skysailor's Clan

Marix was the first of the clan.

The egg was cold and the world outside dead. There was something missing from it all, from the crags and rocks of The Mountain, from the damp walls of The Cave. Missing inside Marix, too. Something wrong with her face, the never-still webbing that wouldn't listen to what she told it. At least her voice would listen. It made all the pretty sounds she wanted, trill and chirr and everything she ever needed to express herself. It was all she needed to talk to the wind that sang through her on The Mountain's face, that promised her magic and joy and a feeling of Home no matter where she was, even in the barren places. Especially in the barren places, where the wind was strongest. It was a good thing, wind. And Wind Home, the howling wind-sung cave she'd found above her hatching ground. That was good, too.

Stamf was the second. And the first to leave.

He'd heard the singing. That was what drew him to the fae. But she'd been... wrong. She didn't speak, just chirred, her face and fins never quite moving right. She'd sniffed him once, then ignored him. He left. There were things to see, battles to fight. The dragons of the Wind needed to dominate.

Thomas was the third.

He'd gotten out of the egg and there wasn't anyone that smelled right just big dragons and they hadn't said anything to him and they were scary but there was a song and he heard it and followed it and there was this little creature and it saw him. Really saw him, and her voice was soothing and when he got in her cave she groomed his scales and sang.

Saishin was the last.

I found the two after leaving my old clan. No, let's say this right: after the old clan wanted me gone.

They were children, both of them. The fae looked full-grown, but she didn't speak or spin nests, using the hatchling Guardian as a pallet instead.

I named the hatchling Thomas, since no one had told him what a name was or taught words to him. The fae, watching me with Thomas, seemed to figure out what a name was from that. She started to trill “mrrx?” at me over and over, and when I repeated it, Marix, she spun into the air and chirred. She answers to it now.

Thomas was still young enough to learn how to speak. With a little talking, I was able to start teaching him simple language. Marrix was beyond hope. She trilled and sang and didn't say a word.

But after a few days, I had to reassess her. She wasn't a child. She hunted her own food, snatching up insects faster than I ever could. Fought well, too, gathering her energy to slay or heal, protecting me as if she were the Guardian.

Early in the morning, in the heart of the day, and through the blanket of night, she sings. It joins with the wind that howls outside our cave, swirling and enveloping. This is how she spins her nest, our home. Not in sap, but in sound.