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Luciferous' Clan

Ancient Lair

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Clan Info

Clan Luciferous

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CST(GMT-5)

The User

| 18+ | she/her | Lesbian |
| ENG/RUS | | Artist | Cosplayer |
Friend Requests: Open

I'm a long time player since 2014, but returning after a 4 year hiatus. I roleplay sometimes and draw occasionally, though I mostly keep to myself. Feel free to reach out and chat though I am always glad to make new friends and talk FR and gush about fan dragons.

I am badly looking for friends who excavate dig sites and will swap research notes with me! If you're an Arlo junkie friend me!

Lore
The desert is a cruel mistress. Unyielding heat in the day, plummeting to a frigid cold leaving you wishing for the sun you’d cursed only hours before. This is true of all deserts you’d find yourself lost in, but this one… This one is different. There’s something sinister within, a darkness that you can’t see.
It can swallow you whole, without a trace, erasing you completely. Out of the minds of everyone you’ve ever known — you’ve never existed. Your parents, your siblings, they’re none the wiser — you were never born. The sand eats you alive, leeching your essence until there’s nothing but void. The world will forget you were ever here, with the way this place devours you.

But people keep coming back. Because it’s beautiful, to say the least. Snow white sands, pure and glimmering in the day, as if it’s made of glass. In fact, people have made glass from these sands, and it’s some of the most beautiful glass you’ll ever see — fit for the windows of cathedrals. The beauty comes at a price, however.

Every building that’s received glass pieces from this sand, strange things begin to happen. There’s an uneasy feeling as soon as you enter the place. It could be the coziest home, and there would still be something haunting about it. The very air becomes thick, hard to breathe. Whispers can be heard all around you, each grain of sand that’s been heated to make the glass tells you its story, and it only grows louder if you don’t listen. People in these places are driven mad, and lost to the desert soon after.

The sand wants to return to its home. As if it’s alive, a living being with wants and needs of its own. Only those that respect it can move through this desert without being lost. You must tread lightly, letting the sand fill in your footprints as you go. It will still erase every evidence that you were ever there, but it won’t erase you, as long as you show it some dignity. Each grain has lived its own life, and you would do well to remember this.

And you must never, ever, take anything. You’ll find an oasis here and there, with beautiful palm trees and crystal clear water where you can bask for hours. That’s all well and good, until the dragons that came here began to notice the gold in the water.

Coins, jewels, every shiny thing you can imagine at the bottom of these pools. It’s there as a test — and you must leave them be. These jewels, riches, they’re not as they seem. When you touch them, you become one. Another shiny coin added to the bottom of the water. Each pool started with a single coin — the subsequent riches are all the souls of dragons that got ahead of themselves, excited over the prospect of an easy profit.

Then there’s us, the nomads. We’re known as the dragons who cannot be snuffed out — surviving against the odds in this ruthless landscape.
We’re known as nomads because we spend our days traveling the desert, and people assume we have no home. But they’re wrong, the desert is our home, and it loves us. It loves us because we respect it, and we follow its rules. It’s a simple set of rules: take nothing but memories, leave nothing, not even footprints. We don’t desecrate the desert with our belongings, of which we have few. We know better than to touch the souls of the Lost.

That’s what we call them, the Lost. The ones that disappear here, the ones that become gold, grains of sand. They’re forgotten by everyone outside of this place, but to us, they remain. We hold their memories, and each one becomes a part of our home. We vividly dream of their lives as each new Lost loses its soul to this place, living a full life that is not our own each night, in images dancing across our eyelids, or in the fires we set to keep warm in the frigid cold of the darkness.

Outsiders think our lives are sad, doomed to wander an unforgiving desert that erases everything. They think that we have no legacy, no culture. But they’re wrong. This place has such a rich, beautiful culture. We look out for each other, even though we don’t always travel together. We gather rich fruits from gardens we’ve made in each oasis. We have a giving culture, one where we each have our own skills and provide what we can for everyone else. Some make clothes, some capture companion animals, some can even see the souls of the Lost.

This is what makes our stories — remembering those that no one else does. We know them as a cousin, an aunt, a sister, a brother. Our family grows by the day, and they live on through us.

At night, we come together in camps, bundled in beautiful garb that keeps us warm around a fire that comes alive and speaks to us. We tell the stories we’ve learned, and they become our own. Some of us have lived as jewelers, as chefs, as glassmakers, as traveling salesmen, all in the course of a day. We have the life stories of hundreds, thousands of dragons all wrapped up in our ever-expanding cache of knowledge. We are but vessels for these memories, we hold so many lives in our hands each day, and it’s up to us to take great care of them.

The desert has trusted them to us. We keep the Lost from being forgotten altogether, we become their lives, and they become us. Because they didn’t know the rules of the desert, doesn’t mean we don’t respect them. We hold respect for everyone, their stories are important, regardless of the lives they lived. If they were truly good, our young ones can learn from their examples. If they were wicked, we learn from their mistakes. All knowledge is power, and we strive to collect every last piece that’s given to us.
While we’re known as nomads to outsiders, in our own culture, we are the Omniscient.
Those that know, but are not known.

Lore by Hoku