Juliette

massive wip

The matriarch of Turano is nothing like a normal tundra. Her size is over twice that of an ordinary member of her species and her horns are very long, curling upwards away from her neck. Near every inch of her body is covered in a wall of fur, where it is especially thick and curly around her spine, the base of her neck/the belly area, and head. Try as one might, her face is perpetually obscured by her mane, although one may occasionally get a glimpse at her eyes if the wind is blowing strong enough that day. These traits come thanks to her being an unusual combination of tundra and gaoler, although not by normal means.

Her fur indeed is quite a source of admiration. It is always well-groomed and is softer than a cloud (thanks to an hour of grooming every morning). She, of course, does not mind others touching it, just not on her head. Only close friends have that privilege.

Her wings are structurally different from her breed as well. While a tundra has both fur and membrane, Juliette's are entirely feathered, like a bird.

Personality
____________________

She is calm, poised, and well-spoken. {wip}

Relationships or smth
_____________________

Juliette has always been a


History
__________________________________


An intruder was captured in the fringes of the Reedcleft Ascent.

This creature did not look like anything the Wind dragons had ever seen before. Its fur was thick, matted, and dirty-looking, sitting in unkempt clumps and knots particularly near its face. Two wicked-looking curved horns sprung from its shaggy forehead. The left one, however, was broken off near its base, and the damage seemed recent judging by the spots of dried blood. Beneath its mane, its ice-cold eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets, glaring at its captors in a manner most unsettling and sinister.

"What is this horrible beast?" One of the Spirals cried out.

"Don't be so rude," another snapped in response - the leader. "Maybe he's lost. He looks injured, too. Somebody tend to his wounds, please."

The prisoner was escorted to their clan. The sight of it sent ripples of fear through the group and the neighboring clans who came to hear about the news, but all opposing outcries were quickly silenced. "Please, let's have some decency here," the leader ordered. "We are not going to treat the visitor in this way. For now, carry on with your things."

That evening it stayed in a spare den, looked after by a medic and several heavily clad guards. She worked diligently to clean its wounds. "This may sting for a while," she said, "but it will help with fighting the infection."

"Thank you," the creature muttered.

She looked up in surprise, as did the guards outside. "You speak draconic."

"What is your name?"

"Tokyo."

"Nersweih." His voice was deep and raspy, laced with an accent unfamiliar to her.

"Where did you come from?"

"The Southern Icefield," he replied slowly. "I...wanted to take a trip."

The medic wrapped his shoulder in bandages. "You're one of the Icewarden's?"

"Yes. I'm a Gaoler," he added.

"Welcome to the Plateau, Nersweih."

Her work was done, and she departed from the den. Her attitude was unusual to him. Had this encounter happened with his own kin, he likely would have been left to die.

The albeit slightly tense peace that settled with his staying there for the next few days did not last long. Just as he began to learn about the ways of this clan - the Pioneers, the Windsinger, the kite-making - came a sudden intrusion.

Twenty Gaolers marched unannounced past the border. They were much larger in comparison, laced with heavy chains and tattered cloths. Before the border patrol could properly address them, the largest of the group ordered, "Search the caves."

"Excuse me?"

The Gaolers quickly set off to the town square wordlessly. Gasps and hushed conversations befell the natives as they watched the towering beasts scour their clan like dogs.

"What is the meaning of this?" The leader shouted.

"A prisoner has fled from containment," the largest rumbled. "We are here to retrieve him."

"Prisoner?"

Huddled in his cove, Nersweih silently prayed for the jailers to go away. Every second felt like an eon, every muscle in his body was tense and rigid with fear. The guards outside had a brief exchange with his captors before they finally burst inside.

No, he thought. He could not allow this to happen again. With a shriek, he struck at the nearest one's face.

All it took was the one move for the entire clan to soon spiral into a bloody conflict. Reinforcements were called in from both sides. As more dragons flooded the scene, the fighting became more confusing, as the winds roared and howled and the temperature began to drop steadily. The commotion became so intense that it eventually drew the attention of the Windsinger and the Icewarden, who could not settle the now-widespread feud between them and their people. They clashed, too.

The resulting battle whipped up an enormous cyclone, larger than any other tornado having come before it. It wreaked havoc on the surroundings and followed wherever the gods went, in the Icefields or the Plateau. The destruction it caused was colossal - houses were uprooted, landscapes were completely demolished, and the weather of the entire planet was affected. But most interestingly, many dragons were displaced.

Mostly consisting of the Gaolers and Spirals, each were swept up in the violent twister if they weren't careful enough. Most of them died, while others ended up in completely different places. Species that had never once set foot outside of their homes were now being introduced to new ecosystems.

During the peak of the battling, many prominent heroes rose to face their enemies in the wake of its destruction. One of those famous fighters was Raakion.

Raakion was the first of his family line (and supposedly of any Gaoler) to be born in the Windswept Plateau. His mother had been displaced by the Twisting Crescendo, as it had become known as, and stranded in Wind territory due to broken wings. By the time Raakion had come around, violent cold winds all year round had become commonplace, although difficult to survive in and the primary source of most of their misery.

He was determined to end the conflict, once and for all. He trained for years by his lonesome. Growing up in harsh weather conditions (added to his being a species that handles extreme weather easier) enabled him to fight in the swirling vortex better than most anybody else. He had come from a no-name clan and nobody knew who he was, but he was supernaturally powerful, commanding the currents as though he owned them.

He saved many lives and helped many clans and individual dragons to escape the Crescendo in the process. He was renowned as a hero. But, as many of the warriors similarly experienced, he was caught off guard after overworking himself and lost his balance, falling to his death into a ravine.

~ ~ ~

Thousands of years later the Crescendo continued to roar, but away from the presence of the warring gods (who had eventually ceased fighting from exhaustion) it had only a fraction of the strength and size as it did during the brutal combat.

It was one of those rare days when the Windsinger visited a clan in the homeland, purely from curiosity. It was during an annual celebration of the efforts of their warriors ages ago, who bravely fought in the vortex wars and sacrificed their lives to save their families and friends. Lanterns were lit and released into the air in the evening cool.

The Windsinger had never personally encountered Raakion, but the name sounded familiar. His being the first Wind Gaoler caught his attention, and he was eager to hear his tales and stories retold by the clan's elders.

"A pity that they all had to grow up in a terrible and unforgiving time as then," he mused to himself. "It never occurred to me before they did not travel anywhere, or hardly outside of their dens. Never having the opportunity to truly live free and feel the warm breezes of the Steppes, or painting their stories in the clouds..."

Overcome with a sudden urge and creative inspiration, the Windsinger brought forth a gentle breeze to lift the lanterns up past the clouds. He created new children, painting them forms in likeness to their patrons, with the essences of the warriors as their binding force. The hatchlings took solid shapes, clinging to their tiny vessels. "Adventures await you," he whispered with a wide smile.

Each lantern descended slowly once more, scattering in all directions. Some were carried on wind currents to other lands. Others landed within the territory, but none of them ended in the same place, or where they had started. A small female, with the ghost of Raakion to guide her, was set to arrive in the Shattered Plain.

~~~~~~~~~

The delicate-looking vessel was far from delicate. Blessed with the magic of the Windsinger, it left trails of colored clouds and particles behind it, as though it were a paintbrush decorating its path. All the while it never once teetered, or spun too fast, or tipped dangerously close to any dangerous-looking environmental hazards. The hatchling atop it was calm but admittedly half-awake, glancing around her surroundings every now and then when she could keep her eyes open. She was too young to clearly make out anything, but interested by the passing blurry shapes and sounds all around her.

Attached to the lantern were small bamboo chimes. They, too, were magical. In a calm breeze they would barely touch each other, but in moderate gusts they would clack and create a beautiful quiet melody.

The lantern stayed in the air for a solid three days. Most times it meandered at a slow, snail-like pace. Sometimes it moved faster than what would seem safe, like a boat in a raging river, but it never once was in danger of being damaged, nor the hatchling it carried.

At last it began to descend somewhere near the borders of Dragonhome and the Tangled Wood. After dipping up and down again and again through the clouds, it descended, inch by inch.

It was not seen at first. But as it neared 150 feet above the ground, it was spotted by a water snapper and a young mirror.

"Oh?"

Rhen had received a mysterious vision of this exact lantern and the ball of fluff atop it two months ago. She knew not what it meant, like most of her prophecies, and assumed it to be another theoretical foresight. But here it was, in the flesh. She gazed upon it and began to weep.

The lantern gently touched down on a pile of rocks 20 meters away. She rushed to it as fast as she could. Upon closer examination, the ball of fluff sound asleep atop it was in fact a tundra hatchling.

"Ohh, a child," she cooed, scooping the paper craft into her arms. She was still crying profusely, which perplexed the tiny mirror beside her. She didn't know entirely why she was crying. Joy, perhaps, or relief.

She ran as fast as her legs could take her back to her clan.

The sight of the normally-calm and collected Seer bawling her eyes out was a startling image indeed. "Rhen?!" One of them called out. "Did you injure yourself? What is that you are carrying?"

"A child!" She exclaimed. "The vision was true! A child came on the lantern!"

The clan was small. Only fifteen members belonged to their tiny makeshift town nestled in the rocks of the Shattered Plain. It was more like a large family than anything. Naturally, the shaggy tundra became a source of great interest.

She was awoken by her carrier's shouting. As the clanmates hustled around her in the Cove (their main meeting and eating place, sheltered inside a small cave), she began to stir and open her eyes.

"A wind dragon!"

"How did she get all the way over here?"

"Where did she come from?"

"Who are her parents?"

The hatchling gazed curiously at the blurry figures around her. She opened her jaws wide and yawned.