Kaijoo's Clan

No one is certain where it arrived from, or how it came to be in the first place. As the story goes, one night under the not-quite-blue glow of the Wispwillow’s towering morels, a castle suddenly appeared. It was as though it had always been there, its curtain walls and quiet courtyards grown over with luminous mycelia and the chirping of firebugs. Its grand stone edifices seemed to rise from the murk itself, entwining with the trees like old friends too long apart.

Tales spread quick as they could be carried; first among the tricksters of the grove, then the hermits of Murkbarrow. It wasn’t long before whispers of the new-old castle found their way into the courts and hovels of dragons far and wide.



Scholars of the Firstborn brood took a special interest in these rumours. Curious as they were, they could hardly resist the prospect of uncovering whatever secrets such an impossible place might hold. The most eager of their number made for the Tangled Wood when the sun was high and bright; come dusk, the descendants of Sornieth’s first Guardians stood at the castle’s threshold. Much to their surprise, they were not alone.

As they approached the large stone spires resting quietly in the gloam, a tall and wiry figure emerged from within. It had neatly folded wings: dark feathers wreathed in the misty glow of etchings and runes that lined its deep purple hide, entirely indecipherable in nature. It took slow, measured steps, as if each motion was carefully planned, every footfall long foreseen. At the very edge of the castle grounds, it stopped and spoke, addressing the transfixed dragons in a voice like a nighttime breeze.

“Ah, you’ve arrived at last. It’s good to meet you, children of the Firstborn. Welcome to Gentledark.”



From that moment those many years ago, the castle opened its doors to all who seek refuge from the ever-shifting world beyond. Far and wide, the dreamers and the lost can feel its kindly pull: the call of home. Dragons from ancient clans and forgotten bloodlines all across the continent wander to its gate, finding sanctum in its waiting halls. Some come for knowledge, others for power, more still for the simple promise of rest. All are welcome in Gentledark.

Under the patient watch of the nameless old Skydancer, it has flourished into a thriving community of teachers and students, artists and astronomers, warriors and lovers. It is a school and a studio, a library and an observatory, a garden and a training ground; it is whatever the dragons who grace its chambers wish it to be. And in spite of all the great tumultuousness of life, that alone will remain the same.