Cerketa

As a young hatchling, Cerketa idolized her older relative, the Heir Apparent Kyranka. The older female always had at least some time to spend with her, and in Cerketa's eyes could do no wrong. Despite being the child of her half sister, the much older Heir Apparent acted more like a particularly close aunt to the small Guardian.

Had the older Guardian survived, it is likely that Cerketa would have taken Vakina's place eventually as the Shadow's Heir. This made her death all the more devastating. Something small and fragile that had been growing in the back of Cerketa's mind shattered, leading to her attaching with the one thing that Kyranka had protected above even her - the clan.

A destiny can be shattered in a single moment, as the oracles who live deep under the ever-changing tides know well. A Guardian's choice is not so uncomplicated as they seem to other breeds or even the Guardians themselves. It may be part of their very being, their magic, bones and blood, but everything can adapt and change to survive, even - or especially - the core of a dragon.

Given this, it is perhaps not at all surprising that a Zalis, one of the birds traditionally released during funeral rites among the tall, emerald trees of the Shrieking Wilds, appeared nearly a week later. After that, she has rarely been seen without the large blue hawk. His name is Kasubo.

The tragic death of Kyranka

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You wait by the river. There is always someone waiting by the river, it seems, but your dreams have never held anything except the river, deep and wide and vast, slowly winding its way off into the gray fog and vanishing.

The shores of the river are long, dark smears of black on either side. You cannot see across and beyond the waters. There is only the silver haze of mist. Nobody else is here tonight, and even when they are, you are not seen. There is no room for others here. Everyone is their own island, floating alone in the silver fog and the black river.

The water is dark and fathomless, ebony stretching on forever. The light never reflects off the slow rise-roll-fall of the surface. Only its surge against the fog and smooth stone of the shore leaves you with an idea of its vastness. You have never touched the river.

There was a Snapper here once, old and cracked and worn by time. She had sat on the shore for a long, long time, and you had watched. She had not seen you. Nobody here sees you. When you came back the next night, she was still there.

She was always there. Sitting, still and silent. She had not moved for a full moon's length. You were beginning to think she never would.

When she did, it was the slow grinding of a mountain, ponderous and ancient. You watched as she crept down the slope, towards where the water met the shore. You watched as she put first one foot, then another into the black deep water. The Snapper waded outward. The surface never rippled, never shifted, only continued to rise-roll-fall.

Then the next wave obscured your view. When it fell, she was gone.

Sometimes when you dream, the water is far and distant, almost hidden in the gray mist. Other days, it laps between your claws, greedy and wanting.

You are always waiting by the river.

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Ripple/Saturn/?