Creative Corner

[size=4]Unlike the rest of the Lair Proper, this cavelet is quiet.[/size] The stillness is broken only by the soft echoes of the rain outside and the scratching of a quill against parchment. [center][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26711022][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/267111/26711022_350.png[/img][/url][/center] The coatl continues writing, oblivious to your presence. It is not until you clear your throat that she reacts. "Goodness me!" she exclaims, though she is too well trained to allow surprise to make her flinch and possibly ruin her document. Quickly, she sets aside the quill (one of her own secondaries, by the look of it) and emerges from behind the desk. "I beg your pardon. It is not often I have visitors!" Her sunny eyes show no trace of resentment from being drawn away from her work. She bobs a respectful bow. "Aspen, historian and document keeper. How may I assist you?" You seek information, you tell her. Could she point you to- "Not like that, I'm afraid," she interrupts, a small frown on her face as she watches the water dribble down to puddle at your feet. "I'm sorry, but the damage a careless stumble could cause- No, no, you may not wander the Archives." She sees the pout forming, and unexpectedly, smiles. "I did not say you would not get your information. Let me tell you the tale." You find yourself seated at the desk, a hot cup of something tasty in front of you and Aspen re-entering from the connected Archives, unrolling a scroll. "Now, I may not be as good a bard as Chorus, but I've never had any complaints on how I spin a yarn. Listen, child. Picture it in your mind. It happened not too long ago..." --- Welcome to the Lore Stories thread for Treewalker's Clan. Here is where I plan to keep short stories spurred by clan lore and site events. Sure, I COULD keep them on a googledoc with the organization, but what's the point of having lore if nobody can stumble across it? ;3 All stories here are written by me, Isidarth, and formed of my own ideas unless otherwise credited. Comments are welcome! They will probably not make for any changes in the stories (save for glaring errors and/or unintended offensive content), but I enjoy hearing your thoughts on my work.

[b]Index[/b] - [url=https://docs.google.com/document/d/1iZ7ABI-A1MTOKAyiVyOHxBceZ0kFYvgZZZYV9NhqT8I/edit]Clan Organization[/url] (googleDoc) (1) The Founding (2) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23012537]The Siege[/url] (3) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23013102]Cave Explorers [Share Week][/url] (4) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23082350]Elethor[/url] (5) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23082360]Shir[/url] (6) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23082790]Thoughts and Headcanons[/url] (7) [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1998888#post_23288167]The Interloper[/url] Rough maps (New Lair) [url=http://i.imgur.com/r3D42eo.png][img]http://i.imgur.com/r3D42eo.png[/img][/url] Overhead View [columns]1) Landing Court 2) Elethor's Pond 3) Farm Fields/Greenhouse 4) Flower Beds[nextcol] | | | [nextcol] 5) Orchards 6) Staircase/Lower Lair Entrance 7) Sparring Rings 8) Entrance Gate[/columns] --- [url=http://i.imgur.com/QVAcBG8.png][img]http://i.imgur.com/QVAcBG8.png[/img][/url] Profile View [columns]1) Greenhouse 2) Farm Fields 3) Pond/Flower Beds 4) Farming Storage[nextcol] | | | [nextcol]5) Stables/Beastclan Lairs 6) To Lower Lair 7) Barracks 8) Forge[nextcol] | | | [nextcol]9) Workshop 10) Archives[/columns]

The Founding

Copying in progress...

The Siege

When first word of the Beastclan uprisings reached the Clan, Treewalker dismissed it.

“We’ve always had peace with the Beastfolk,” he assured the others. “We keep the land balanced, ensure that it thrives. All who live here benefit from that. What quarrel could they have?” But the news kept coming, again and again. Larders raided, hunting grounds blocked or destroyed, even whispered rumors of eggs stolen and broken, from all over Sornieth. And so Treewalker reached out to the beastfolk of the forest.

The Beastclans were not uniformly organized like the Clan, but tribe by tribe he sought them out. He listened to their people, their needs and concerns, and explained his Charge. “Our peoples need not fight,” he offered. And for a time, the Beastclans agreed. There was trade and cooperation between the beastfolk and the dragons of Treewalker’s Clan, to the benefit of both.

When rebellion came, it started with the Maren. The waterfolk had lost the most to dragonkind, slaughtered both for sport and through simple ignorance, and forced to the furthest corners of the lakes and seas. Each child grew hearing the history of oppression and loss, and tasting bitterness as they watched dragons play in the ruins of what had been great cities. The rising generation did not remember the suffering of war, or how formidable the assembled might of the dragons was. They were not content with peace. They sought revenge, to punish dragonkind as they deserved. Perhaps this Clan spoke of friendship, but others had come bearing false words before. They still acted as if the right to the lands was theirs alone, and sat by when their more violent kin committed atrocities. The murmurs grew, and suddenly, violently, the leadership of several tribes changed overnight.

The Clan heard of the struggles, but thought nothing of it. The Maren governed themselves. It was not the Clan’s place to interfere. And while the Clan did nothing, the Maren sent messages, curried favors, and even supplied revolutions. Their influence grew, and they watched. And they waited.

Until Treewalker left on a journey to seek new blood for the Clan, as was his custom. And as usual, Haline accompanied her charge as guard and companion.

And the Beastfolk struck.

The Clan was completely unprepared for any attack, let alone one of this scale. Raptorik and Harpies drove the Imperials high into the air, where their sheer size worked against them. Wildclaws and snappers found themselves surrounded by warriors of all races, with no room to maneuver. The rivers and lakes were full of Maren spears, and Longneck and Corven mages held every high point.

Desperately, the Clan rallied to their best hope, the Lair proper, and organized a ragged defense. Many dragons never made it to safety. Daybreak raised a rock wall with his magic, protecting the survivors by sealing himself outside. When this wall was breached, Dahaki armored herself with rock and blocked the hole with her own body; she uttered not a sound when the blades finally broke through her scales. Eventide caught and slew a Serthis assassin who had managed to get inside, saving their water source, but took a fatal dose of poison from his blades.

The attack became a siege, stretching out for days. The Clan took shifts to sleep, stand guard, and care for the wounded. At the end of each day, the Beastclan were still kept outside the walls, but the death toll had risen a little higher.

“Captain.”

Ulomoy looked up from the lists of the meager supplies, nodding to indicate he was listening. “Yes?”

Rogers dipped his snout in a salute. “The beastfolk are rallying at the breach. Bucky says they’ve almost dislodged Dahaki’s body.”

The Captain of the Guard glanced down to the Aviar crouching in the First’s shadow, his face impassive. “You trust him?”

Rogers nodded stiffly.

Ulomoy grunted. “That’s enough for me. Assemble everyone in fighting condition. Not Isabelle, if she’s even awake. No matter what she says.”

The Clan gathered in the largest lair, forming ranks across the entrance. At the rear of the cavern behind them lay the wounded, and the healers working desperately to keep them alive. Hol’Megara scurried from patient to patient with a jug of water. She paused to whisper words of encouragement to Dirk, but the golden coatl barely seemed to hear her; his streaming eyes were fixed on the limp form of his mate, watching every labored breath. Xanthe stood before them all, wings half spread as she summoned all the energy she could muster. No foe would lay paw on her charges while she still drew air.

There were no war cries when the Beastclans burst into the cave. If they were surprised at not catching the dragons off guard, they didn’t falter. The Clan met them with grim determination. It was eerily quiet for a battle; the only sounds were grunts, cries of pain, and the dull ring of blade against scale or horn. And the Beastclan warriors kept coming.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous bellow. More beastfolk poured through the entrance, but their attention was behind them - on the huge pair of green claws they were fleeing.

Treewalker may not have been the largest dragon of the Clan, but he was among the largest, and his sturdy frame and armored fins made him far better suited to battle than any of the others. The Patriarch waded through the invaders, his eyes blazing green as he cut down those who dared to harm his family. Behind him, Haline showered acid on the unfortunates caught outside.

It was over quickly. The Clan rallied behind their leader, and the Beastfolk were cut off from reinforcements. The lucky ones managed to squeeze out and flee as the dragons cried their bitter victory.

Treewalker’s heart was filled with sorrow as he looked over the tattered remains of his Clan. So many dead; few of those remaining were in any shape to defend themselves, and the only one untouched by injury or fatigue was the nocturne child he had brought back with him. Crepescular clung to his leg even now, watching with wide, fearful eyes as they tallied the losses.

Haline was furious. “They dared to attack us?” she spat, oblivious to the acid trickling from her mouth to leave tiny pockmarks in the stone. “Us, who have always dealt fairly with them, and never offered any harm? This can not go unanswered!”

Many dragons growled in agreement. “Kill them all!” Shadowlands hissed darkly. “They have shown they can not be trusted.” Her red eyes shifted to the small cluster of beastfolk in the corner, the ambassadors and visitors of an almost forgotten era of peace. They trembled under her gaze as she added, “Starting with the ones too foolish to flee. After all, their kin outside knew exactly when we were most vulnerable…”

“No!” bellowed Rogers. The wildclaw moved to stand between Shadowlands and her victims, wings flared. “These have been friends and allies. They’ve lived with us for seasons. They even helped care for the wounded during the siege! You can’t lump them all together.” Some of the others moved to join him; Akatosh. Spindly Lorkhan, who knew them all better than any of the others. Even timid Hol’Megara, who had coaxed herb lore from the dunhoof and longnecks.

“Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed already?” Dirk wailed.

The dark pearlcatcher snarled. “No.”

“Not nearly enough,” added another dragon behind her.

“SILENCE!” Treewalker bellowed, his voice ringing from the walls. “We will not turn on each other like savage animals!” The two sides relaxed their battle stances; some in shame, others reluctantly. Treewalker stalked forward, putting himself in the center of the cavern. “Hate is exactly what caused this. There were terrible things done to the Beastclans in the early ages. Whether or not the tales grew with the telling, I cannot say. I was not there. But understand this-” he paused, looking each dragon in the eye. “We will not be the monsters of their tales. That is a path that leads to war after war, until both of our peoples are wiped out.”

Shadowlands spat. “You are a fool, Treewalker. If we don’t strike now, they will see us as easy prey. We will be forced out of our homes, for deeds we did not even commit!”

“Then a fool, I shall be,” the guardian declared. “But I will not be a murderer, nor a warmonger.”

There was more arguing, but Treewalker refused to budge. The Clan grew even smaller that day; some dragons left in disgust, others seeking safer places to call home. A forest may seem dead and barren after a wildfire, but soon enough it sends forth new leaves and shoots. The Clan survived, and would grow again, given time.

They could not leave entirely; the Clan was founded on Treewalker’s Charge of the land. But a new Lair would be needed; a place unknown to their enemies while they recovered and resupplied. What could be scavenged from the ransacked and damaged caves was gathered, and the Clan set off, deeper into the Gladeveins.

Cave Explorers
- inspired by the Dragon Share week here

"Hmm." Treewalker did not respond at first, his eyes traveling slowly over those assembled. Crepesculan huddled at his feet, still shaken by the encounter with the strange Guardian, and the Patriarch spared a moment in his contemplation to gently pat him on the back.

"This cannot be left alone," Treewalker finally concluded. "I cannot fulfill my Charge to protect and defend this land if I do not know every corner of it. This cave is strange to me, as is its Guardian and the dangers she claims lie within. We must investigate." He held up a claw to forestall the clamor of questions. "A team of five, as she suggested."

"We're going to blindly comply with this stranger?" Haline demanded, her wings mantling. "Let her order us around in our own-"

Treewalker interrupted. "She offers only sensible advice. Do not let your pride blind you, love. An army would never all fit into a cave, not without alerting any and every thing inside. Find me a scout."

Haline snorted, but yielded. "Most of our scouts are aerial. Long-range combatants. We'll want one of the Skirmishers." She counted on her claws for a moment, mentally going through the rosters. "Garrus. He's small, sharp, and nobody will spot him unless he wants them to. And he can hold his own in a fight, if it comes to it."

The Patriarch looked over his children, finding the gray nocturne and nodding. "Good. Ulomoy, chose me two fighters who work well together."

The dark wildclaw considered quietly. "Oak Squad. Rogers, choose your partner. I assume you'll go yourself."

Rogers nodded with only the hint of a sheepish grin. "Wouldn't ask any of mine to risk it if I wasn't willing to go. Cedar, you're with me on this one."

Treewalker thrummed with pride. His family had come such a long way from their humble beginnings. "That's four. None can defend like I."

Haline grumbled, though she knew there was no point in objecting. Treewalker smiled gently. "I know you'd rather come with us yourself, but I need you here to defend the Clan. Remember the Siege." Haline growled. The Beastclans had used the absence of both the elder Guardians to decimate the Clan once. It would not happen again, not on her watch. She would have to trust her warriors to defend her Charge.

The Patriarch said nothing more, but his gaze sought that of the golden coatl hovering on the edge of the crowd. Dirk swallowed nervously. "Are- are you sure you don't want Verna? She's a m-much better fighter than I am..."

"I have enough warriors, Dirk," Treewalker chided gently. "There is no telling what waits for us in that cave. I need a Healer, and I need the best." The coatl flushed, unable to make eye contact. Finally, he nodded.

"Isabelle is going to be furious," he whispered.

Treewalker laughed. "Oh she will, but she won't hold it against you. And I am well able to withstand her rages. Haline, be sure she doesn't hear until we are gone, and have Mara give her a sleeping draught so she won't follow us. She has spirit, but she is still not recovered."

The four chosen gathered to him, quickly feeling each other out for favored strategies and techniques as the rest of the Clan made haste to assemble equipment or continued about their business. Treewalker hummed.

Nature did not suffer fools, and he looked forward to testing himself against fate to see what it had in store.

Elethor
The origins and life of the Clan's bathtub mermaid

(Bathtub mermaid? Who's been altering the records? I mean it's fitting, seeing as how she can't stray far from the pond, but really. Poor child. But I'm getting ahead of myself...)

Elethor was born to a small Water clan on the northern edge of the Sea of a Thousand Currents. The water was relatively shallow there, carpeted with coral reefs and blooming with life in the forms of seaweed and a myriad of fish.

Like most Water dragons, Elethor hatched able to breathe underwater. She was a curious, boisterous child; her favorite pastime was chasing the schools of fish, and she eagerly looked forward to the day her parents would take her above the surface, to taste the air and see the sky.

Alas, it was not to be.

For generations, the Water children had feuded with their neighbors in Plague over control of the beach. It wasn't a terribly valuable stretch of land, but all manner of useful materials washed up there, and it would serve well as a fishing spot or a drydock. The beach changed hands frequently, and while fights were common, fatalities were few - it simply wasn't worth a fight to the death over.

Something changed. The Plague clan found a new mage, or new magics; Elethor never found out which, if it mattered. They struck at night, cursing the very water, corrupting and twisting it as Plague is fond of doing.

Elethor woke to every breath searing in her lungs. Her eyes burned at the water's touch, and she choked as she tried to call out for her parents, her family. Somebody. Anybody. Those frantic few moments seemed to last a painful eternity before she lost consciousness.

Her limp body drifted on the currents, eventually washing ashore in Shadow territory. She very likely would have died there had there not been a diplomatic party en route between Treewalker's Clan and some allies in Water. Her blistered hide still stood out brightly against the mud, and the ambassadors knew within moments of landing that she needed more skilled care than they could offer, and needed it fast. Wavespun took her tiny form into his arms and raced for home, while the rest of the group continued on.

Even that nearly wasn't enough. Elethor's breath rasped heavily, as if she couldn't get the oxygen she needed, and her pulse was almost undetectable. But fortunately for her, our Head Healer Dirk is also of Water, and like calls to like. He knew without even having to check her eyes. "Get the poor creature in water, now!" he commanded, his usual timorousness forgotten under the need to act quickly.

The pond in front of the new Lair proper was the closest. Elethor's breathing eased almost immediately once she was in the water again; her lungs were much more familiar with how to get what they needed from this medium.

The tainted, corrosive water did terrible damage. Exposed skin was scalded and blistered; scales were weakened and loosened. Where the hide stayed intact, large patches were bleached of all color. The inside of her lungs was damaged; breathing above water is difficult at the best of times. Worst of all, she was robbed of nearly all eyesight, barely left able to tell the difference between day and night, inside and outside.

When she finally woke to the vague blur the world had become, Elethor wept. For pain, for her losses, for the family that was at best scattered and more likely dead. She was not ready to give up, though, and allowed Dirk to do what he could to heal her. The pond was dosed with potions, soothing skin inside and out, and Dirk alternated healing sessions with the last few lessons her parents had never had the chance to teach.

By the time she was healed, Elethor was mature enough to be called an adult. And so Treewalker offered her the choice; if she wanted to stay with his family, she was welcome, and if she wanted to seek the one she'd lost, he would send whatever aid he could with her.

Elethor knew that without eyesight (and having still been a child at the time), she didn't have a hope of finding the landmarks to guide her way home - if that home even still existed. She accepted the invitation to the Clan. Still, she wonders if any others survived; how well they fared, where they ended up.

The pond has been sculpted now, functioning more as Elethor's lair than a water feature. Submerged rooms cut into the rock at the bottom provide privacy, and she spends her days floating near the surface, crafting small tools or chatting with visitors.

One such visitor is Slipstream. The tundra admires her perseverance through such hardship, and has unending curiosity for what it is like to live under the water. Even better, in Elethor's view, is that he often simply forgets that she is blind. Too many of the others are overcautious in dealing with her, and it is nice to not be treated as if she was made of glass.

A gray river flight has also taken up residence in the pond, bonding to Elethor. Dakkan is just as mischievous as the rest of his kind, but his cleverness has taken well to training. He warns Elethor if she is about to hurt herself on something she can't see, and fetches both objects and dragons to her pond on request.

Shir
How a child of Plague found his home in Nature

Shir knows nothing of his family. His egg was stolen by angry Beastclan folk seeking revenge on dragons, and had been traded and sold all the way through the Tangled Woods to the Everbloom Gardens. His final destination was to a clan of harpies, a gift of an exotic slave for the Matriarch, but on the way there, he hatched.

At first, it seemed a minor inconvenience. A squalling hatchling was no match for experienced Whitemane warriors, and they simply bound him and continued on the journey. But as they entered the Shrieking Wilds, the centaurs began to sicken. First colds, then fevers, then deadly viruses that left them gasping for air. Within three days, they had all perished, leaving Shir alone.

He chewed through his bonds before sunset, but he was utterly lost. The beastfolk had been unpleasant, but they had fed him and kept him safe. The Wilds were full of terrifying noises and creatures that kept him scuttling from one hiding place to the next, snatching mouthfuls of moss or beetles flavored with the fear that he was about to share their fate.

Unable to track time or seek help, Shir did what plague dragons do best: he survived. He used the thick undergrowth and forest litter to hide, learning from the creatures around him. How to hunt insects. How to hide his presence. Who to ignore and who to fear.

He saw dragons occasionally, and knew them as a force to respect, but it wasn't until he saw a Skydancer in a patrol that he realized this was his kind. Intrigued, he watched them and followed them home, but everything he saw was new. Strange. The mere animals he had imitated did not craft. Their lairs were far simpler, and they didn't spend nearly so much time together. His time living wild had taught Shir that the unknown was dangerous, and so he stayed hidden and watched.

The more Shir saw, the more he liked. He was curious about the purpose of the strange things they did, and above all, he was lonely. But a fool would never have survived as long as he had, and Shir noticed something else. Any dragon he spent time observing from a close range became ill. Just as the centaurs had. Just like many of the larger animals that had moved into his territory had. Shir finally understood that somehow, the sickness came from him, and if he tried to join this community of others like him, he would destroy it. Heartbroken, the young dragon still lurked around the Clan, but he gave up trying to approach its members.

Until the day that one of the dragons noticed him. How, he didn't know; he'd been lurking in the brush by his favorite pool, and she'd suddenly looked straight at him as if the thicket wasn't even there.

She was pale like him, but smaller, with no feathers on her wings and hair on her tail and neck. A lovely horn curved out from her brow and she clutched a shining round thing as she sat up to look at him.

She hadn't been frightened, like the few times he'd been glimpsed before. Instead, she'd made noises at him, like the others did when they were together. When he didn't understand, she didn't give up; instead she changed to the same sound over and over, with pauses between where she looked at him intently.

He mimicked it. "Cirrus." And she purred approvingly, sending odd, warm tickles down his spine.

The sound was her, he learned later. Though he fled whenever she came too close, she sought him out again, and again. And though she got sick (he saw her, when he watched the Clan), she did not die. Carefully, patiently, she taught him to speak, and when he had enough words, she told him about magic and the shapes and colors it came in. It was his magic, she said, that made the others sick. And maybe it didn't have to do that, if he could learn how.

"Please," he begged.

Since then, he's been introduced to more of the Clan: Hard Xanthe, his teacher, and soft Dirk. Careful Avanin, who is of the same kind as he, and teaches him what it is to be a Skydancer. He hasn't mastered his disease spreading yet, but he is making progress, and can now safely enter the Lair so long as he keeps his mouth covered.

And at last, he has a family, and a home.

Thoughts and Headcanons
A collection of oddities about various breeds and cultures

Copying (always) in progress...

Coatls determine dominance through displays of the feather crests adorning their heads and necks. Brighter crest colors, fuller feathers, and the number of feathers all factor in to how much respect a crest can command. Males usually have a few extra feathers compared to females, giving them an advantage to power struggles.

Through genetic quirks, there are female coatls with these extra crest feathers, and males who lack them. Interestingly, females with extra feathers tend to be more aggressive, while the males without are more submissive.

In societies with many coatls, it is not uncommon to see apparel choices that draw attention to or augment the crest.

One would think that shared usage of the crests to communicate would make Coatls and Fae superb at understanding each other. Sadly, this is not so- just as the shared verbal characteristic of Coatl and Common Draconian does not bestow instant understanding. Coatl posturing makes use of all feathers, not just the crests, and Fae have multple crests, all capable of independent motion.

[b]The Interloper[/b] [i]A dark shadow on the border of a thriving Clan (Developing Story)(Meta Knowledge)[/i] [center][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=28679751][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/286798/28679751_350.png[/img][/url][/center] He remembers nothing before the Wyrmwound. Perhaps that is what birthed him, by the Plaguebringer's will. Pulling himself up from its depths, his scales cracking and his skin blistering, was the most painful moment he has ever experienced - then, or since. The fanatically devoted Clans of the Rim either shunned him for fear of the diseases he could be carrying or took him for one of the Plaguebringer's messengers. Both approaches disgusted him. He roamed the Boneyards, destroying most of what he encountered. It was a harsh land, where every precious resource was wrested from another's dying claws. There, he thrived. He was strong, and grew stronger with every battle. The few times he was bested, he tailed the victor, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and secured his revenge. In time, his roaming brought him to the Tangled Woods. Life was more abundant here, but he still challenged, fought, and consumed all he could. He was growing as he never had before, and his new size brought both power and ravenous hunger. He scoured his way along the edge of Shadow Lands, seeking hunting grounds that would sustain him. The Viridian Labyrinth was a dream come true, when he first sighted it across the water. A place full of creatures to hunt, where brambles wouldn't slow him and his light green coloration would be a boon instead of interfering with his ability to stalk his prey. And for a time, he reveled in newfound luxury. As time passed, he grew bored. Even lonely, though he'd never admit such a weakness. His first thought on finding Treewalker's Clan was to destroy them. Hunt them down in twos and threes, cripple them with diseases and injuries, test the new and twisted ways he had imagined to make another creature suffer. But he craved more than the pleasure of bringing pain. With other dragons under his claw, he could amass a much larger hoard than he could alone. Could carve out a den where he could live in luxury. If he wanted, he would never need lift a claw except to punish those who didn't obey his every whim. Of course, assembling a Clan from scratch would take many years. Why bother, when there was an already functioning one right here? He wouldn't even have to risk his own hide against their combined wrath when he looked enough like their ridiculous soft-hearted leader to be his nestmate. All he had to do was eliminate those both perceptive enough to notice such a change, and bold enough to challenge him over it... -- Similarity, however, would not be enough. To seamlessly take the Patriarch's place, he would have to appear nearly identical. Though he was strong and canny, this magic was beyond his means. And so he sought an ally. Revealing himself would be a foolish risk. If he could not dominate his victim, he would be forced to slay them; the Clan was already concerned over the disappearances of the wildclaw who had stumbled across him and the coatl who blindly sought after her mate. He watched, and waited patiently. Eventually, the opportunity came; a dragon, alone, who would not be missed if they did not return home quickly. Between his love of twisted tricks and hallucinogenic venom, it was almost too easy. A sleeper agent now lurks in the Clan, all unwitting as they pass on information and secure resources for their new Lord-to-be.