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[columns][center][item=tattered parchment][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#977B6D][font=garamond][size=7][size=4][b]the scavenger's road[/b][/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist
[color=#9494A9]1,096 words[/color][/size][/columns]
[color=#564D48]It might have been because she'd been born in the Southern Icefield, where food was usually scarce, but from the very beginning Yulalie wanted more. She always paused to listen to travelers from other lands, and she questioned them closely about the wonders waiting for them back home. When she was barely old enough, she left the clan, finding passage with other travelers and eventually finding herself halfway across the world.
The Sunbeam Ruins, it seemed to her, was the richest, most prosperous land, and so she decided to make her home here. She fell in with a small but hardworking clan. Yulalie had picked up a few skills here and there, but it was difficult for her to settle down in any one industry: a jill of all trades, a mistress of none. She mostly worked alongside the[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=15438539] clan engineer[/url][color=#564D48]; they both hailed from Ice and so had some common ground. She was able to help the old dragon tinker with his machines and devices, but her heart was never really in it; she was always dreaming of grander and greater things...even if she couldn't rightly say what they were.
The clan was soon joined by another Skydancer. His name was Xavier, and he and Yulalie clicked right away. They whiled away the hours exchanging plans, ideas about what they wanted to do in the future. It wasn't belong before those plans intertwined and they each found themselves including the other in their imaginings. Things proceeded in a not-uncommon fashion, and soon they were a mated pair.
"But we live out here in the sticks," Xavier chuckled. "We should find some great city, raise our children there." Yulalie heartily agreed -- but by then it was too late; the eggs, when they came, were too fragile to be moved. It was their first clutch, and neither mother nor father wanted to risk the children. They remained in the clan.
More eggs hatched, and more...Yulalie and Xavier talked about moving away less often now. They concentrated on raising their children instead. But discussions or none, the hatchlings had inherited their parents' dreams of grandeur, their longing for something [i]more[/i]. They grew up, raised by the clan as much as by their own parents, listening to tales of dragons past who had been sent to serve the Lightweaver. It was the ultimate glory! It was called "exaltation" for a very, very good reason....
Yulalie and Xavier found themselves agreeing. Any dragon could build an empire or a city, but only the very greatest were given to the gods. When their children asked to be trained to serve the Lightweaver, they concurred. All but one child passed the tests; then they all went away together to the Beacon of the Radiant Eye.
There were no more children after those two clutches. Yulalie still thought about moving elsewhere, but Xavier had lost interest in the idea. He had watched his children train and had thought to himself, "I can do that." It wasn't long before he, too, asked to be trained for exaltation.
And still Yulalie didn't mind. "You'll come visit me, won't you?" she asked. She was being facetious -- exalted dragons did not come back. But Xavier promised that he would write while he was allowed to, and wouldn't it be grand? Why, she would be married to the servant of a deity, and their children would be warriors of Light as well! It wasn't the glory she'd looked for, but it was glory nonetheless....
And so Xavier went away. Yulalie had thought about joining him, but had decided it was not for her. She was too delicate and -- she was honest enough to admit -- too high-strung. No, life was better here in the lair. The clan had grown prosperous, and the work here was easy. She could go back to tinkering alongside the old engineer, swap stories with him.
For a long time, she did exactly that. She had nary a care in the world. Xavier's letters stopped after a while, but that was normal; once exaltees became more enmeshed in the day-to-day duties of serving their deity, they could not be troubled to write back home. Yulalie comforted herself by recalling that dragons in the service of a god were protected by that god. It was only right.
And then one day, [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25834414]a letter arrived[/url][color=#564D48] from the [/color][url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2084754]Cathedral of Eyes[/url][color=#564D48].
Many years before Yulalie had arrived, another of the clan's families had exalted their children. They had been so proud, too! They had also told themselves that their sons would be protected....
But one of them was dead. He'd gone to war in his goddess' name and had washed up on a lonely shore. And there he had died, far from home, surrounded only by strangers and spirits.
The other dragons quietly accepted this, and outwardly, Yulalie did, too. But deep inside, the turmoil and anxiety gnawed away at her. Was this her beloved Xavier's fate? And what of their beautiful children? Were they doomed to die in battle, never knowing the warmth of a lair and a family again?
She ached for news of them, but there was no way to reach them; the deities did not cater to such trifling demands. All dragons [i]knew[/i] there was the possibility they'd die in battle They [i]knew[/i] such a thing was likely to happen. Yulalie had understood that and had accepted it, and it had been fine...
So long as it didn't happen to those [i]she[/i] cared about.
Her decison began to haunt her. She'd sent her children and mate away so willingly....She'd even laughed and smiled! Glory! All for glory! "Are you all right?" her clanmates asked her, but she could only hang her head in shame. Her hunger for glory had very possibly killed her family.
She continued to live and work with the clan. Her family would have wanted that....Yet she found herself drifting away from the engineer's labs; instead, she roamed far and wide, picking up what knickknacks and trifles she found, scavenging for the lair. She did this day by day, half-fearing, half-hoping, that she would come across something dropped by one of her children or her mate, some sign of them....
She did not know what she'd do if she found such a sign. She would probably go mad...or else she, too, would turn her face towards the Beacon of the Radiant Eye. She supposed it didn't really matter now. Glory or obscurity -- in the end, all went to the grave.[/color]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#977B6D][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
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the scavenger's road
written by Disillusionist
1,096 words
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It might have been because she'd been born in the Southern Icefield, where food was usually scarce, but from the very beginning Yulalie wanted more. She always paused to listen to travelers from other lands, and she questioned them closely about the wonders waiting for them back home. When she was barely old enough, she left the clan, finding passage with other travelers and eventually finding herself halfway across the world.
The Sunbeam Ruins, it seemed to her, was the richest, most prosperous land, and so she decided to make her home here. She fell in with a small but hardworking clan. Yulalie had picked up a few skills here and there, but it was difficult for her to settle down in any one industry: a jill of all trades, a mistress of none. She mostly worked alongside the clan engineer; they both hailed from Ice and so had some common ground. She was able to help the old dragon tinker with his machines and devices, but her heart was never really in it; she was always dreaming of grander and greater things...even if she couldn't rightly say what they were.
The clan was soon joined by another Skydancer. His name was Xavier, and he and Yulalie clicked right away. They whiled away the hours exchanging plans, ideas about what they wanted to do in the future. It wasn't belong before those plans intertwined and they each found themselves including the other in their imaginings. Things proceeded in a not-uncommon fashion, and soon they were a mated pair.
"But we live out here in the sticks," Xavier chuckled. "We should find some great city, raise our children there." Yulalie heartily agreed -- but by then it was too late; the eggs, when they came, were too fragile to be moved. It was their first clutch, and neither mother nor father wanted to risk the children. They remained in the clan.
More eggs hatched, and more...Yulalie and Xavier talked about moving away less often now. They concentrated on raising their children instead. But discussions or none, the hatchlings had inherited their parents' dreams of grandeur, their longing for something more. They grew up, raised by the clan as much as by their own parents, listening to tales of dragons past who had been sent to serve the Lightweaver. It was the ultimate glory! It was called "exaltation" for a very, very good reason....
Yulalie and Xavier found themselves agreeing. Any dragon could build an empire or a city, but only the very greatest were given to the gods. When their children asked to be trained to serve the Lightweaver, they concurred. All but one child passed the tests; then they all went away together to the Beacon of the Radiant Eye.
There were no more children after those two clutches. Yulalie still thought about moving elsewhere, but Xavier had lost interest in the idea. He had watched his children train and had thought to himself, "I can do that." It wasn't long before he, too, asked to be trained for exaltation.
And still Yulalie didn't mind. "You'll come visit me, won't you?" she asked. She was being facetious -- exalted dragons did not come back. But Xavier promised that he would write while he was allowed to, and wouldn't it be grand? Why, she would be married to the servant of a deity, and their children would be warriors of Light as well! It wasn't the glory she'd looked for, but it was glory nonetheless....
And so Xavier went away. Yulalie had thought about joining him, but had decided it was not for her. She was too delicate and -- she was honest enough to admit -- too high-strung. No, life was better here in the lair. The clan had grown prosperous, and the work here was easy. She could go back to tinkering alongside the old engineer, swap stories with him.
For a long time, she did exactly that. She had nary a care in the world. Xavier's letters stopped after a while, but that was normal; once exaltees became more enmeshed in the day-to-day duties of serving their deity, they could not be troubled to write back home. Yulalie comforted herself by recalling that dragons in the service of a god were protected by that god. It was only right.
And then one day, a letter arrived from the Cathedral of Eyes.
Many years before Yulalie had arrived, another of the clan's families had exalted their children. They had been so proud, too! They had also told themselves that their sons would be protected....
But one of them was dead. He'd gone to war in his goddess' name and had washed up on a lonely shore. And there he had died, far from home, surrounded only by strangers and spirits.
The other dragons quietly accepted this, and outwardly, Yulalie did, too. But deep inside, the turmoil and anxiety gnawed away at her. Was this her beloved Xavier's fate? And what of their beautiful children? Were they doomed to die in battle, never knowing the warmth of a lair and a family again?
She ached for news of them, but there was no way to reach them; the deities did not cater to such trifling demands. All dragons knew there was the possibility they'd die in battle They knew such a thing was likely to happen. Yulalie had understood that and had accepted it, and it had been fine...
So long as it didn't happen to those she cared about.
Her decison began to haunt her. She'd sent her children and mate away so willingly....She'd even laughed and smiled! Glory! All for glory! "Are you all right?" her clanmates asked her, but she could only hang her head in shame. Her hunger for glory had very possibly killed her family.
She continued to live and work with the clan. Her family would have wanted that....Yet she found herself drifting away from the engineer's labs; instead, she roamed far and wide, picking up what knickknacks and trifles she found, scavenging for the lair. She did this day by day, half-fearing, half-hoping, that she would come across something dropped by one of her children or her mate, some sign of them....
She did not know what she'd do if she found such a sign. She would probably go mad...or else she, too, would turn her face towards the Beacon of the Radiant Eye. She supposed it didn't really matter now. Glory or obscurity -- in the end, all went to the grave.
~ The End
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[columns][center][item=weathered grimoire][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#1D2224][font=garamond][size=7][size=4][b]those who remember[/b][/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist
special thanks to awaicu
[color=#9494A9]1,208 words[/color][/size][/center][/columns]
[color=#4D0F29][b]Long after[/b] her first two brothers were exalted, Touvar continued her task as the clan's Remembrancer. She spoke to new trainees. She recorded their original Flights, so that praises could also be sung to those deities who had allowed their children to serve the Lightweaver. But mostly she remembered their names, their lives.
Most dragons came from other clans. They had signed themselves up for exaltation and their leaders, lacking the time and resources to train them, had sent them to the Disillusionists. Then there were those among the Disillusionists who decided to put their careers and families aside and aid in the fight against the Shade. Many had been born in the lair: hatchlings who'd grown up hearing tales of battles and glory, who'd had it in their minds, practically since Day One, to be warriors representing their clan.
These individuals were always a bit jarring to Touvar -- she kept remembering her own siblings, Razon and Spyrus. (Her next set of siblings, Spearmint and Bazooka, had happily gone on to serve the Lightweaver as well.) She had come to terms with the necessity of exaltation, had stopped questioning it long ago -- but the uneasy feeling had never really gone away.
Then one day, a letter arrived.
"The Cathedral of Eyes," [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25555187]Frostlyn[/url][color=#4D0F29] whispered. She turned the letter over. It gleamed brightly against the white of her palm. As the Disillusionists looked on, she clarified, "They asked me about my wings once. They were very intrigued...."
[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25521458]Nachtstreiter[/url][color=#4D0F29] chimed in, "They are an ancient, revered clan. When our clan was still small and weak, they approached us....They were curious. They wanted to know where I had come from and how the clan had gained a foothold here."
He looked around as he spoke, and his eyes fastened on the Remembrancer. "Touvar," he said gently, "the messenger came to you."
"Yes," Touvar agreed. She had been in her den, updating the list of Exaltees: the Shade had been troublesome not too long ago, and the Disillusionists had trained several fighters and sent them to fight against it. The windows of the den had been closed, but that hadn't stopped the smoke from oozing through. The vaporous tendrils had twisted together, forming the shape of a spectral crow. It had folded its wings and raised its head to reveal the gleaming golden invitation held in its beak.
It had not moved as Touvar had taken the invitation and read it. The crow was still where she'd left it, sitting patiently on her desk. The Disillusionists peeked curiously at it, but none of them wanted to poke it and see if it was really made of smoke. It seemed disrespectful to do that somehow.
"Frostlyn and I have heard rumors of the Cathedral. We've picked up hints here and there on our travels," [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26339056]Rofthoffer [/url][color=#4D0F29]said quietly. "The clan often remains shut in the Cathedral -- for centuries at a time, it's said. But occasionally the doors creak open...and a flock of crows flies out. They are sent to other places, other clans, bearing those invitations."
He took a deep breath and admitted, "It's said that the invitations are sent to relatives of those who have passed on."
"Invitations to what?" Touvar asked. Her voice sounded loud and far-away, even to her own ears. The room seemed to tremble and blur.
She spoke more loudly, as if that would stabilize the room: "Invitations to [i]what[/i]?"
"Some sort of performance," Rofthoffer mumbled. Touvar didn't know what she'd expected to hear, but she hadn't expected [i]that[/i]. She pushed through the crowd and lumbered away. The Disillusionists exchanged uneasy looks, and Nachtstreiter patted Rofthoffer clumsily on the shoulder. They went away, leaving the crow on the desk.
Touvar drifted around the lair for a while. She needed someone to talk to -- her parents were away on gathering and auctioneering duties, and she didn't feel like approaching any of her friends. Eventually, as troubled Disillusionists always did, she found her way down into the darkness of the lair. She saw a pale, moon-like glow ahead, and she slowed down, unsure of what to do.
[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=29847564]Shalimar[/url][color=#4D0F29] knew she was there. Touvar heard the genius locus' sweet, breathy voice telling her it was safe to come in. She entered the cell. The enormous statue stood on her plinth by the door, but Touvar was looking warily at [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=30114429]Rhadamanthes[/url][color=#4D0F29]. He had retreated to the far side of the cell. He was curled up in his nest of cloth strips and bandages, and after seeing the expression on her face, he hid his head under one wing.
"What's the trouble?" Shalimar asked. Her wing creaked and crackled as the stone rearranged itself; she put it around Touvar and drew the Ridgeback close.
Touvar sighed. And then she started to talk. It had been a long time since her siblings had been sent away, and the nature of exaltation was such that the clan had not received word from them in a long time. There had been letters at first -- sporadic ones, but letters nonetheless -- and then as they had progressed in their duties, the correspondence had stopped. They had gone away to war; it was impossible to keep writing letters, given the nature of their work. Then, too, there was the strong possibility that...eventually...dragons died in the line of duty.
Shalimar did not speak. She only listened. Rhadamanthes, the shining dragon, did not move from where he lay with his head beneath his wing.
It was a couple of hours later when Touvar returned to the upper levels of the lair. She asked to speak with the Lord and Lady, and she held out the invitation. "I will go to the Cathedral of Eyes," she declared.
The progenitors hesitated. [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=24999387]Adrastos[/url][color=#4D0F29] and [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25197371]Hemera[/url][color=#4D0F29] had not yet returned from their missions; how would they react upon hearing news of one of their children's possible death, and also that their remaining child had gone to investigate? The Cathedral of Eyes was a mysterious, otherworldly place, and they did not know if Touvar would be safe there.
But her name, and her name alone, was on the invitation. All the rumors said that the invitation would grant safe passage to the dragon whose name had been inscribed on it. And Touvar had been with the clan for a long time and had never been anything but a conscientious, reliable worker. They would trust her.
Touvar packed some provisions, for she did not know how long she would be at the Cathedral. She returned to her room. The crow looked expectantly at her.
"I will go to the Cathedral of Eyes," she repeated. [/color][url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2084754]"Take me there."[/url]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/czw0boq58grl6q4/3-truth.png[/img][/center]
[color=#4D0F29]Shrouded by mist and crowned by a great tree, the Cathedral stood by a shingled beach -- not far enough away from the mournful sigh and groan of the waves. Touvar was grateful for the crow's direction; she knew that without it, she would have been lost.
And then the crow turned back into vapor and flitted through the slit between the doors. Touvar landed before them, not knowing if she should knock. She clutched her invitation before her like a shield.
The doors opened with a creak so low, it sounded like a howl -- just enough to admit a beautiful black [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=13929292]Imperial[/url][color=#4D0F29] dressed in dapper clothing. Blood-red roses festooned his wings, and he held another one in his mouth. He smiled around it, his teeth glittering, and somehow he managed to speak to her--
"What is your name?"
"My name is Touvar," Touvar said. Her Ruby Webwing poked its head out of her bag.
The doorkeeper intoned: "Touvar the Remembrancer. Touvar of the Disillusionists. Touvar, firstborn and daughter of Adrastos and Hemera. Sister to those who serve the Lightweaver. Sister to Razon."
The last name sent a foreboding shiver through her. The Imperial did not see the look on her face, for he was already bowing, and turning away to open the door. "We have been expecting you," he said, and his smile didn't seem as crooked as it'd been before. "Come and see."
Touvar found herself surrounded by a gathering of dragons....Only, were they really dragons? The steely reek of blood clung to some of them, though their scales were clean, their garb pristine. Others smelled of the sea: not of salt spray, but of the leaden coldness of deep, dark waters where even the sun's light does not reach. There were dragons in clothes so beautiful, her head spun from the sheer brilliance of it. There were others who were dressed simply, in the rough garb of forest-dwellers, twigs still clinging to their hair.
This panoply of dragons...Where had it come from? There had been no one outside earlier....Touvar released Razorus from the bag.
So many fashions, so many styles....Antiquated clothing or not? Some of it looked new. [i]"Perhaps from other times,"[/i] Touvar thought, shivering again. Perhaps the Cathedral existed outside time. She remembered the mist-shrouded exterior, the tree whose branches she could not see, the groaning, crashing waves. A place such as this...It seemed absurd to think it existed on the same plane she did. Maybe that was why...She clutched her invitation close.
Other dragons bore invitations, carried conspicuously like badges. Promises of safe passage. They did not speak with each other. There were curt, tight-lipped nods, a few uneasy smiles. Touvar found her seat and sat down. Her Webwing perched on her shoulder.
After long, uncomfortable moments, the performance began.
As nearly as Touvar could tell, it was a life story. Dragons swirled around each other, playing, working. One of them was costumed like her own dear brother: bright blue scales splattered with orange, mottled brown wings. He tussled with a purple Ridgeback who represented their brother, Spyrus. When the two of them approached a black Ridgeback and a red bird fluttered from their outstretched paws, Touvar felt her heart clench deep inside her. Her Webwing shifted uneasily upon her shoulder.
She had to look away. When she did, she saw other members of the audience leaning forward, their faces rapt with attention. Some eyes shone with unshed tears. Now she realized they were all of different ages: some were younger then she was, others were ancient. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers? -- "Everybody who receives an invitation is related to someone who died," Rofthoffer had said.
She tried to pick out a main character and realized there was none. All the dragons were of equal importance in this play.
She and the rest of the audience found out why soon enough. The dragons onstage left their homes...and they went to serve the Lightweaver.
The goddess appeared onstage, beautifully costumed, singing words of comfort and praise. She was glad to receive such stalwart fighters. They would be treated well, rewarded for their noble service. The dragons trained together, were slowly molded into lethal warriors. Then their battles began.
Slicing through black smoke, trying to pierce the dark. Shadows engulfed the stage, dispelled by rays of light. There were glimpses of dragons falling, being carried away. Some of the audience cried out: gasps of horror, anguished screams. The worst were those who crumpled down in their seats, silent and inert, tears flowing, unchecked, from their eyes.
[i]"It's a life story,"[/i] Touvar realized. [i]"But all lives must end in death."[/i]
She steeled her heart, though her body was trembling.
The play went on. When the warriors were not battling against the Shade, they were sent out on special missions. They fought against eldritch beasts; they put down clans who harbored fragments of the Shade. Razon was one of those sent away.
A battle fought in darkness, amidst a thundering storm. Dragons dressed in deep black clothing, their eyes blank and pale, limbs grotesquely twisted by alien magic. Servants of the Shade.
They attacked the Lightweaver's servants, throwing the brave warriors down into the crashing sea. Touvar watched as her brother fell. Other fighters, similarly injured, tried to aid him, but the waves were too rough, the winds relentless. They were dragged apart from each other, carried to distant lands.
The audience watched as the warriors died. One of them drifted down into the darkness. He opened his eyes to a pale glimmer and was engulfed in crystal. A perfect, glittering ice sculpture, his fluttering heart halted with his last, feeble gasp.
Another was rocked to and fro upon the surface. A small, slender Nocturne. Easy prey. A pair of gleaming red jaws opened beneath her, and then she was no more. The stage briefly shone in scarlet. Touvar closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she saw her brother washed up on a shore. Crashing waves, a shingled beach...The Cathedral's tree towered just beyond the mists.
[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=15981623]An Imperial[/url][color=#4D0F29] approached him: not the black butler with his ruby roses, but a pale creature, white as bone, with red blotches upon his scales. He bent over the Ridgeback lying broken and bleeding on the shore. "What is your name? he questioned repeatedly. "Light drake, what is your name?"
He worked to save the Ridgeback's life. As he did, the stage blurred around him. Minutes stretching into hours, which turned into days. The Ridgeback was now lying on a comfortable bed, well cared-for, his wounds bandaged. But it was too late; he was beyond even the Cathedral's reach. He slipped away, and the dragons of the Cathedral folded white, feathered wings over his peaceful face. The surgeon shuddered and groaned in grief.
Touvar left the hall. She moved away from it till the music was faint and she was sure she was alone. Like the surgeon who had tried so hard, she folded her wings around her, and she wept for a while.
She wasn't sure how much time passed. Eventually she heard the click of claws, and she looked up. The black Imperial was before her again. "I am sorry," he said to her. "Did you not like the play?"
It was a very unexpected question. She was not sure how to react. She took a while to answer, and so when she finally spoke, her answer was surer, more refined than it normally would have been: "You tried to save him. You all did."
"Yes," the Imperial admitted. He cocked an eye at the invitation poking out of her bag. "Occasionally travelers stray near and require our aid. We are not unkind", and he smiled faintly, "within reason."
By the time Touvar got back to her seat, the play was nearly over. The dragons who had been slain in the service of the Lightweaver assembled onstage once more. This time, Touvar did not have to pick Razon out of the crowd; she knew he was there. She watched as the Lightweaver gathered her faithful warriors. Again she sang her songs of comfort and praise, but she was joined by the chorus of warriors this time. They had served her well. She was proud of them, and always would be. Nobody would be forgotten.
The Lightweaver drew her wings around her brave Acolights, and their story came to an end. There was brief, startled silence. And then the theater broke into thunderous applause. Touvar was among those who stood up, clapping loudly, tears shining in her eyes even as she smiled.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/czw0boq58grl6q4/3-truth.png[/img][/center]
[color=#4D0F29]Touvar did not speak with the other guests. No one approached her, either. She drifted away before most of them left; she had a feeling she could find the door without Sebastian's help....
And there it was. But as she drew nearer, she slowly started to realize something. It was not an "Oh!" sort of moment....Rather, as she approached, a shape near the door began to resolve itself. Arched wings. Glimmering runes. A spectral [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=12150090]Guardian[/url][color=#4D0F29] dragon.
Touvar slowed down. This dragon was somewhat smaller than she was, but her wings were vast and seemed easily capable of shading acres...maybe worlds. She looked into the dragon's eyes for their elemental allegiance, but there was none. The old Guardian's face was partly obscured by a blindfold.
Nonetheless, the Remembrancer was polite. "I greet you, matron," she said, bowing slightly. She pushed her Webwing back into her bag.
The Guardian matron nodded back to her. "You were here for a performance," she noted. The smile on her craggy face was faint and warm.
"Yes, ma'am. I was."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"No," Touvar admitted. Her answer was spontaneous this time. She immediately regretted it, even though it was true; it seemed very impolite. But the Guardian did not take umbrage. She seemed to be waiting.
Touvar took a deep breath. "It was not a performance to be enjoyed," she stated softly and clearly. "It was almost like...a hymn. A paean. It was a [i]tribute[/i]. Yes..." She remembered the warriors gathering one last time, the Lightweaver folding her wings around them. She concluded, "It was a performance to be [i]revered[/i]," and this time, she was smiling.
The Guardian's chuckle was soft and deep. "That is one way of looking at it," she agreed. Her wings moved again, faint shapes gleaming against them, like eyes opening and closing....In her glowing paws, she held a book. Touvar reached out to it instinctively.
And the Guardian pushed it into her grasp. "I think this belongs to you," she rumbled, her voice right next to Touvar's ear. Touvar blinked and looked at the book; she'd never seen it before....But there was something deeply familiar about the indigo leather binding it, the bright orange jewels worked into the cover, the brown ink washing across the pages. She opened the front page. The first words were: [i]There were three of them to begin with...[/i]
Touvar's heart gave a mighty thud, and she looked up again. But the spectral Guardian had gone; instead, there was only Sebastian, bowing to her even as he opened the door.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/czw0boq58grl6q4/3-truth.png[/img][/center]
[color=#4D0F29]Before Touvar returned home, she showed her invitation to Sebastian. The date on it had changed.
The doorkeeper had not been surprised. "Once you have an invitation," he told her, "you are always welcome back."
Touvar flew home. Somehow, she knew the way. The memory of her first visit to the Cathedral was firmly etched into her mind and heart now. Strangely, it wasn't all that unpleasant. They had not known her brother's name, but they had done their best for him, and they had remembered him. They remembered everyone.
The Remembrancer returned home to find her parents waiting for her. They embraced her tightly and then listened to her story. There were long moments of grief when they received the news that they had lost one of their sons -- but there was comfort in knowing that he would never be forgotten by the deity and the dragons he'd served.
Touvar occasionally visits the Cathedral of Eyes. The place calls to her in a way that she, a Remembrancer, can understand. She listens to other dragons' tales and watches the plays. Occasionally, she tells a story of her own, too.
Among the Disillusionists, she continues her usual tasks: She speaks to new trainees. She writes down their Flights, their names. She does not write down their stories as obsessively as she did in the past, however. She knows they will be remembered. Souls gathered into the wings of the Lightweaver...life stories crowning the Cathedral and its Tree. Books gathered in the Library, waiting to be read. Waiting to be turned into plays. Waiting for the moment when they, too, can shine.
[/color]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#1D2224][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
[color=#9494A9][size=2][b]Credits:[/b] Thanks to [b]awaicu[/b] for allowing their characters and clan to be used in this story.[/size][/color]
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those who remember
written by Disillusionist
special thanks to awaicu
1,208 words
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Long after her first two brothers were exalted, Touvar continued her task as the clan's Remembrancer. She spoke to new trainees. She recorded their original Flights, so that praises could also be sung to those deities who had allowed their children to serve the Lightweaver. But mostly she remembered their names, their lives.
Most dragons came from other clans. They had signed themselves up for exaltation and their leaders, lacking the time and resources to train them, had sent them to the Disillusionists. Then there were those among the Disillusionists who decided to put their careers and families aside and aid in the fight against the Shade. Many had been born in the lair: hatchlings who'd grown up hearing tales of battles and glory, who'd had it in their minds, practically since Day One, to be warriors representing their clan.
These individuals were always a bit jarring to Touvar -- she kept remembering her own siblings, Razon and Spyrus. (Her next set of siblings, Spearmint and Bazooka, had happily gone on to serve the Lightweaver as well.) She had come to terms with the necessity of exaltation, had stopped questioning it long ago -- but the uneasy feeling had never really gone away.
Then one day, a letter arrived.
"The Cathedral of Eyes," Frostlyn whispered. She turned the letter over. It gleamed brightly against the white of her palm. As the Disillusionists looked on, she clarified, "They asked me about my wings once. They were very intrigued...."
Nachtstreiter chimed in, "They are an ancient, revered clan. When our clan was still small and weak, they approached us....They were curious. They wanted to know where I had come from and how the clan had gained a foothold here."
He looked around as he spoke, and his eyes fastened on the Remembrancer. "Touvar," he said gently, "the messenger came to you."
"Yes," Touvar agreed. She had been in her den, updating the list of Exaltees: the Shade had been troublesome not too long ago, and the Disillusionists had trained several fighters and sent them to fight against it. The windows of the den had been closed, but that hadn't stopped the smoke from oozing through. The vaporous tendrils had twisted together, forming the shape of a spectral crow. It had folded its wings and raised its head to reveal the gleaming golden invitation held in its beak.
It had not moved as Touvar had taken the invitation and read it. The crow was still where she'd left it, sitting patiently on her desk. The Disillusionists peeked curiously at it, but none of them wanted to poke it and see if it was really made of smoke. It seemed disrespectful to do that somehow.
"Frostlyn and I have heard rumors of the Cathedral. We've picked up hints here and there on our travels," Rofthoffer said quietly. "The clan often remains shut in the Cathedral -- for centuries at a time, it's said. But occasionally the doors creak open...and a flock of crows flies out. They are sent to other places, other clans, bearing those invitations."
He took a deep breath and admitted, "It's said that the invitations are sent to relatives of those who have passed on."
"Invitations to what?" Touvar asked. Her voice sounded loud and far-away, even to her own ears. The room seemed to tremble and blur.
She spoke more loudly, as if that would stabilize the room: "Invitations to what?"
"Some sort of performance," Rofthoffer mumbled. Touvar didn't know what she'd expected to hear, but she hadn't expected that. She pushed through the crowd and lumbered away. The Disillusionists exchanged uneasy looks, and Nachtstreiter patted Rofthoffer clumsily on the shoulder. They went away, leaving the crow on the desk.
Touvar drifted around the lair for a while. She needed someone to talk to -- her parents were away on gathering and auctioneering duties, and she didn't feel like approaching any of her friends. Eventually, as troubled Disillusionists always did, she found her way down into the darkness of the lair. She saw a pale, moon-like glow ahead, and she slowed down, unsure of what to do.
Shalimar knew she was there. Touvar heard the genius locus' sweet, breathy voice telling her it was safe to come in. She entered the cell. The enormous statue stood on her plinth by the door, but Touvar was looking warily at Rhadamanthes. He had retreated to the far side of the cell. He was curled up in his nest of cloth strips and bandages, and after seeing the expression on her face, he hid his head under one wing.
"What's the trouble?" Shalimar asked. Her wing creaked and crackled as the stone rearranged itself; she put it around Touvar and drew the Ridgeback close.
Touvar sighed. And then she started to talk. It had been a long time since her siblings had been sent away, and the nature of exaltation was such that the clan had not received word from them in a long time. There had been letters at first -- sporadic ones, but letters nonetheless -- and then as they had progressed in their duties, the correspondence had stopped. They had gone away to war; it was impossible to keep writing letters, given the nature of their work. Then, too, there was the strong possibility that...eventually...dragons died in the line of duty.
Shalimar did not speak. She only listened. Rhadamanthes, the shining dragon, did not move from where he lay with his head beneath his wing.
It was a couple of hours later when Touvar returned to the upper levels of the lair. She asked to speak with the Lord and Lady, and she held out the invitation. "I will go to the Cathedral of Eyes," she declared.
The progenitors hesitated. Adrastos and Hemera had not yet returned from their missions; how would they react upon hearing news of one of their children's possible death, and also that their remaining child had gone to investigate? The Cathedral of Eyes was a mysterious, otherworldly place, and they did not know if Touvar would be safe there.
But her name, and her name alone, was on the invitation. All the rumors said that the invitation would grant safe passage to the dragon whose name had been inscribed on it. And Touvar had been with the clan for a long time and had never been anything but a conscientious, reliable worker. They would trust her.
Touvar packed some provisions, for she did not know how long she would be at the Cathedral. She returned to her room. The crow looked expectantly at her.
"I will go to the Cathedral of Eyes," she repeated. "Take me there."
Shrouded by mist and crowned by a great tree, the Cathedral stood by a shingled beach -- not far enough away from the mournful sigh and groan of the waves. Touvar was grateful for the crow's direction; she knew that without it, she would have been lost.
And then the crow turned back into vapor and flitted through the slit between the doors. Touvar landed before them, not knowing if she should knock. She clutched her invitation before her like a shield.
The doors opened with a creak so low, it sounded like a howl -- just enough to admit a beautiful black Imperial dressed in dapper clothing. Blood-red roses festooned his wings, and he held another one in his mouth. He smiled around it, his teeth glittering, and somehow he managed to speak to her--
"What is your name?"
"My name is Touvar," Touvar said. Her Ruby Webwing poked its head out of her bag.
The doorkeeper intoned: "Touvar the Remembrancer. Touvar of the Disillusionists. Touvar, firstborn and daughter of Adrastos and Hemera. Sister to those who serve the Lightweaver. Sister to Razon."
The last name sent a foreboding shiver through her. The Imperial did not see the look on her face, for he was already bowing, and turning away to open the door. "We have been expecting you," he said, and his smile didn't seem as crooked as it'd been before. "Come and see."
Touvar found herself surrounded by a gathering of dragons....Only, were they really dragons? The steely reek of blood clung to some of them, though their scales were clean, their garb pristine. Others smelled of the sea: not of salt spray, but of the leaden coldness of deep, dark waters where even the sun's light does not reach. There were dragons in clothes so beautiful, her head spun from the sheer brilliance of it. There were others who were dressed simply, in the rough garb of forest-dwellers, twigs still clinging to their hair.
This panoply of dragons...Where had it come from? There had been no one outside earlier....Touvar released Razorus from the bag.
So many fashions, so many styles....Antiquated clothing or not? Some of it looked new. "Perhaps from other times," Touvar thought, shivering again. Perhaps the Cathedral existed outside time. She remembered the mist-shrouded exterior, the tree whose branches she could not see, the groaning, crashing waves. A place such as this...It seemed absurd to think it existed on the same plane she did. Maybe that was why...She clutched her invitation close.
Other dragons bore invitations, carried conspicuously like badges. Promises of safe passage. They did not speak with each other. There were curt, tight-lipped nods, a few uneasy smiles. Touvar found her seat and sat down. Her Webwing perched on her shoulder.
After long, uncomfortable moments, the performance began.
As nearly as Touvar could tell, it was a life story. Dragons swirled around each other, playing, working. One of them was costumed like her own dear brother: bright blue scales splattered with orange, mottled brown wings. He tussled with a purple Ridgeback who represented their brother, Spyrus. When the two of them approached a black Ridgeback and a red bird fluttered from their outstretched paws, Touvar felt her heart clench deep inside her. Her Webwing shifted uneasily upon her shoulder.
She had to look away. When she did, she saw other members of the audience leaning forward, their faces rapt with attention. Some eyes shone with unshed tears. Now she realized they were all of different ages: some were younger then she was, others were ancient. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers? -- "Everybody who receives an invitation is related to someone who died," Rofthoffer had said.
She tried to pick out a main character and realized there was none. All the dragons were of equal importance in this play.
She and the rest of the audience found out why soon enough. The dragons onstage left their homes...and they went to serve the Lightweaver.
The goddess appeared onstage, beautifully costumed, singing words of comfort and praise. She was glad to receive such stalwart fighters. They would be treated well, rewarded for their noble service. The dragons trained together, were slowly molded into lethal warriors. Then their battles began.
Slicing through black smoke, trying to pierce the dark. Shadows engulfed the stage, dispelled by rays of light. There were glimpses of dragons falling, being carried away. Some of the audience cried out: gasps of horror, anguished screams. The worst were those who crumpled down in their seats, silent and inert, tears flowing, unchecked, from their eyes.
"It's a life story," Touvar realized. "But all lives must end in death."
She steeled her heart, though her body was trembling.
The play went on. When the warriors were not battling against the Shade, they were sent out on special missions. They fought against eldritch beasts; they put down clans who harbored fragments of the Shade. Razon was one of those sent away.
A battle fought in darkness, amidst a thundering storm. Dragons dressed in deep black clothing, their eyes blank and pale, limbs grotesquely twisted by alien magic. Servants of the Shade.
They attacked the Lightweaver's servants, throwing the brave warriors down into the crashing sea. Touvar watched as her brother fell. Other fighters, similarly injured, tried to aid him, but the waves were too rough, the winds relentless. They were dragged apart from each other, carried to distant lands.
The audience watched as the warriors died. One of them drifted down into the darkness. He opened his eyes to a pale glimmer and was engulfed in crystal. A perfect, glittering ice sculpture, his fluttering heart halted with his last, feeble gasp.
Another was rocked to and fro upon the surface. A small, slender Nocturne. Easy prey. A pair of gleaming red jaws opened beneath her, and then she was no more. The stage briefly shone in scarlet. Touvar closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she saw her brother washed up on a shore. Crashing waves, a shingled beach...The Cathedral's tree towered just beyond the mists.
An Imperial approached him: not the black butler with his ruby roses, but a pale creature, white as bone, with red blotches upon his scales. He bent over the Ridgeback lying broken and bleeding on the shore. "What is your name? he questioned repeatedly. "Light drake, what is your name?"
He worked to save the Ridgeback's life. As he did, the stage blurred around him. Minutes stretching into hours, which turned into days. The Ridgeback was now lying on a comfortable bed, well cared-for, his wounds bandaged. But it was too late; he was beyond even the Cathedral's reach. He slipped away, and the dragons of the Cathedral folded white, feathered wings over his peaceful face. The surgeon shuddered and groaned in grief.
Touvar left the hall. She moved away from it till the music was faint and she was sure she was alone. Like the surgeon who had tried so hard, she folded her wings around her, and she wept for a while.
She wasn't sure how much time passed. Eventually she heard the click of claws, and she looked up. The black Imperial was before her again. "I am sorry," he said to her. "Did you not like the play?"
It was a very unexpected question. She was not sure how to react. She took a while to answer, and so when she finally spoke, her answer was surer, more refined than it normally would have been: "You tried to save him. You all did."
"Yes," the Imperial admitted. He cocked an eye at the invitation poking out of her bag. "Occasionally travelers stray near and require our aid. We are not unkind", and he smiled faintly, "within reason."
By the time Touvar got back to her seat, the play was nearly over. The dragons who had been slain in the service of the Lightweaver assembled onstage once more. This time, Touvar did not have to pick Razon out of the crowd; she knew he was there. She watched as the Lightweaver gathered her faithful warriors. Again she sang her songs of comfort and praise, but she was joined by the chorus of warriors this time. They had served her well. She was proud of them, and always would be. Nobody would be forgotten.
The Lightweaver drew her wings around her brave Acolights, and their story came to an end. There was brief, startled silence. And then the theater broke into thunderous applause. Touvar was among those who stood up, clapping loudly, tears shining in her eyes even as she smiled.
Touvar did not speak with the other guests. No one approached her, either. She drifted away before most of them left; she had a feeling she could find the door without Sebastian's help....
And there it was. But as she drew nearer, she slowly started to realize something. It was not an "Oh!" sort of moment....Rather, as she approached, a shape near the door began to resolve itself. Arched wings. Glimmering runes. A spectral Guardian dragon.
Touvar slowed down. This dragon was somewhat smaller than she was, but her wings were vast and seemed easily capable of shading acres...maybe worlds. She looked into the dragon's eyes for their elemental allegiance, but there was none. The old Guardian's face was partly obscured by a blindfold.
Nonetheless, the Remembrancer was polite. "I greet you, matron," she said, bowing slightly. She pushed her Webwing back into her bag.
The Guardian matron nodded back to her. "You were here for a performance," she noted. The smile on her craggy face was faint and warm.
"Yes, ma'am. I was."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"No," Touvar admitted. Her answer was spontaneous this time. She immediately regretted it, even though it was true; it seemed very impolite. But the Guardian did not take umbrage. She seemed to be waiting.
Touvar took a deep breath. "It was not a performance to be enjoyed," she stated softly and clearly. "It was almost like...a hymn. A paean. It was a tribute. Yes..." She remembered the warriors gathering one last time, the Lightweaver folding her wings around them. She concluded, "It was a performance to be revered," and this time, she was smiling.
The Guardian's chuckle was soft and deep. "That is one way of looking at it," she agreed. Her wings moved again, faint shapes gleaming against them, like eyes opening and closing....In her glowing paws, she held a book. Touvar reached out to it instinctively.
And the Guardian pushed it into her grasp. "I think this belongs to you," she rumbled, her voice right next to Touvar's ear. Touvar blinked and looked at the book; she'd never seen it before....But there was something deeply familiar about the indigo leather binding it, the bright orange jewels worked into the cover, the brown ink washing across the pages. She opened the front page. The first words were: There were three of them to begin with...
Touvar's heart gave a mighty thud, and she looked up again. But the spectral Guardian had gone; instead, there was only Sebastian, bowing to her even as he opened the door.
Before Touvar returned home, she showed her invitation to Sebastian. The date on it had changed.
The doorkeeper had not been surprised. "Once you have an invitation," he told her, "you are always welcome back."
Touvar flew home. Somehow, she knew the way. The memory of her first visit to the Cathedral was firmly etched into her mind and heart now. Strangely, it wasn't all that unpleasant. They had not known her brother's name, but they had done their best for him, and they had remembered him. They remembered everyone.
The Remembrancer returned home to find her parents waiting for her. They embraced her tightly and then listened to her story. There were long moments of grief when they received the news that they had lost one of their sons -- but there was comfort in knowing that he would never be forgotten by the deity and the dragons he'd served.
Touvar occasionally visits the Cathedral of Eyes. The place calls to her in a way that she, a Remembrancer, can understand. She listens to other dragons' tales and watches the plays. Occasionally, she tells a story of her own, too.
Among the Disillusionists, she continues her usual tasks: She speaks to new trainees. She writes down their Flights, their names. She does not write down their stories as obsessively as she did in the past, however. She knows they will be remembered. Souls gathered into the wings of the Lightweaver...life stories crowning the Cathedral and its Tree. Books gathered in the Library, waiting to be read. Waiting to be turned into plays. Waiting for the moment when they, too, can shine.
~ The End
Credits: Thanks to awaicu for allowing their characters and clan to be used in this story.
@awaicu @Alliud @Wystaria @Ximena @Solanceae
Hi everyone! I've fiiiiiinally managed to put up a lore thread of my own. x3 You're being pinged because at some time in the past our clans became allies.
I plan to make an organized post detailing the allied clans. I'd like to know if you guys would like to remain allies, or if you want to become lore enemies or be removed from alliances/enemyships completely.
If you'd like to remain allies, then I'll review how our clans partnered up. This is the info I've got on hand as recorded in [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=28626040]the clan history[/url]. Please let me know if you'd like to modify any of this information or if I've somehow misrecorded things.[list]
[*] [b]awaicu:[/b] rescued one of my dragons' offspring and tried to nurse him back to health; invited Touvar to be a regular guest at the Cathedral's performances (ref. [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25834414]Touvar's second lore[/url])
[*] [b]Alliud:[/b] approached by Reoni the Master Teller, who was interested in my clan's stories
[*] [b]Wystaria:[/b] fellow Light clans helping each other out, maybe something to do with Clan Elysia becoming regular customers?
[*] [b]Ximena:[/b] my clan was attacked by a mysterious Pearlcatcher; subsequent investigations led my dragon to the Hidden Haven (ref. [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=27347683]Amaroth[/url])
[*] [b]Solanceae:[/b] two of our dragons befriended each other during one of Ice's events (ref. [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/forga/2357265]Fortune's Game[/url])[/list]
Thanks for reading! Please feel free to poke around the Tower of Drabel, ask questions, etc. ^^
(NOTE: Clans who don't respond will still be added as allies.
Also, if I forgot anybody or if you wander in, happen to see this post, and want to become lore allies, you can let me know~)
@
awaicu @
Alliud @
Wystaria @
Ximena @
Solanceae
Hi everyone! I've fiiiiiinally managed to put up a lore thread of my own. x3 You're being pinged because at some time in the past our clans became allies.
I plan to make an organized post detailing the allied clans. I'd like to know if you guys would like to remain allies, or if you want to become lore enemies or be removed from alliances/enemyships completely.
If you'd like to remain allies, then I'll review how our clans partnered up. This is the info I've got on hand as recorded in
the clan history. Please let me know if you'd like to modify any of this information or if I've somehow misrecorded things.
- awaicu: rescued one of my dragons' offspring and tried to nurse him back to health; invited Touvar to be a regular guest at the Cathedral's performances (ref. Touvar's second lore)
- Alliud: approached by Reoni the Master Teller, who was interested in my clan's stories
- Wystaria: fellow Light clans helping each other out, maybe something to do with Clan Elysia becoming regular customers?
- Ximena: my clan was attacked by a mysterious Pearlcatcher; subsequent investigations led my dragon to the Hidden Haven (ref. Amaroth)
- Solanceae: two of our dragons befriended each other during one of Ice's events (ref. Fortune's Game)
Thanks for reading! Please feel free to poke around the Tower of Drabel, ask questions, etc. ^^
(NOTE: Clans who don't respond will still be added as allies.
Also, if I forgot anybody or if you wander in, happen to see this post, and want to become lore allies, you can let me know~)
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[columns][center][item=display frills][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#287CEF][font=garamond][size=7][size=4]{ a story for sturmwelle }[/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist
[color=#9494A9]431 words[/color][/size][/columns]
[color=#324BA9]When Sturmwelle was still a child, another hatchling commented that her name, "storm wave", sounded like a magical girl attack. Sturmwelle did a bit of digging into the trope, and from that day onward she was hooked. She would, she decided, become a magical [s]girl[/s] dragon.
This would have been attainable if she were, in fact, magical. But the fact of the matter was that Sturmwelle was not as magically talented as other Water hatchlings; she struggled to keep up, actually. Still, there was no reason to pity her. She had inherited her warrior parents' tenacity, and she pushed herself to her limits, striving to become a warrior worthy of the gods. She soon became the academy's star student, respected and even a little feared. She was by then nearly grown, and she no longer talked about her magical-girl aspirations.
That wasn't to say they'd gone away. It seemed they would always be there. For the reason she trained so hard was because she kept believing that, at a crucial moment, she would unlock her inner potential and her hitherto-undiscovered magic would shine forth. She also made sure she was always kind, or at the very least civil, to everyone she met. Magical girls were forces of good. They might be a bit cranky or flighty at times, but their hearts were always pure.
Once she was grown, she left the Sea of a Thousand Currents. She headed to the Sunbeam Ruins to continue her training. She soon graduated from her classes and was placed with a fairly new clan, who were as eager to sharpen their combat skills as she had been all those years go.
Sturmwelle is now approaching what, for most dragons, is middle age. Her magical prowess, assuming she has any, has yet to blossom. Yet she remains a fierce and agile fighter, now feared as much as she is respected.
She does not talk about her dreams as often now, but rest assured, they're still there. Although they may or may not be starting to change....
She continues working with her clanmates, training them to fight. Recently, one of them commented that she seems like the wise sage whom all the main characters need. The one who gives all the story exposition, the one who provides tantalizing hints, the one who tells you that it's dangerous to go alone, so you should take this -- or better yet, let me come with you. (Just like in the Coliseum!) It's an interesting archetype. Perhaps she'll dig into that one, too, when she has some free time....[/color]
[center][font=Cambria][size=5][color=#8A0349][i]Oberflächenwellen des Meeres, hervorgerufen durch heftigen Wind[/i][/color][/size][/font][/center]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#287CEF][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
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{ a story for sturmwelle }
written by Disillusionist
431 words
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When Sturmwelle was still a child, another hatchling commented that her name, "storm wave", sounded like a magical girl attack. Sturmwelle did a bit of digging into the trope, and from that day onward she was hooked. She would, she decided, become a magical girl dragon.
This would have been attainable if she were, in fact, magical. But the fact of the matter was that Sturmwelle was not as magically talented as other Water hatchlings; she struggled to keep up, actually. Still, there was no reason to pity her. She had inherited her warrior parents' tenacity, and she pushed herself to her limits, striving to become a warrior worthy of the gods. She soon became the academy's star student, respected and even a little feared. She was by then nearly grown, and she no longer talked about her magical-girl aspirations.
That wasn't to say they'd gone away. It seemed they would always be there. For the reason she trained so hard was because she kept believing that, at a crucial moment, she would unlock her inner potential and her hitherto-undiscovered magic would shine forth. She also made sure she was always kind, or at the very least civil, to everyone she met. Magical girls were forces of good. They might be a bit cranky or flighty at times, but their hearts were always pure.
Once she was grown, she left the Sea of a Thousand Currents. She headed to the Sunbeam Ruins to continue her training. She soon graduated from her classes and was placed with a fairly new clan, who were as eager to sharpen their combat skills as she had been all those years go.
Sturmwelle is now approaching what, for most dragons, is middle age. Her magical prowess, assuming she has any, has yet to blossom. Yet she remains a fierce and agile fighter, now feared as much as she is respected.
She does not talk about her dreams as often now, but rest assured, they're still there. Although they may or may not be starting to change....
She continues working with her clanmates, training them to fight. Recently, one of them commented that she seems like the wise sage whom all the main characters need. The one who gives all the story exposition, the one who provides tantalizing hints, the one who tells you that it's dangerous to go alone, so you should take this -- or better yet, let me come with you. (Just like in the Coliseum!) It's an interesting archetype. Perhaps she'll dig into that one, too, when she has some free time....
Oberflächenwellen des Meeres, hervorgerufen durch heftigen Wind
~ The End
