Creative Corner

Muddle tumbled out of the shimmer with a loud, desperate sob. It was cold and dark and he hit the snow face first, inhaling a freezing mouthful as he let out a cry of surprise. Then, spluttering and spitting, he managed to free his head from the drift and looked back towards where he had fallen from–

The shimmer had vanished; The Creature and the Dragon had not followed him through.

Though every part of him felt battered and split, Muddle managed a weak sigh of relief and sank back towards the snow. The Ring was warm against his wrist and he focused on it, trying to find his familiar, distorted shape in the curve of the gold.

Whatever it did to me, he thought, fighting to concentrate over the numbing cold and the unspeakable pain, I have to–

The hum of The Ring flickered through him for an instant and compelled him to Do. To Make. To Change himself back to–

Then.

Everything was brightness and the sound of a shrill bell echoing back against itself endlessly. A flare of undulating, pale gold light erupted from The Ring and shot into the sky where it faded and then burst– the fragments of the light fizzling out into the vastness of the darkness. Muddle reared up and toppled onto his back– Blinking as the world swiveled over itself until it finally settled back into focus.

I’m– I must have–! he thought, his ears still echoing with the sound the light had made, and tried to move… Looking towards where his pale, freckled hands should have been but–

”You there!” something massive was carving its way through the snow towards him. It’s wings flared out and Muddle let out a cry of surprise and tried to scramble to his feet as it barreled towards him.

Too slow.

The broad-headed Dragon was arched above him– the spray of snow it had disturbed fluttering down around it. It dipped its great head towards him with a snarl and Muddle made a noise like air leaking slowly out of a tire.

”Who are you? Why are you trying to cast magic within–”

”Lang!”

Another voice, a smaller white bipedal Dragon scrambled beside the wrists of the broad-headed one and looked between it and Muddle expectantly.

”Is that…?” the bipedal Dragon looked down at him, it’s long tapered face scrunching up in disgust, “Told you it was a Lighter– That kind of spell– I told you!”

Lang shook her head with a snort and bared her teeth as Muddle tried to scrunch himself further into the snow.

”Look at it–” the bipedal Dragon sneered and raked the long, hooked claws on its legs through the powder, “Thinks it’s gonna–”

”Does Thrush know?” Lang said sharply.

”I– What?”

Lang swiveled her great head towards the bipedal one and growled, “Did you tell Thrush I had a sighting? That I was–”

”Clipper went after you, without reporting to anyone,” a new, even voice cut off Lang’s, “But I expected as much.”

A beat.

”Show him to me. I, imagine, after all he’d be quite the eccentric to attempt that level of magic within a protected area–”

The sky was swallowed by the ridged inside of Lang’s huge claws and Muddle twisted sideways, trying to escape. But instead the ground fell away as he was hoisted into the cold air by his left leg– the fresh blood from his tattered wings splattering across the snow. Muddle yelped and tried to wriggle free, the wounds in his side shooting a fresh wave of pain through him, and went limp.

”It’s hurt.”

”Indeed.”

Below him Muddle saw a creature that looked like legged cobra with a crest of feathers rather than a proper, scaled hood. It’s body was muscular and graceful and seemed to emit a low, ethereal glow from underneath its glittering white armor as it stretched its neck towards him.

”Who are you,” said the armored creature, his eyes pale as moonlight and twice as sharp, “And what were you trying to cast.”

Lang growled and her body rumbled. Clipper shifted his clawed feet excitedly in the snow.

”I- I–” Muddle swallowed.

The places where The Creature had stuck him with its claws felt stiff and itchy and Muddle wondered if his blood had frozen or simply begun to scab over.

”Oh-! He’s hurt very bad!” Clipper chirruped and craned his long face up at Muddle with a kind of delightedness, “Did your filthy Lighter spell backfire, huh? Did–?”

The armored creature flicked out his wings ever so slightly and Clipper fell silent. Then, Lang’s voice,

”Should we kill it, Thrush?”

The air seemed thicker than before, as if some invisible fog had gathered around him, and Muddle tried to open his mouth– Tried to explain that he wasn’t supposed to be here or–

”Where– where am I?” he croaked, almost without knowing he’d spoken. The new, light parts of him crumpled and folded with the effort.

All three of his captors looked at him. Thrush gestured with his right hand and Lang lowered Muddle until he was level with those bright, pale eyes. Thrush studied him for a moment– his eyes darting to the band of gold around Muddle’s wrist. Though Muddle was shaking and terrified of what would happen if he looked away from Thrush, his own found The Ring as well…

“It– It’s–” he breathed, eyes bulging as he saw the dark veins of distress that were etched into the once smooth golden curve of the The Ring, “H-how–?”

”Quiet,” the armored creature said and then added in a low, expressionless voice despite the sudden interest glinting in his pale eyes, ”Take him back to Lopshide and throw him in whatever cell is small enough to hold him.”

Muddle’s mouth fell open, anger rattling through him and up into the light appendages around his face, ”What were you talking about– Casting–? What d-d-did you d-d-do to m-my Ring– ?! Where are– Ah–!”

Something sharp and huge struck him and the armored creature gave one of his claws a shake, waving Muddle’s blood across the snow with a contemptuous flick of its serpentine tongue.

”I told you to be quiet,” Thrush tilted his head back as if he could see past the night sky. He motioned to Lang, “Now go.”

Muddle let out another sob as his body jerked and swung. Lang moved awkwardly through the snow on three legs and kept mumbling about wanting to “finish it” under her breath. Muddle could feel the blood on his face beginning to freeze as Clipper darted and danced around Lang’s huge, bumbling legs expectantly.

Ahead, Thrush kicked off the ground, his powerful, elegant wings barely making a sound, and sailed above the frozen hills and into the darkness.




By the time Lang had flung him into a cell, Muddle could hardly feel any part of himself and could barely move to flatten himself against the tepid stone floor of the barracks. He lay there for awhile, shivering and trying to make sense of everything that had happened to him, finding only a tangle of pain and fear and confusion.

The shimmer. The Creature. The Dragon. And now these other Dragons.

Muddle could hear Clipper crowing about something on the other side of a thin string of sun bleached bones and herb garlands, then another voice, coarse and low,

”At least let me have a look at him.”

The curtain of garlands parted and a smaller, slender creature with an avian face strode through them. Her eyes were a bright, almost impossible blue and she laughed when she saw Muddle,

“I was expecting a deranged wizard, Clipper, not some scrawny Fae.”

The avian creature hopped towards him, her right, wooden leg scraping the stone occasionally, and stood at the edge of the small cell.

“You’re sure,” she said slowly, giving Clipper a pointed look, “He’s not some foolish wyrie from another settlement?”

“What– Yes, of course!” Clipper snorted and leered down at Muddle who barely had the energy to flinch, “Flower, you should have seen that aftermath of his casting– Lit up the whole horizon line like a second sun or…. Or something.”

Flower clicked her beak and knelt stiffly at the bars of the cell, trying to even the space between herself and Muddle.

“Hello, little one–”

“D-d-don’t,” Muddle said with feeble indignance, the new parts of him puffing out weakly, “Talk d-d-down to me.”

”Shut up, Lighter!”

Clipper kicked the bars and Muddle let out a yelp and scrambled to the far side of the cell, tripping over his wings and tumbling into the wall. Clipper snorted and looked to Flower for approval.

“Out,” she said, and flicked her wings in a familiar fashion, “He looks like he’s already lost enough blood as it is.”

“Who cares. He’s a criminal, probably,” Clipper huffed, “Lighter spy, too. Worst kind.”

Flower lifted a claw, pointing behind her and clearing her throat as Clipper wrinkled up his white face for a final time and skulked away, back through the garlands. When the strands had settled, Muddle struggled to prop himself against the wall of the cell, a new wave of fear and pain gripping him.

“I’m Flower.”

“I’m not st-stupid,” he grunted.

“Alright,” she said, her disbelief buttered over with a compulsive kindness.

There was an odd, dark jewel mounted on her forehead attached to three nearly invisible antenna that kept twitching and glistening in the candle light. Muddle watched them for a moment.

“I know you’re afraid, stranger,” Flower said softly, “And confused and–” the antennae twisted against each other into a perfect braid before unraveling again, “Angry–”

“Obviously,” Muddle managed and then winced, “H-how would you feel if–?”

He let his mouth hang open for a moment, reeling back whatever it had been about to say and then snapped it shut as he shook his head. Flower looked at him with a tenderness– a knowing– that made him sick to his stomach and he felt the new parts of him rattle weakly again.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I just want to tend to your wounds while Thrush is gone- He…” she looked back at the garlands and let out a slow sigh, “I don’t think you deserve to die in a cell, regardless of whatever it was you were doing.”

Outside the barracks, Muddle could hear the sounds of the wind shaking heavy wooden shutters and shivered. He sneezed and clutched his side.

“I d-d-don’t,” A beat. He scrunched up his face and swallowed, “I’m– I m-mean I–”

Flower tried a small, feigned smile, “A bit of magic. Just to seal them– I’m afraid you won’t ever be able to f–” she coughed, “Nevermind, just-”

“M-magic?” Muddle tottered towards the bars, realizing for the first time that they were almost as wide as him, “What kind of m-magic–? Can you–?”

Flower didn’t seem to be listening and had begun to hum something under her breath as light rippled down her antennae and gathered in her jewel.

“Hold still please.”

“What–?”

For a moment, Muddle was floating, submerged in something that felt like water but kept a loose form around his body. Through it he could see Flower’s lumpy form– Mouthing words he couldn’t recognize, as the jewel flashed and swelled. And then. The sound of the river lapping against the sides of the canal… He was full of warmth and couldn’t remember why he’d ever…

Flower set the bedraggled little Fae down on the floor of the cell with a dip of her head and watched his chest rise and fall slowly, evenly.

“Sorry, little one,” she whispered, and headed back through the veil of bones.

---

@smerdyakov

omg!!!! this is so good, i love it? your writing is excellent and very captivating! ;o;
i'm curious about the script, i feel like it has to do with getting rid of the shade somehow? lyric is my fave so far!! and muddle too, although i feel mostly pity for him, he seems so distrustful :< (although perhaps for good reason?)

i'll be following this thread if you don't mind! o/

@gira

ah! this was a wonderful comment to wake up to-- thank you so much, m8 :}}

liking your theories so far: The Script definitely seems like it's much, much more than just a book, doesn't it? >:}}c

and feel free to follow or comment whenever, and thanks again :DD

The foggy eyes stayed with Lyric as she swept a few beads of sweat from her squared muzzle– The words– That sharp, intrusive tune– She longed to consult The Script while awake; to reach for it and know what…

Instead, Lyric reached out into the murky purple darkness of Rootlickt’s shop, watching the Spiral’s body rise and fall into the faint glow of the hearth, as she gathered some of the furs around her and rolled them into a lumpy bundle.

Alright.

The Imperial tilted her head towards the high windows of the room and wondered, for a moment, how large Rootlickt had been before they’d been changed.

Nature Imperials might be larger just because, Lyric felt around for her sack of belongings, worked the twine loose, and then rummaged through the contents as quietly as she could, They don’t travel as much and I’m sure they never have to worry about rocking sky settlements. The trees in the Labyrinth are supposed to be huge anyways… Here.


She produced a bundle of the coarse red-dyed twine and quickly wound it around the bundle of furs, leaving room so that she could slip one of her arms through the excess twine. Then, slinging it over her left shoulder, she rose and padded quickly towards the massive door. The plank laid across the inside seemed heavier now that she was trying to keep it from scraping against the wood and Lyric tottered backwards, almost dropping it onto the stone floor. After a moment of struggling, she managed to set in down on a strip of furs and paused, listening again for Rootlickt to stir.

Nothing.

That’s one thing done. And now… Lyric made for the door and pushed it open, her mane rippling with the first freezing gust of wind. She thought she heard something behind her but wriggled through the opening she had made, closing the door behind her as covertly as she could.

Something in her gut felt quivery and small and she looked back at Rootlickt’s door, her face softening.

I’m sorry, but–

The massive door was still. The streets were empty and dark and Lyric adjusted the furs on her back with a new determination.

Alright.

She lowered herself until her belly was brushing the well packed snow and crept forward, looking between the buildings of Lopshide for…

It’s strange, alright, she thought to herself, and shivered, To think whole settlements and towns just bed down for the winter like this-

A shadow passed along the wall and Lyric froze, waiting until it has vanished into the darkness before she pressed on.

Might as well be an ursa or some frog that sticks itself in mud for half the year…

It struck her that a Dragon turning into an ursa from their own laziness would make for a good ballad and began trying to think of what words would best rhyme with “ursas” besides “purses” and “curse us” and–

Ahead a small lavender light flickered along the edge of Lopshide’s main square and Lyric’s face split into a relieved grin. She slithered towards it, spotting the Tundra she had seen closing up her shop earlier–

“Are you Casari–?” Lyric started and then skidded to a halt as a dark Skydancer emerged beside the Tundra.

“My apologies,” the Skydancer said, her three antennae waving slowly back and forth, “I didn’t know you had already arranged a meeting with someone.”

The Tundra shook her head, giving Lyric an apologetic but helpless look, and straightened her large, weathered hat.

“Don’t worry, Flower,” Casari said, her voice was scratchy and held a naturally irreverent charm, turning back to the Skydancer, “She can wait… Right?”

Lyric’s attention had wandered to another shadow on the wall but she nodded quickly and added,

“I, um, yes–! Yes, I can.”

“My apologies, again,” said Flower and dipped her head towards Lyric. For a moment, both she and Casari watched the Imperial, who had begun to rock back and forth on her heels. Flower cleared her throat but, seeing no change in Lyric, said quietly to Casari, “Perhaps you will accompany me back to the barracks, then?”

Casari nodded, giving Lyric another apologetic look and adding, “I shouldn’t long– Keep warm,” as she trailed after Flower.

Lyric watched their forms fade into the darkness and ran her front talons through the snow again, shivering with the sudden cold. The Script felt like a spring coiled and taught, waiting to be released, and, though Lyric knew it would be entirely impolite to eavesdrop on Casari, she couldn’t resist the hot, tempting questions rolling through her.

Casari had agreed to meet with her, after all, through a correspondence that had occured long before today. Why did she suddenly need to…?

Alright and alright, she crept through the main square, trying to keep to the shadows of the merchants’ stalls as much as her long, large body would allow. Casari and Flower hadn’t gotten far, and Lyric saw them duck into a large square-ish annex built into the side of Lopshide’s wall.

Lyric made a face but moved closer, her eyes scanning the building until she spotted– Yes! Though it was almost out of reach, a small, high-set pair of windows had been built into the thick wooden siding. Lyric darted towards them, standing on the tips of her back claws so that she could press her ear to the shutters.

Flower’s voice was faint over the sounds of the wind.

“…It was a simple spell– Just to subdue him. I didn’t want him to get excited and bleed out or…”

Casari’s voice, amused, “Or?”

Flower’s voice, “If he is some sort of magical…” something heavy and wooden scraped against stone, “Miscreant, I didn’t want…”

“I understand. And I’m not judging you, Flow. Putting someone to sleep… I’d hardly say it’s a very malicious thing to do,” Casari laughed, “Sometimes I wish I could figure out how to cast efficient sleeping spells on myself.”

She snorted. Flower’s voice, though, sounded stern,

“This is serious, Casari. Thrush… the others, they’re saying what he was doing– What he did–”

“I told you,” Casari’s voice had become gruffer, “I understand. I’ll seal off his cell and we’ll all deal with it when the sun comes back around–”

“He’s Light, Cas.”

A beat. The Tundra’s voice dropped into a whisper, one Lyric couldn’t make out above the wind.

Lyric felt another odd sense of restlessness gathering in her belly, and, before she could reason against it, slid one of her claws between the shutters, creating a small crack that shone with warmth and candlelight. Lyric peered into it and saw a wide room– one that almost seemed too large for the dimensions of the annex– that was lined on one end with tables stacked with various herbs, weapons, and references and with cells of varying sizes on the other.

Flower and Casari were gathered by the only occupied cell– the smallest– in which a tiny Fae with shredded wings was stretched out across the ground. His tail twitched in restless sleep and– The sound drained for Lyric’s world and she could feel the sharp, sudden sensation in her side again…

The Script! It–

Flower looked up and Lyric pulled back from the crack in the shutters, her head still swimming with the odd familiarity the tiny Fae seemed to possess. She felt sick and yet– She was aware of a desperate need to talk to him, to—

Something slammed into the wall beside her and Lyric looked over to see a Coatl clad in pale, shining armor hovering beside her with a look of accusatory contempt; His fist had left a mark in the wall.

“And just what,” he said, his voice level but leaning towards an uncomfortable edge, “Do you think you are doing?”

“Oh,” said Lyric and glanced at the shadows moving along the wall, “I needed to speak with–”

“Quiet,” the Coatl snapped and leaned towards her, “You must be the Wind Imp that was supposed to be lodging with the furrier.”

Lyric nodded slowly and then added, “Yes, well, I was– I mean, I am– I didnt think it would be much of a problem– I mean, I didn’t know it wasn’t alright for me to be–”

The Coatl darted behind her, seizing Lyric by her antlers and slamming her head into the shutters, “Enough, spy.”

The world spun with a dull, gathering sort of pain, and Lyric could feel a tiny trickle of blood dripping down from her nose to her beard.

“I’m not,” she said, as firmly as she could, licking the tiny stream of blood off her lip, “A spy. If I was anything I’d– I mean, I’m a Bard. A Singer of the Aimless Canyons, alright? And it’s pretty contradictory for me to be quiet and spy-like since I was raised to make a lot of noise and–”

The Coatl slammed her head into the wood again and then dragged it down towards the snow, forcing Lyric to brace herself on all fours. She could feel cold tears of pain gathering in her eyes, but she blinked them back and stiffened herself, just in case the Coatl tried to hurt her again.

But instead he said in a voice as smooth as the flat of a bamboo leaf,

“Come with me. Now.”

“I will,” she said quickly, managing to keep her voice firm, “ I wasn’t going to fight you anyways… I-”

The Coatl’s eyes flashed and Lyric was struck by a sudden, crawling fear. She took a small, slow breath and bowed her head, moving as the Coatl prodded her forwards with one of his needle-like claws. They had only taken a few steps before Casari and Flower rounded the corner of the barracks, their heads jutting out as if they had been expecting a fight.

“Thrush? I heard something hit the wall and–” said Flower, her guard dropping as she rushed towards the armored Coatl, “What are you–?”

“I caught this Wind Imp by the barrack’s cell window,” he jabbed Lyric with one of his claws again, “Spying.”

Casari shook her shaggy head, “My apologies, Thrush, but I had arranged to meet with her earlier. Flower just needed me to–”

“Meeting with a Transient in secret?” Thrush’s voice rose slightly but Flower stepped between Casari and him,

“She was helping me secure the other prisoner’s cell, since we don’t have any proper Fae sized cells or…” she glanced nervously at Lyric before the flicker of uncertainty passed, “Proper warding glyphs in the barracks.”

Casari let out a small laugh and then shook her head again, “The Imp’s hardly more than a wyrie. I’d be more suspicious of her if she hadn’t gotten impatient waiting in the snow like that.”

Thrush growled and jostled Lyric again, “Age and circumstances are not an excuse. I refuse to let outsiders go around threatening Lopshide like–”

“By peeking through windows?” Casari snorted and looked like she was about to continue but glanced sideways at Flower and fell silent. A beat, then, “She was going to trade me some of Rootlickt’s old furs– You know, the ones they hoard. Pardon me for looking to expand my nest in the cold season.”

Casari rolled her shoulders and turned towards the thin rectangle of light the open door of the barracks cast across the snow.

Lyric looked between her and Thrush and then at Flower, venturing,

“Am I getting put in a cell?” her heart fluttering with a sudden possibility.

“No,” said Flower.

“Yes,” said Thrush who pushed her forwards again and past both Flower and Casari.

“Oh, alright,” said Lyric, trying to hide her excitement under the fear that kept bubbling up from the places where Thrush touched her.

Flower gave her an odd look and the four of them went into the barracks, Thrush leading her through a low door that was strung with garlands of bones and dried herbs. Lyric resisted the urge to look at the Fae again and instead offered,

“Can I have the large one?” and held her breath.

“Quiet,” said Thrush and prodded her towards one of the smaller cells– the one next to the Fae’s.

The Script bounced against Lyric’s side expectantly. She did not smile, though she felt like it.

“Thrush, she’s barely going to be able to move if–” Flower started and trailed off when Thrush did not turn around.

He flexed his claws over the cell’s lock, sticking their needle-like tips into the opening with a sharp, grating rhythm. The cell door clicked open and Lyric bundled herself between the bars– shuffling around, with some difficulty, so that she could better see the Fae. Thrush slammed the cell door closed and said,

“Tomorrow, I’ll verify your story with the furrier– After I question the Fae.”

Lyric hadn’t been quite listening and instead shifted against her uncomfortable position to scratch the back of her long, bent neck.

Thrush gave Casari a muted scathing look and then nodded at Flower, who seemed to want to look anywhere except at him. After a moment, though, she stepped forwards, her head-jewel pulsing with a soft, dark energy.

Lyric could feel the magic around her like the sound of rain plink-plinking down the dried stalks of bamboo.

This must be that sleeping spell, Lyric thought, feeling The Script’s weight swell and close around the soothing lullaby-like magic, It’s very lovely, alright–

She thought of the mist after a rainstorm– the hot, soupy quality of the air on the inside of her throat when she had been laughing and tumbling with Stac. The Script was gathering the magic into itself already and Lyric almost wished she could force it to stop.

It wouldn’t be so bad falling asleep to this.

She remembered then that she was supposed to have already succumbed to the spell and tried to make her eyelids droop as convincingly as possible, lowering her head with the same heaviness and trying to work out what kind of breathing rhythm she could keep while she was pretending to sleep. Her grandmother, a Wildclaw with a powerful mouth that always seemed to be fixed into an endless smile, had been an erratic breather in her sleep– Lyric had often watched her chest rise and fall at sudden or slow increments, followed by the occasional rough cough.

Don’t stay in the Wastelands too long, Lyrie, she had said, looking out across the windy canyons with a lonely glint in her eye, It gets inside you and it never leaves…

“There.”

Lyric was drawn back into the barracks so suddenly that she almost opened her eyes, smoothing over the urge with a small, guttural snore. Casari’s voice continued,

“Both cells are sealed– A pity those furs are still inside, though…”

“Leave us,” Thrush’s voice was lower than before, as if he could not continue to hold his even tone for much longer, and Lyric heard the bones click against each other as the Tundra padded through them. Once her footsteps had faded and the sound of the barrack’s door had echoed into nothingness, only then did Thrush let out a long, jagged sigh.

“Why are you meeting with Casari in the dead of night?”

Flower must have moved to the other end of the room, because her voice was distant and broken by the sounds of someone rummaging through parchments.

“I told you. I was worried about the Fae trying to–”

“You trust her wards over mine?” she could hear a snarl in the Coatl’s throat like he was holding out a note too ambitiously, “Or do you just think she can protect you better than I can?”

“I don’t,” said Flower in a small voice, “Like what you’re implying, Thrush, and I don’t,” the rustle of parchment again, the long scrape of a quill against it, “Want to have this conversation with you.”

“Too bad.”

“Too bad to your too bad,” Flower swept the quill across the paper with an angry flourish, “I have records to review. Herbs to curate. Accounts to–”

“Do you even understand what’s happening– To Lopshide. To the Icefield–!”

Thrush’s voice was barely recognizable and Lyric heard something large and wooden strike the stone floor– papers fluttering– the tiny drip-drip-drip of spilled ink. The Script was buzzing against her flank and Lyric wanted to disappear into the sound before–

“Excellent,” Flower’s voice was shaking, “Now I have to clean this up too.”

“You must be glad,” Thrush’s voice was becoming even again, but he sounded oddly satisfied, “It’s another excuse you can hold over my head.”

Lyric stiffened as he moved past the cell, cracking open an eye just in time to see him tear through the garlands so that half of them fell onto the stone. The barracks door slammed. Flower let out a sigh and sank to the floor, her wooden leg rattling as her shoulders shook.

The Fae stirred in the cell beside her and Lyric tilted her head towards him ever so slightly, watching his frail body shiver and twitch. The furs on her shoulder wouldn’t be too hard to free and toss through the bars… Yet something inside her was content to watch him as he was.

Anything, after all, to distract from the sounds Flower was making across the room or the way The Script kept sending spikes of pain through her side. Anything to keep her from wishing the spell had put her to sleep– That, right at this very moment, she might have been drifting between the floating greenhouses while her mother pretended to chase her–

But The Script… It kept taking her to back to that strange city. To the bridge. To the words that sounded over the rush of the cold river below; suddenly clearer now that she was awake and listening to the words of the Song:

There is a heart of ice beneath the frozen mountain. It beats, it beats. But it cannot beat for much longer.

---

@smerdyakov

wow, what an a*hole thrush is ?!? thrush should be in a cell for unnecessary violence !!! what an evil coatl i absolutely do not like him >:( it's good that lyric has a chance to talk to muddle now though. i wonder what they'll say to each other :0

also wondering about muddle's light element, what importance it has? and what kind of situation lopshide is in right now? everyone seems paranoid, thrush especially...

flower is such a sweetheart!! justice for flower, how dare anyone knock over her ink/scrolls...

i really really love how you describe things!! it's so vivid, like i'm actually there ;v; it's amazing and sucks me in. that was a great chapter!!

@gira

pffft. thrush getting a taste of his own medicine would definitely be very deserved, but at least his brutish behavior is pretty easy to use to infiltrate cells next to mysterious faes.

as for light flight dragons, lopshide, and justice for gentle, wonderful flower (though i agree, she deserves so much better!).... things will be revealed in time >:}}c


also thanks, m8!!! that's really amazing compliment to receive as a writer and i'm so, so glad you're coming along for this dragon-fic ride. :DD

ofc !! i'm excited to see what comes next :0c (but no rush of course i know writing takes time pff)

friendly bump !! :-0

Flower didn’t cry for long, but Lyric could still feel the rotten, nervous energy she and Thrush had left in the room long after the Skydancer stood and stepped through what remained of the garlands. The wind rattled the shutters– the crack Lyric had made in them letting in a tiny, but noticeable chill. The candles in the corners of the barracks had burned down considerably and cast short, smoky shadows through the gathering darkness.

The Imperial twisted her body so that she could settle most of her belly on the ground and reached towards the bundle of furs. The twine had become rigid with the cold and it snapped as Lyric tried maneuver it over her shoulder, draping her arm and neck in the stolen furs.

In the other cell, the Fae shivered again.

Lyric looked down at a small, ragged Rasa pelt that had fallen on her hand.
Then she looked back at the Fae.
The Script felt sharper and more adamant than before and–

“Psst,” Lyric tapped the stone floor with her claw, “Hey, pssst. Are you cold?”

The Fae muttered something, his frills flexing out ever so slightly before they fell limply against his neck.

“Alright,” said Lyric, shifting her hand so that she could lift it off the ground slightly, and, after wadding the fur between her claws, flung it towards the bars that connected her cell with the Fae’s. The pelt sailed towards the empty space but suddenly stiffened, falling to the ground with a clatter– as though it had been carved from wood all along.

Casari’s… Lyric looked at the rigid, solidified folds in the pelt curiously.

“Huh,” she said and managed to stretch out a claw and tap the pelt, “That would really make it hard to escape, alright…”

A small groan from the Fae– Lyric looked up just in time to see him struggle into a lopsided sitting position. His eyes were cloudy with confusion and he swiveled his head towards her cell, blinking slowly.

“Hello there,” said Lyric.

“Who said–?” she could hear the grogginess in his voice beginning to fade as his expression became sharper and more afraid, “Who are y–”

He seemed surprised by his voice and clapped one of his spidery hands over his mouth only to look at the hand itself and leap backwards with a squeak of exaggerated disbelief.

“No– I thought–” he muttered, clutching his sides.

Lyric cocked her head to the left and tried to push it closer to the bars.

“I thought–” he repeated and looked down at his arm where a large, damaged golden bracelet dangled close to the crook of his scrawny elbow. When she cleared her throat, the Fae looked over at her again, holding up his arm as if she were attempting to strike him.

The Script sang through her, sending needles straight to her palms and claw-tips.

“Who are you? I thought– Where did that Bird-Thing go–? Why–?” he winced and held his side again.

Lyric waited for a moment, unsure if he had more questions, and then said, counting off each answer with a tap of her claw,

“Alright. I’m Lyric of the Aimless Canyons. I’m not sure what a “Bird-Thing” is apart from knowing what a bird looks like– in general anyways, since, well, I think there are probably a lot of birds that don’t look quite like other birds and–”

She clicked her claws a few times. The Fae’s mouth was crooked and his left eye twitched. He blinked.

“What are you talking about?” there was a new roughness in his voice that made Lyric feel itchy and strange– Like he thought she was stupid. A beat, the Fae looked away from her with a dismissive grunt and muttered, “I hope everyone in this– Wherever I am isn’t like this.”

“Like what?” Lyric held back the strangeness she felt, trying to keep her voice as soft as possible.

His shoulders jerked and he looked back at her, “Do you mind? I was very, very clearly talking to myself– Not that you haven’t been immensely helpful,” he laughed, sharp and mean, before his frills folded and he clutched his side again.

“I thought that stupid Bird-Thing was going to– It said it had magic and–”

He winced again, sinking closer to the cell floor. Lyric watched him shudder for a moment and then offered,

“I think you shouldn’t move too much. You’re hurt really bad…”

“I think,” his tiny voice was strained, but vicious, “You shouldn’t talk so much. You’re obnoxious and stupid.”

He turned his head slowly, brow bouncing up slightly with malicious emphasis. The expression only lasted for a moment and a sneeze shook his features back into their general frustration towards whatever he’d been muttering about before.

“You’re cold,” said Lyric, “Why aren’t you wearing anything that’d keep you warm? That seems kinda, well… foolish.”

The Fae wiped his snout and looked away, frills stiffening and then folding.

“Just curious,” added Lyric, after the silence stretched between them.

The Fae looked uncomfortable and reached up to still his frills as they undulated weakly, hissing something under his breath. The Script strung the sharp sensation through Lyric again.

“What’s your name?”

She drew herself up as far as the cell would allow, tucking her back legs under her and curling her tail around the perimeter of the space without touching the bars themselves. The Fae looked back as he heard her stir and seemed to comprehend, for the first time, how large she was.

He stood there for a second, gawking with his frills stiff and splayed, before he managed,

“I d-d–” he cleared his throat, “I don’t have to tell you that, and I’m not going to.”

“Alright…?” Lyric dipped her head again and spun the loose gem in her right earring, “I guess, you really don’t have to. It just feels weird not knowing your name… I mean, you know mine and we’re both awake and stuck here, so…”

“I am not–!” he snapped and then shook his head, glancing at the front end of his cell, “Don’t foist some fostered friendship onto me just because you’re trapped and too stupid to try and break out, while I–”

He moved towards the bars and Lyric opened her mouth– And then slowly closed it. The Fae hobbled towards one of the gaps between the bars and examined it before glancing back at his tattered, scabbing wings– making a small gagging sound in the back of his throat before he looked quickly away.

“I’m getting out of here.”

Then he stuck his head through the–

A ripple of energy seemed to flash just beneath his skin and he stumbled backwards with a faint,

“What..?”

But as he moved to step back again, his leg seized up– the rest of his body becoming rigid as he toppled, with a clatter, onto his petrified wings.

“Oh,” Lyric glanced over at the Rasa pelt and then at the Fae, “I forgot to mention that… Sorry,” she added, but wasn’t.

She could see his eyes bulging– darting between however much of the barracks ceiling he could see– and heard his stiff body rattle against the stone ever so slightly.

“At least you won’t bleed to death or anything. That’s good, right?”

His eyes rolled up into his eyelids, as if he was trying to look at her, and his body rattled again. Then he blinked.

“Oh– alright– See? You can obviously blink and breath too. That’s lucky, I mean, there’s all kinds of mages who wouldn’t think twice about…”

Lyric let out a small sigh, her insides twisting between that way The Script kept sending needles through her and the strange feeling the Fae’s tiny, disdainful voice stoked in her and the way he looked pitiable under the influence of Casari’s warding spell…

It does look pretty awful, alright. Being stuck like that…

He was still looking desperately around, his pale golden eyes already bloodshot from the strain.

“Hopefully Casari and Flower will come back soon,” she thought of Thrush and felt her claws clench, “Hopefully sooner than others…”

The Fae made a small, shrill sound as he pushed air through his nose. The Script’s influence had softened and Lyric reached back to scratch the places where the pointed sensation still lingered, humming a long, low note as she did. The sound stayed mostly in her mouth and she swallowed it. Pretended it had been something good that would let her sleep.

Alright and alright, she looked over at the Fae, I really wish I’d gotten his…

The way he shook like– Bells. The interjecting tune swelled in her memory and she squinted, with a sudden knowing, down at his spotted little body.

“Muddle,” she said and blinked in pleased surprise.

Muddle made another noise, his body vibrating furiously.

“Alright,” Lyric said and patted The Script, “It’s good to meet– well, it’s good to finally know your name, anyways.”

There was the sound of the barrack’s door opening and the wind howling through it– Lyric looked from Muddle towards the garlands, feeling suddenly braver about whoever came through them…

---

Silence.

Lyric peered at the garlands for another moment before she looked back at Muddle, whose eyes were twice as swollen with distress than they had been before.

“I thought I heard the door…” she scratched her chin and shifted in the limited space, “I mean, I know I heard the door– It’s not really a quiet sound and–”

Someone laughed and Lyric turned to see Casari materialize out of the low-lighting, squatting next to Muddle’s cell,

“Flower was right– lil’ spawn of a Serthis really did try to–” the Tundra glanced sideways at Lyric and wiggled her claw-tips in a playful wave, “Sorry about all that earlier. Hope Thrush wasn’t too rough with you, though…”

She examined the room– overturned desk and spilled ink and scattered papers– and clicked her tongue,

“It’s the Thrush way.”

“He does seem very…”

“Violent? Incapable? Incapable of anything but violence?” Casari laughed and jammed her claw through the bars, giving Muddle a small flick, “Did he do that to your wings, Lighter?”

Muddle exhaled through his nose again and vibrated.

“His name is Muddle,” Lyric offered, paused, and then added, “Why did you come back?”

Casari drew her hand out of the cage and laughed again,

“Because I’m shallow, probably,” she raised her staff and struck the stone floor twice, sending a small shiver of lavender magic along the ground. When it hit Muddle, his body relaxed and he let out a gasp of air and rolled onto his side,

“Why d-d-didn’t–!?” Muddle stiffened and cleared his throat, growling, “Why didn’t you do that sooner?”

Casari clicked her tongue, “Lang was right: you are shrill.”

Muddle opened his mouth, looking appalled and flushed around his already wine colored frills, and then closed it, wrinkling his nose in embarrassment. Casari didn’t notice, she was watching Lyric.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about those furs and, of course, that agreement– correspondance– whatever I set up with you,” another shrug, “Guess I felt bad. And, on the shallow side, like I still have a cold nest so…”

The Script was warm and Lyric could feel something stirring from it.

“Aren’t you afraid– Thrush or the other guards’ll…?”

A laugh, Casari rolled her shoulders and looked back at the garlands,

“None of them want to be in the barracks– Think the only glory in protecting Lopshide is patrolling the sodding wall. You know, so they can beat all the outsiders trying to get in senseless or something,” she spat and then scuffed it out with her right palm, “So, I’m here to trade, like I promised: Those furs for information on how to reach Bleak Mountain.”

Muddle snorted,

“Bleak Mountain? That’s the stupidest–”

Casari tapped her staff against the ground but when the magic touched Muddle his body went rigid again– toppling onto his belly so that his chin hit the stone with a sharp thwack! This time the magic set in too quickly for him to even react, but his huge, golden eyes swiveled in disbelief as they bulged from the dark, still shape of him stretched out on the floor. Lyric caught his frightened, desperate gaze and managed a small, unapologetic shrug. Casari was still watching her and, behind her goggles, her eyes came to rest on The Script—

“I’ve never seen magic like that before,” Lyric said, abrupt but as nonchalantly as she could, “But I have heard stories about mages in the Icefield turning their enemies to stone or freezing them solid… Is that…?”

Casari’s smile widened and she touched the curve of her snout before adding, “It’s, obviously, a less permanent strain of Ice Magic, yes– Very ancient, very traditional. You know Ice Magic itself was originally taught to limit speed and range of motion exclusively.”

Lyric could almost hear Stac speaking over Casari– His bright, performer’s voice booming above the bamboo flutes:

Lyrie, Lyrie– Do you want to hear the story of the First Ice Mage? The Tundra who stopped a whole invasion of Longneck in their tracks and just a flick of her tail?

“Do Tundras understand it better?” Lyric said, before she could stop herself– before she realized The Script was becoming still.

“Supposedly,” Casari said, her voice suddenly darker, “But I don’t believe heritage or how you’re born really matter if you have a natural knack for things– If you’re willing to learn and commit to things… After all–” she shook her head and laughed, her voice warmer, “But forget all that– I came here for those furs.”

The Script hummed and Lyric nearly shushed it.

“Oh, alright, yeah–” she gathered them around her, dragging the Rasa pelt along the floor with another glance at Muddle, who kept vibrating and exhaling and blinking in a desperate attempt to get Casari’s attention. Lyric then pushed the heap of pelts towards the bars, “All these, I guess.”

“Ha,” Casari said, and began to pull them through, “Can you believe Rootlickt doesn’t even try to sell these?”

“I think,” Lyric thought of the massive empty room and the old Spiral, “I think they need them to fill up…” she could tell Casari wasn’t listening, and settled on, “Space.”

When the Tundra had pawed through the heap a few times, she began to bundle them up into neat rolls, sealing each roll with the rigid magic. Muddle vibrated again.

“Bleak Mountain,” Casari said as she worked, “Is the only mountain in the Icefield with a perfectly domed top. You can reach it by heading south from here and crossing The Everflow River and then striking south east across the Iceflats.”

These directions and names rolled off Lyric like rain water, but she nodded just the same and said,

“Alright.”

“Hold on, Imp,” Casari had begun to pack the stiff rolls of fur into her cloak, “There’s more. Bleak Mountain is…”

She looked up at Lyric suddenly, as if she could see through her, “Refresh my memory: why are you so keen to head that way?”

The candles had almost burned down into the irons that held them, and Lyric tried to focus on the darkest points of the wall. Her mind racing. The Script pushing gently against her flank.

Alright and alright and–

“I’m looking for a…. song,” she said slowly and then softly, “To sing over my brother’s grave.”

Casari’s eyes flashed, “You what?”

“It’s…” Lyric felt her heart in her throat, “A tradition of my clan but… I… I still haven’t found a song I feel is worthy of– I mean, one that can–”

Casari held up her shaggy hand and then shook her shaggier head.

“Icewarden’s–” she muttered, “Sodding Thrush and his stupid– Here.”

The Tundra leapt with surprising agility towards Lyric’s cage and passed her claws over the cell’s lock. The door slid back and Lyric cautiously poked her head through the opening. A beat. She unwound her body and stepped out, flexing her wings with a satisfied purr,

“Thank you, are you sure you won’t–?”

Muddle let out another sharp exhale and rattled against the ground so violently that he flipped onto his side. Casari shrugged,

“Thrush and I–” she laughed, almost nervously, “He hates me anyways. Anything he accuses me of, well…”

She gestured at the overturned desk dismissively and Lyric nodded.

“Bleak Mountain,” Casari said with a sigh, but Lyric held up a claw.

“Can I ask you for one more thing, Casari?”

The Tundra raised an eyebrow and then nodded. Lyric’s smile dissolved into the fading candlelight,

“I would like to take Muddle too–” she ignored the sounds the Fae made, “I think, ah… I can’t really explain it.”

She could feel The Script singing through her now– It was such a glorious, innocent lie and yet–

“I just… I can pay you, if you’d like. To let him out, anyways– Not for him, that’d be kind of barbaric.”

Casari’s mouth ticked up in disbelief as she dipped her head to look at Muddle sprawled and stiff on the stone, and then made another bewildered noise through her barely parted mouth before,

“Even I think he might be some kind of criminal, Imp, I mean, he–” her shoulders rolled under her wooly mane, “But it’d probably put an itch in Thrush’s feathers to have both his “dangerous” prisoners escape,” she looked at Lyric with a sudden seriousness, “And you’re taking him to Bleak Mountain.”

There was a sudden twist in Lyric’s stomach: traveling across the cold with only the Fae. With only that shrill sound and–

“Yes.”

I think, anyways.

Casari let out a labored sigh,

“What kind of payment?”

Lyric swallowed, “I’ll put you in my song.”

A laugh, Casari looked like she was about to make a joke but stopped when she saw Lyric’s small, hopeful eyes glint in the near-darkness. Another sigh and then Casari struck her staff against the ground. The magic shivered along the cell floor, Muddle let out something like a half-sob, and Lyric heard him struggle to right himself and clamber between the bars with a few small grunts of pain. He hobbled around Lyric’s claws, tripping over one of Flower’s quills in the dark with an exclamation Lyric had never heard before.

When he tried to struggle past Casari, though, she brought her left hand down on his tail.

“H-hey–! What–?!”

“The conditions are you stay with the Imperial, Lighter,” she lifted him off the ground, stretching him out towards Lyric while he protested and and wriggled weakly, “Unless you want me to petrify you again and throw you back in the cell.”

“Put m-me d-d-down, I–”

Lyric reached out and took him from Casari, letting him dangle while she studied him in the low-light before placing him back on the ground,

“I don’t think he should move too much… He got hurt pretty bad after all.”

“I’m fine!” he snapped, “D-d-don’t talk about m-me like–”

Muddle stumbled away from her, stepping on what remained of his wings and tumbling back onto the ground. Lyric lifted him up, again, as gently as she could manage and placed him back on his feet, as he muttered more unfamiliar words under his breath. But he stayed put, as if he was afraid to move again.

“I’d hurry,” said Casari, she clicked her tongue and tightened her grip on her staff, “The sun’s going to be back around in a few hours.”

The Script sent a shiver through Lyric and she tried to look grateful, to smile,

“Alright, I– Thank you so much.”

Casari laughed and waved her hand as Lyric padded towards the garlands. The Fae remained where he was, his tiny face puckered and stubborn as he folded his arms. His mouth opened but Lyric looked away, her tail sweeping him up onto it with a small cry.

“Oh, sorry, just hold on for a bit, alright?”

Whatever his response, it was lost to a loud howl of wind as Lyric ducked through the remaining garlands and crept slowly out of the barrack’s door. Lopshide was dark and still and Lyric couldn’t see any shadows on the wall– she tucked her legs under her and slithered towards the wide alley between two larger buildings and paused once she was inside, looking back the way she had come.

Casari stood in the doorway, shaking her head before she waved her staff over herself and vanished into sets of fresh tracks that tip-toed back into the thick, purple shadows of Lopshide. Muddle clung to Lyric’s scales, shaking and muttering.

“Sorry,” Lyric said again, and curled her tail towards her, “Can you walk?”

“Of course,” he squeaked, sliding off of Lyric, “I can walk, I–”

But as his feet touched the snow, he let out a small gasp and tried to scramble, unsuccessful, back onto Lyric’s tail– falling back into the snow with another surprised cry.

“We need to hurry,” said Lyric, and looked back towards the wall, “I think I can clear it if I get a good running start– I mean, obviously I could fly but–”

“I’m not,” Muddle was already shivering, “A part of whatever idiotic little sob-story quest you suckered that other Thing into–” He was twirling the tarnished, golden band around his wrist with an almost loving flick of his claws, “I just need to change myself back and then all of this will be…”

A tiny spark shot out of the gold and–

Lyric felt an immense pain in her side as a flash of light swallowed her and Muddle. The world spun, soaked in a bright, nauseating version of itself as a high whine echoed through Lyric’s head. The Script felt like it had dug into her and she tried to–

“The prisoners!”

Somehow Lyric recognized the Wildclaw guard’s voice and stumbled forwards, her head thumping the wooden siding of one of the Lopshide buildings. Something warm trickled down the flat of her muzzle and– Muddle sounded like he was screaming something or was that–?

She turned, still reeling, back towards the tiny Fae and saw he was curled up in the snow, clutching his head and repeating something soundlessly. At the mouth of the alley, the Wildclaw stood with his sword drawn, his tail swishing back and forth with restless but nervous aggression.

Alright.

“I surrender,” she called, unsure, still, if she was yelling or whispering over the whining in the back of her skull. The Wildclaw’s mouth opened. His hands twitched.

Lyric bowed her head, closing her eyes for half a second, trying to look as meek as she could, before she swept her square muzzle across the snow and into Muddle, launching him, screaming (”What are you–! Put m-me d-d-down–! St-stop–!”), up into the air and thrusting her head forwards to catch him right between her bushy eyebrows. The Wildclaw stumbled back and then shouted something, but Lyric had already turned and begun charging towards where the alley opened onto another side-street. She skidded into a sharp turn and barreled down the road, seeing shadows emerge from other openings and hearing the slurred cries of,

“Prisoners–!”
“Escaping–!”
“Stop–!”
“Get–!”

And her claws in the snow– carving out a kind of rhythm while Muddle shrieked and clutched her mane so tightly that Lyric was sure he was peeling off her scalp. Ahead, Thrush and the Guardian stepped into the street– the Guardian flexing her large, muscular body and Thrush emanating a light of his own.

Alright and–

Lyric unfurled her wings and kicked off the ground– slipping in the snow as she launched herself, lopsided and heavy, into the sky. Her body swerved sideways and clipped the tarred shingles on a Lopshide building, showering Thrush and the Guardian in fragments of wood. Thrush shouted something, but Lyric couldn’t hear anything past her own racing heartbeat.

The Coatl was sailing towards her– his elegant wings beating the thin air desperately to close the gap between himself and Lyric. His claws gleamed– Lyric could still feel the places where they’d touched her and–

She whipped her long body against her original projection, straightening herself out as she sailed towards the pointed top of Lopshide’s wall. Her wings beating furiously so that she could clear it and, all the while, Muddle screaming and pressing himself into her mane.

“Put m-me–! Please– I promise– I’m afraid of– God, I d-d-don’t–”

And Thrush’s voice, barking orders into the night,

”Don’t let them–!”

And then–

Lyric saw Lopshide fall away from her as she spiraled up into the clear sky. The shapes of the other dragons became tiny, unimportant smudges against the snow. Muddle’s scream cracked and then faded into small, terrified moan.

“Please…”

“It’s okay,” Lyric was breathless and beaming, her wings carried her higher until the cold was almost unbearable, “I think I can lose them if I keep this up.”

Muddle let out another groan and she felt him press himself further into her mane, shivering. Lyric turned her head slowly to check the sky behind them:

Nothing.

“What were you trying to do,” Lyric could see the sliver of a moon in the distance, her heart still sounded like it was mounted directly between her ears, “Back there, I mean. With the light?”

“I was trying to–” he croaked, hesitated, and clutched her mane tighter, with a small, almost comically weak, “It’s none of your business.”

Lyric shrugged and dipped against a sudden wind current. Muddle cried out again,

“D-d-don’t d-d-do tha–”

“Do you not like flying?” she arced up through another set of freezing clouds, feeling the moisture freeze into tiny ridges along her antlers, “Seems like it’d be pretty hard to get around any other way since you’re so small…”

She felt him flinch, but he said nothing. Lyric took to counting her own wing beats, trying to ignore the odd, sudden stillness in The Script.

It’s all so familiar with him, alright… And that light, she thought, That thing he’s wearing… What was he trying to…?

Lyric looked back again and allowed herself a tiny, smug smile: the skies were still clear. Thrush and the Lopshide guards had fallen behind.

“We’re alright, I think,” she said and dove down beneath the sea of clouds with a satisfied toss of her head, ignoring the sounds Muddle made. Below, the land was spackled with dark, mighty conifers that hugged the bank of a river in large, jagged clusters, and Lyric tilted her wings down and began a descent for one of the densest groups. The trees made such odd shapes against the snow and Lyric tried to ignore the impulse to name them.

Stac would have given into that, alright– Would have just…

But she shook her head despite Muddle’s predictable shrieks of protest, and concentrated on her landing, spreading her wings up and out to slow her body down before it hit the ground.

---

two part update today, b/c technically this was a single chapter split into two for formatting purposes ;}}