be taken, were they arranged in such a lovely way?
Snapping her goggles back over her eyes, Scamp crouched down. The old shopkeeper who kept this store was preparing to lock up for the night.
For the most part, thievery was slow in this town. There were the birdhouses, which didn’t fetch much money — and which got Scamp pecked sometimes, besides. There was the delicious temptation of apple pies resting in windows (but Scamp always ate those before she could sell them again).
So it seemed strange that in the middle of this little burg a gem shop had opened. Scamp had heard from her connections that all the gems were real. The more superstitious members of her crew were convinced no dragon was so easily fooled — they thought the old man had to be a wizard, a sorcerer —
Or at the very least, he had to have some sort of alarm system.
The old Snapper, whistling, shut and locked his door. His porch lantern remained on, burning precious oil. But he could afford it. As the only jeweler for a hundred miles, he made plenty of coin. Everywhere, no matter how poor, had dragons looking to buy their loved ones pretty things.
Scamp’s heart was beating hard, like a fist rapping on an iron door. Across the road and hidden in a grassy ditch, she watched as the Snapper strolled slowly through the night, twirling a key around his portly claw.
As he vanished around a corner, his eyes were fixed on the moon. Perhaps he was thinking of loves long past…or loves waiting for him at home.
Never mind that. Scamp cleared sudden tears with a scowl. It was show-time.
Quick as a flash, her small shadowy form darted across the road. Her paw quivered a bit, but with her expertise, the lock soon sprang open. Breathing slowly out, checking for intruders, she pressed her shoulder against the door until it slid open, revealing all the jewels —
And a gape-mouthed Fae that shone like gold. Goldentop was quick to hide her surprise, but Scamp saw it anyway.
“Excuse me, miss!” Goldentop snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s a fine question to ask me.” Scamp stomped her foot. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
“I,” Goldentop sniffed, raising her nose as high as it would go. “Am the evening jewel inspector, thank you!”
“Jewel inspector, huh?” Goodness, Scamp thought. Wish I’d thought of that one. “So, does that inspection involve chucking all these jewels into a bag on your hip?”
Goldentop froze, then scowled. She’d thought the bag was hidden. “It’s none of your business what an inspection entails.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” Scamp pointed behind Goldentop.
Goldentop huffed. “I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one!”
“Then be stupid!” Scamp growled. “There’s a seeker orb behind you, showing the old shopkeeper’s home. As soon as he gets there, he’ll see us in here.”
Goldentop snatched a glance behind her and saw it was true: there was, indeed, a huge glass globe hanging on the wall. The globe showed a sensible living room in a warm, cozy house.
Scamp wanted nothing more than to have a house like that.
But right now? Not bloody likely.
“Alright, alright.” Goldentop rubbed her forehead. “Shall we split it 50/50?”
“50/50? Try 70/40, miss!”
“That doesn’t even add up!”
Scamp flushed down to her toes. “70/20, then!”
“That doesn’t add up, either! And we don’t have time to argue!”
They both startled as a small pet ran across the room in the seeker’s orb. The Nekomata probably heard her master coming home.
Scamp blushed so hard she felt like she was burning. “I’ve been casing this joint for three full weeks! You can’t take my jewels!”
“They’re not yours, are they? They’re the owner’s!”
“Not for long!” Scamp darted forward and began tossing the jewels willy-nilly into her bag while Goldentop gaped, then grew furious.
“You’re nuts. You have no form. And you’re going to scratch some of the diamonds!”
“Hang the diamonds! We’re going to get beaten if we don’t get out of here!”
At that moment, the Snapper entered his home. Goldentop yanked Scamp over against the wall, into a darker corner. The two watched, not breathing, as the Snapper knelt and scratched his Nekomata behind the ears.
“That’s a good kitty,” Scamp and Goldentop heard him say. “Yes you are, little one. Yes you are.”
“At least he likes cats,” Scamp whispered loudly, and Goldentop kicked her.
The Snapper looked up. They made awkward eye-contact via the glass orbs.
Then all at once, the Snapper was flying back out of his house, out of view of the seeker’s orb. Scamp flailed backward as Goldentop clawed and smacked her. The two hissed at one another like wild cats.
Then Goldentop suddenly stopped. Her eyes grew wide and dark.
Thinking the Snapper had magically teleported back already, Scamp gasped. “I’m too young to die!”
“No! Not that!” Goldentop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Are you…Atala?”
“Ata-who?” sputtered Scamp. “I don’t have time for this. Not at all.”
“No, wait — who are your parents, little one?”
“Little one, she says. I’m not much littler than you, pal.” Scamp poked Goldentop in the chest with a foreclaw. “And I don’t appreciate being called little.”
“Who are your parents?” Goldentop repeated.
Scamp flushed even brighter. “I don’t know. What’s it to you?”
Goldentop spread her shimmering, golden wings over Scamp like a cloak. Before Scamp could scream, Goldentop hushed her with a thumb on her lips. “You’re coming with me.”
The last thing Scamp heard was the door creaking open and the old Snapper shouting “HEY!” before the world vanished in a puff of golden dust.
II.
“I just thought you’d be interested in learning where your daughter was, is all…O Venerable King Fae.” Goldentop bowed low.
She had waited for Atala to conclude his weekly meeting of the Fae before accosting him. She told him everything, from the jewels in the store to her most unlikely capture.
“And you believe this — Scrump?”
“Scamp, O Gracious One,” Goldentop said, unable to hide a snicker.
“She’s my —“
“Oh, yes, your Honor.”
Hidden in the trees, unconvinced that Goldentop wasn’t leading her to her doom, Scamp glowered. Scrump. The nerve of —
Goldentop drew back a bough and waved Scamp forward. Indignantly, she strolled out of her hiding place, then bowed to the Venerable Fae or whatever he was.
The Venerable Fae didn’t respond for a long time.
At last, irritated, Scamp opened her eyes —
Only to find a familiar Fae standing before her.
Her mind didn’t recognize him. Instead, she felt a warmth blooming inside of her, like a rose when exposed to noontide sun.
Atala’s glassy eyes were filmy with tears. He scrubbed them away, then embraced her. “Daughter. My daughter, Scrimp.”
“It’s Scamp. And what’s this daughter business, old codger?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying. Then she blinked hard and squinted at Atala. “Dad?”
“I just love happy endings,” Goldentop said, chuckling, leaning back and watching the two hug.
III.
No more big busts. No more this is the one type jobs.
Now, aboard The Grand Larceny, Scamp is an Acquisitions Expert. Sometimes this involves getting supplies for the ship, such as food for the sailors. Other times, it involves slightly shadier schemes.
Regardless, she welcomes The Grand Larceny as an option for escape, even if it is run by Goldentop. Sometimes it’s good to get away from Atala…and sometimes it’s good to go back to him.
One more! ^^
@CatkinStarchild
And there we are! Sorry in advance if this is a bit triggering - I tried to stay on the lighthearted side of things. And all of my stories have a happy ending - no matter how long it takes. Without further ado, here we have:
[quote=Tara and the Cursed Egg]
I.
[i]You’re not broken, little one. You’re not less useful.[/i]
Tara forced herself to look up, to meet the kindly old swamp witch’s warm eyes. Maple rarely had a good word for her apprentices, but she lavished affection on Tara, knowing that she needed it most.
[i]You’re different than everyone else, you know?[/i]
The two of them were in Maple’s small hut, surrounded by bundles of herbs and bottles of fermented berries. Benevolent statuettes of Pearlcatchers gazed down on them.
Tara had tried the easiest spell known to dragonkind — she had tried to make a light appear behind the Pearlcatchers’ eyes and turn them into mini-lanterns. But try as she might, she couldn’t produce a single spark. No. All she gave herself was a monumental headache.
She pressed the chilly poultice against her forehead and tried to lose herself in Maple’s kind words.
[i]Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition. It’s a canvas, and you have to paint it with whatever paint is available.[/i]
Tara’s fist clenched on the poultice. [i]But I don’t like the paint I’ve been given.[/i]
[i]No? Well that’s too bad. Look at what I can paint with just brown.[/i] Dusting a canvas off, Maple showed Tara an intricate forest scene done only with brown ink. The leaves on the trees rippled as if alive, in the sunlight.
[i]More magic,[/i] Tara said bitterly.
[i]No. Just dedication. And kindness, even to the color brown.[/i] Maple laughed in her strange, quiet way, but she wasn’t surprised when Tara left her home later that evening.
II.
Trudging through the ankle-deep snow in the wintry forest, Tara forced herself to look up.
If only memory was magic — she could remember every word of every book she had read. Complex un-cursing diagrams floated before her eyes. She could draw out every symbol of magic in detail. She had stores of riddles packed away in the cellars of her mind.
And yet, she couldn’t light a single spark.
Some dragons found it so easy. Magic bubbled up to their fingertips and out of them.
But all she had was her stupid memory.
She loved riddles and curses, though, and undoing both of them. She liked the strange, lateral ways in which she had to think to accomplish that.
But she would have traded all of her knowledge to be able to make a flower bloom from the snow.
She knew she shouldn’t have left Maple’s swamp cottage in high winter, but she was a stubborn dragon at her very core. Each footstep broke the rime of ice on the plush white snow, letting her sink in to her knees.
Sighing, puffing out clouds of warm vapor, she gazed through the lattice of branches up at the full moon. It was a silent night —
Until it wasn’t.
A brilliant white light suddenly filled the heavens.
Tara flung her paw before her eyes, gasping.
The white light had a sound, too, like wind whistling through the trees. Crackling followed it. Then the smell of sulfur.
Amazed, Tara forced her eyes open, and saw that the source of light was a brilliant white globe.
It plummeted toward the horizon.
Tara braced herself.
The crash rocked her world. She fell to the snow, panting.
Then, to her alarm, the white light wasn’t going away. Instead, the wintry trees had picked up a stray flame.
She recognized the type of white-blue fire leaping in arcs from tree to tree. The snow should have slowed the flames’ advances, but it wasn’t. The edges of the fire radiated bright white plasma. The trees burned even though they were damp.
And that meant one thing:
A curse.
With renewed purpose, Tara hurried forward.
III.
“Miss! What are you doing?!” A Skydancer shielding her children’s eyes gaped as Tara hurried past. “The fire’s stronger that way! We’ve got to leave!”
“Let me through. I’m trained in this sort of thing.” Was she, really? Was she trained in anything?
Tara shook herself.
The Skydancer gaped at the Pearlcatcher. Something about her — a sense of purpose, a sense of duty — made the Skydancer step aside. “But Miss…you’ve got no water!”
“I don’t need any,” Tara said grimly. She marched forward, into the icy-hot flames.
The world was growing brighter and brighter. She knelt and deftly helped an old Pearlcatcher wrap his paw. He limped away, urging her to run.
And yet…she couldn’t.
Something about the cursed flames was calling to her. Their sweeping dance invited her to step nearer.
Shaking her head, she realized it was the curse itself calling her. Beckoning her forward.
She knew what she had to do.
IV.
Coming to the center of the white-hot inferno, she saw the problem.
The meteorite — it was some kind of Fire egg. A hulking, ugly black-red shell pulsed with lava and spit out sparks. Every so often, it let out a gushing torrent of cursed white flame.
Tara gritted her teeth. It was under the thrall of the most complex curse she’d ever seen. Perhaps a curse that hailed from beyond this planet. Could she possibly stand against it…?
Never mind that.
She remembered Maple: [i]Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition.[/i]
And what was she good at?
Breaking curses.
She recited the ancient words in flawless draconic. The vowels rolled off her tongue. In response, the burning egg let out a whistling, howling, demented sound. It seemed to be crying in pain.
Tara’s eyes flashed. She leaned into the sheet of flame and spoke louder. Her voice grew louder and louder, louder than it could’ve been for any dragon, until it shook and rocked the earth. And in response, the flames leapt higher and higher, clawing for the stars, scraping the black sky. And still Tara spoke on without hesitation, without taking a breath, the long curse-killing spell pouring out of her.
With the words came all her fear, loathing, and self-doubt. As the night grew darker and the moon wheeled toward the horizon, any watching would’ve said Tara was bathed in soft white light — light that kept the fire away.
Slowly, the spell began to break. The flames turned from glistering white to ember-throated red. And with the breaking of the curse, and the flames’ transformation into true fire, the snow began to work its own secret magic.
As dawn broke across the forest, the glittering snow snuffed the flames. Soon the world was bathed in thin gray smoke. It hung in sunlit sheets between the trees.
Tara pitched forward, face-first, onto the egg.
The kindhearted members of Oakheart Clan gingerly stepped up to check on her. Solus came nearest at all. He knelt down and pressed an ear to her back.
Tara’s heart was beating fine. And as Solus withdrew, she let out a little contented snore.
V.
Though Clan Oakheart remembers it all as [i]Firefall[/i], in which half the forest burned, they also remember Tara.
Her bravery in the face of monumental odds serves as a tale to inspire hatchlings. Indeed, at Greenskeeper Gathering, the tale is retold by puppets, with Tara menacing a huge flaming beast.
And though Tara will never be able to use magic, she knows that she can accomplish just as many equally valuable things with dedication.
[/quote]
I hope you like this!
@CatkinStarchild
And there we are! Sorry in advance if this is a bit triggering - I tried to stay on the lighthearted side of things. And all of my stories have a happy ending - no matter how long it takes. Without further ado, here we have:
I hope you like this!
And there we are! Sorry in advance if this is a bit triggering - I tried to stay on the lighthearted side of things. And all of my stories have a happy ending - no matter how long it takes. Without further ado, here we have:
Tara and the Cursed Egg wrote:
I.
You’re not broken, little one. You’re not less useful.
Tara forced herself to look up, to meet the kindly old swamp witch’s warm eyes. Maple rarely had a good word for her apprentices, but she lavished affection on Tara, knowing that she needed it most.
You’re different than everyone else, you know?
The two of them were in Maple’s small hut, surrounded by bundles of herbs and bottles of fermented berries. Benevolent statuettes of Pearlcatchers gazed down on them.
Tara had tried the easiest spell known to dragonkind — she had tried to make a light appear behind the Pearlcatchers’ eyes and turn them into mini-lanterns. But try as she might, she couldn’t produce a single spark. No. All she gave herself was a monumental headache.
She pressed the chilly poultice against her forehead and tried to lose herself in Maple’s kind words.
Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition. It’s a canvas, and you have to paint it with whatever paint is available.
Tara’s fist clenched on the poultice. But I don’t like the paint I’ve been given.
No? Well that’s too bad. Look at what I can paint with just brown. Dusting a canvas off, Maple showed Tara an intricate forest scene done only with brown ink. The leaves on the trees rippled as if alive, in the sunlight.
More magic, Tara said bitterly.
No. Just dedication. And kindness, even to the color brown. Maple laughed in her strange, quiet way, but she wasn’t surprised when Tara left her home later that evening.
II.
Trudging through the ankle-deep snow in the wintry forest, Tara forced herself to look up.
If only memory was magic — she could remember every word of every book she had read. Complex un-cursing diagrams floated before her eyes. She could draw out every symbol of magic in detail. She had stores of riddles packed away in the cellars of her mind.
And yet, she couldn’t light a single spark.
Some dragons found it so easy. Magic bubbled up to their fingertips and out of them.
But all she had was her stupid memory.
She loved riddles and curses, though, and undoing both of them. She liked the strange, lateral ways in which she had to think to accomplish that.
But she would have traded all of her knowledge to be able to make a flower bloom from the snow.
She knew she shouldn’t have left Maple’s swamp cottage in high winter, but she was a stubborn dragon at her very core. Each footstep broke the rime of ice on the plush white snow, letting her sink in to her knees.
Sighing, puffing out clouds of warm vapor, she gazed through the lattice of branches up at the full moon. It was a silent night —
Until it wasn’t.
A brilliant white light suddenly filled the heavens.
Tara flung her paw before her eyes, gasping.
The white light had a sound, too, like wind whistling through the trees. Crackling followed it. Then the smell of sulfur.
Amazed, Tara forced her eyes open, and saw that the source of light was a brilliant white globe.
It plummeted toward the horizon.
Tara braced herself.
The crash rocked her world. She fell to the snow, panting.
Then, to her alarm, the white light wasn’t going away. Instead, the wintry trees had picked up a stray flame.
She recognized the type of white-blue fire leaping in arcs from tree to tree. The snow should have slowed the flames’ advances, but it wasn’t. The edges of the fire radiated bright white plasma. The trees burned even though they were damp.
And that meant one thing:
A curse.
With renewed purpose, Tara hurried forward.
III.
“Miss! What are you doing?!” A Skydancer shielding her children’s eyes gaped as Tara hurried past. “The fire’s stronger that way! We’ve got to leave!”
“Let me through. I’m trained in this sort of thing.” Was she, really? Was she trained in anything?
Tara shook herself.
The Skydancer gaped at the Pearlcatcher. Something about her — a sense of purpose, a sense of duty — made the Skydancer step aside. “But Miss…you’ve got no water!”
“I don’t need any,” Tara said grimly. She marched forward, into the icy-hot flames.
The world was growing brighter and brighter. She knelt and deftly helped an old Pearlcatcher wrap his paw. He limped away, urging her to run.
And yet…she couldn’t.
Something about the cursed flames was calling to her. Their sweeping dance invited her to step nearer.
Shaking her head, she realized it was the curse itself calling her. Beckoning her forward.
She knew what she had to do.
IV.
Coming to the center of the white-hot inferno, she saw the problem.
The meteorite — it was some kind of Fire egg. A hulking, ugly black-red shell pulsed with lava and spit out sparks. Every so often, it let out a gushing torrent of cursed white flame.
Tara gritted her teeth. It was under the thrall of the most complex curse she’d ever seen. Perhaps a curse that hailed from beyond this planet. Could she possibly stand against it…?
Never mind that.
She remembered Maple: Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition.
And what was she good at?
Breaking curses.
She recited the ancient words in flawless draconic. The vowels rolled off her tongue. In response, the burning egg let out a whistling, howling, demented sound. It seemed to be crying in pain.
Tara’s eyes flashed. She leaned into the sheet of flame and spoke louder. Her voice grew louder and louder, louder than it could’ve been for any dragon, until it shook and rocked the earth. And in response, the flames leapt higher and higher, clawing for the stars, scraping the black sky. And still Tara spoke on without hesitation, without taking a breath, the long curse-killing spell pouring out of her.
With the words came all her fear, loathing, and self-doubt. As the night grew darker and the moon wheeled toward the horizon, any watching would’ve said Tara was bathed in soft white light — light that kept the fire away.
Slowly, the spell began to break. The flames turned from glistering white to ember-throated red. And with the breaking of the curse, and the flames’ transformation into true fire, the snow began to work its own secret magic.
As dawn broke across the forest, the glittering snow snuffed the flames. Soon the world was bathed in thin gray smoke. It hung in sunlit sheets between the trees.
Tara pitched forward, face-first, onto the egg.
The kindhearted members of Oakheart Clan gingerly stepped up to check on her. Solus came nearest at all. He knelt down and pressed an ear to her back.
Tara’s heart was beating fine. And as Solus withdrew, she let out a little contented snore.
V.
Though Clan Oakheart remembers it all as Firefall, in which half the forest burned, they also remember Tara.
Her bravery in the face of monumental odds serves as a tale to inspire hatchlings. Indeed, at Greenskeeper Gathering, the tale is retold by puppets, with Tara menacing a huge flaming beast.
And though Tara will never be able to use magic, she knows that she can accomplish just as many equally valuable things with dedication.
You’re not broken, little one. You’re not less useful.
Tara forced herself to look up, to meet the kindly old swamp witch’s warm eyes. Maple rarely had a good word for her apprentices, but she lavished affection on Tara, knowing that she needed it most.
You’re different than everyone else, you know?
The two of them were in Maple’s small hut, surrounded by bundles of herbs and bottles of fermented berries. Benevolent statuettes of Pearlcatchers gazed down on them.
Tara had tried the easiest spell known to dragonkind — she had tried to make a light appear behind the Pearlcatchers’ eyes and turn them into mini-lanterns. But try as she might, she couldn’t produce a single spark. No. All she gave herself was a monumental headache.
She pressed the chilly poultice against her forehead and tried to lose herself in Maple’s kind words.
Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition. It’s a canvas, and you have to paint it with whatever paint is available.
Tara’s fist clenched on the poultice. But I don’t like the paint I’ve been given.
No? Well that’s too bad. Look at what I can paint with just brown. Dusting a canvas off, Maple showed Tara an intricate forest scene done only with brown ink. The leaves on the trees rippled as if alive, in the sunlight.
More magic, Tara said bitterly.
No. Just dedication. And kindness, even to the color brown. Maple laughed in her strange, quiet way, but she wasn’t surprised when Tara left her home later that evening.
II.
Trudging through the ankle-deep snow in the wintry forest, Tara forced herself to look up.
If only memory was magic — she could remember every word of every book she had read. Complex un-cursing diagrams floated before her eyes. She could draw out every symbol of magic in detail. She had stores of riddles packed away in the cellars of her mind.
And yet, she couldn’t light a single spark.
Some dragons found it so easy. Magic bubbled up to their fingertips and out of them.
But all she had was her stupid memory.
She loved riddles and curses, though, and undoing both of them. She liked the strange, lateral ways in which she had to think to accomplish that.
But she would have traded all of her knowledge to be able to make a flower bloom from the snow.
She knew she shouldn’t have left Maple’s swamp cottage in high winter, but she was a stubborn dragon at her very core. Each footstep broke the rime of ice on the plush white snow, letting her sink in to her knees.
Sighing, puffing out clouds of warm vapor, she gazed through the lattice of branches up at the full moon. It was a silent night —
Until it wasn’t.
A brilliant white light suddenly filled the heavens.
Tara flung her paw before her eyes, gasping.
The white light had a sound, too, like wind whistling through the trees. Crackling followed it. Then the smell of sulfur.
Amazed, Tara forced her eyes open, and saw that the source of light was a brilliant white globe.
It plummeted toward the horizon.
Tara braced herself.
The crash rocked her world. She fell to the snow, panting.
Then, to her alarm, the white light wasn’t going away. Instead, the wintry trees had picked up a stray flame.
She recognized the type of white-blue fire leaping in arcs from tree to tree. The snow should have slowed the flames’ advances, but it wasn’t. The edges of the fire radiated bright white plasma. The trees burned even though they were damp.
And that meant one thing:
A curse.
With renewed purpose, Tara hurried forward.
III.
“Miss! What are you doing?!” A Skydancer shielding her children’s eyes gaped as Tara hurried past. “The fire’s stronger that way! We’ve got to leave!”
“Let me through. I’m trained in this sort of thing.” Was she, really? Was she trained in anything?
Tara shook herself.
The Skydancer gaped at the Pearlcatcher. Something about her — a sense of purpose, a sense of duty — made the Skydancer step aside. “But Miss…you’ve got no water!”
“I don’t need any,” Tara said grimly. She marched forward, into the icy-hot flames.
The world was growing brighter and brighter. She knelt and deftly helped an old Pearlcatcher wrap his paw. He limped away, urging her to run.
And yet…she couldn’t.
Something about the cursed flames was calling to her. Their sweeping dance invited her to step nearer.
Shaking her head, she realized it was the curse itself calling her. Beckoning her forward.
She knew what she had to do.
IV.
Coming to the center of the white-hot inferno, she saw the problem.
The meteorite — it was some kind of Fire egg. A hulking, ugly black-red shell pulsed with lava and spit out sparks. Every so often, it let out a gushing torrent of cursed white flame.
Tara gritted her teeth. It was under the thrall of the most complex curse she’d ever seen. Perhaps a curse that hailed from beyond this planet. Could she possibly stand against it…?
Never mind that.
She remembered Maple: Even if you can’t do what we can, you’re still special. Never forget that. You have your own unique strengths that make you better at some things and worse at others, you know? Life is not a race or a competition.
And what was she good at?
Breaking curses.
She recited the ancient words in flawless draconic. The vowels rolled off her tongue. In response, the burning egg let out a whistling, howling, demented sound. It seemed to be crying in pain.
Tara’s eyes flashed. She leaned into the sheet of flame and spoke louder. Her voice grew louder and louder, louder than it could’ve been for any dragon, until it shook and rocked the earth. And in response, the flames leapt higher and higher, clawing for the stars, scraping the black sky. And still Tara spoke on without hesitation, without taking a breath, the long curse-killing spell pouring out of her.
With the words came all her fear, loathing, and self-doubt. As the night grew darker and the moon wheeled toward the horizon, any watching would’ve said Tara was bathed in soft white light — light that kept the fire away.
Slowly, the spell began to break. The flames turned from glistering white to ember-throated red. And with the breaking of the curse, and the flames’ transformation into true fire, the snow began to work its own secret magic.
As dawn broke across the forest, the glittering snow snuffed the flames. Soon the world was bathed in thin gray smoke. It hung in sunlit sheets between the trees.
Tara pitched forward, face-first, onto the egg.
The kindhearted members of Oakheart Clan gingerly stepped up to check on her. Solus came nearest at all. He knelt down and pressed an ear to her back.
Tara’s heart was beating fine. And as Solus withdrew, she let out a little contented snore.
V.
Though Clan Oakheart remembers it all as Firefall, in which half the forest burned, they also remember Tara.
Her bravery in the face of monumental odds serves as a tale to inspire hatchlings. Indeed, at Greenskeeper Gathering, the tale is retold by puppets, with Tara menacing a huge flaming beast.
And though Tara will never be able to use magic, she knows that she can accomplish just as many equally valuable things with dedication.
I hope you like this!