A Scratch of Living
Little figures emerge from the pack of Mirrors. The blues and red and burnished gold that lead the pack in paintings, and intense splatter of red, one draconian figure so buried under clothes and sticks it might have been a pile of junk if not for closer scrutiny. One larger figure that seems to spill out from the lines of their color and seep into the others. The pack is larger than these figures, though time has worn the subtler ones down to faint hints.
And still there are more, separate from that hoard.
It is not a shadow but a Shadow. The Tangled Woods are not far, and for one Mirror, they are one of the closer haunts. One such creature takes its place beside the first of the clan, the Mirror that took such pains to destroy its early memories. This new creature is not as prominent as the Tundra's Guardian, but just as constant.
Always out, always hunting, always seeking, her presence as subtle as the tap of a moth's wings.
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"Lye always brings someone back. Except for herself." -Mothshead, clan scout, pre-War of Ascension
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The Woods yield more, and the first bipedal image of a Wild Claw take shape, farther inland now. A challenge, a stand, the clash of claws-- a challenge worthy of recording, but still left behind as the expanding body moves on.
This figure has power, and carves a hard won place for maintaining it. It is proud, it is Plague, all but for the color of his eyes.
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It is possible to trip over small store caches. Survival in exploration of the wastes does require preparation, even if some of the supplies were clearly lost, or forgotten. When uncovered, messages of the clans more restless emerge. Advice. Direction.
Names.
Haze, two days north. No water.
Sphinx. West. Beasts.
Lye. Home. Newcomers.
The Ghost is south. Trouble?
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The Beasts rally against all invaders. The almost-clan swarms at perceived resistance. There is blood, but like all life here, it sank quickly into the sands. Whatever the length and toll of the conflict, it ended so quickly even carved records are hard to find.
Survival does not breed stupidity.
There is indifference, if not cooperation. There is trade, if not war. The beasts do not mingle, but they travel. Their camps are easier to find. They come back, even this far out, unlike the dragons.
Their language, foreign and written so small, so delicately for their eyes, can be deciphered. Much of it is pointless. These Beasts do not mean to invade, they mean to
survive. And is that not the only rule here?
One name stands out, written differently, not one of their own. It belongs to the great Imperial, painted between the almost-clan and the Beasts, in a faded record of conflict.
Dulsosaal. Ambassador to the Beasts. His carefully depicted scars speak of many negotiations.
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Nests are messy, and a well kept rookery leaves a mark. Especially when the inhabitants aren't eaten.
Temporary notes, scratched into stone, only to be cut away and for a new message to take their place. It's difficult to read anything through all the layers. From the writing and the birds. Soft down and bright feathers survive only in small crevices. There is an alarming amount of blue.
Skulls are lovingly cared for on shelves, almost as the birds would be. Faithful messengers, rewarded for their service by being remembered.
Large and old enough to require a centralized mail system, the memory of the almost-clan is still just that, an almost.
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The blood seeps up through the cracks. Markings on the edge of a rock canvas, notes to be expounded upon later. These records are incomplete, as well as heavily damaged. History can be wiped away, when it goes un-discussed. Knowledge is still a prize, and memories can carry a great deal. These records are hard to find, and it would be best to ask, if undertaking such an encounter were wise.
The places the great Brood kept still see some tracks, the heavy steps of a Guardian shadow the lighter tread of a Mirror. Visitors. Survivors. Those that were once a part of something else, but sacrificed it to something greater.
The wounds are fresh in those places, even if the blood isn't.
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Old sites were the dragons themselves nested are rare. Whether they saw use, hard to determine. Eggs, hatchlings, barely make it into the works depicting the almost-clan. Strangers and wanderers swelled their ranks, not new generations.
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"We were leaderless. And who's fault was that?" - Arbiter Prunterton
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