Aria

(Editing note: Aria has some of the strongest horror overtones in the lair. I might edit that down a bit. It's not graphic at all but still, but of a tone clash with the rest)

Aria Concerned Prophetess Aria moved silently, losing her claws in the thickness of the grass, her eyes fixed on the ironbough at the clan's center. All around her were the sounds of sleep. Beyond that, only night-cicadas and the jungle's whispering. She looked over her shoulder to the clearing edge, where her titanic mate kept watch. He signed to her all’s well, but the silence was worrying; her quarry didn't sleep. She rehearsed her scout's report. The local clan's loyalty was unquestionable -- primarily sons and daughters of the Mother, a few carefully vetted immigrants -- whose few and ordinary sins were forgiven long before she heard them. Their use of necromantic border defense was as easily overlooked as it was avoided, relying as it did on non-Flight corpses. That made violating their territory a breach of trust strong enough to manifest as pain. Praying for forgiveness in advance lessened it, at least a little, but it was the Mother's guidance that kept her convinced it was worthwhile. So Aria snuck onwards, her tongue tracing the metal sheaths fitted over her fangs. Poor Rosaspinam! Some awful spirit must have possessed her to make her run like this. But Aria was a prophet, eager for her first exorcism, and eager to see her Goddess embracing her runaway general. The Glademother's Well had shown Aria visions of the plans it had for Rosy, all the modifications that would keep her safe and close.

Aria's tongue flicked against the caps, dislodging one and letting the poison trickle down her throat. Everything glowed with the dull outlines of magic, dream-spirals half lighting the soft grass before dancing up into the night. The hallucinations intensified as she trod forwards. Aria saw every dragon with a little crown of flowers, sleeping faces illuminated by pollen sprites, and she felt her heart swelling. Sometimes, she wished she could stop all this, just settle down and devote her life to healing. Wasn't that what she'd wanted? But her Goddess had called her to battle, and so she followed the arc of the Gladekeeper's claw until she found herself at the edge of a clearing.

There was the smallest glimpse of pink through the leaves. She felt her heart skip. Forward now, quietly, delicately, even as her breath turned to a painful pressure, even as her venom told her her that she was glowing -- but not half so bright as that sliver of pinkness -- and suddenly the color had a sound to it, something like crystalline birds. A few more leaves parted and the whole clearing was visible. Her Rosaspinam was right there, impossibly, and she was speaking in that beautiful voice of hers. A gaggle of little snappers drank her in like sunlight.

Her Rosy spoke of Nature turning on Nature, of cults, of--and the snapper's voice deepened to a hoarse whisper--wicked dragons poisoning the Flight. The hatchlings squealed in fear and delight, but Rosy's eyes were hard. The stories she was telling were all her own, the things she and Aria did together retold from an outsider's perspective. The little snappers giggled and tumbled, cheerfully swearing vengeance between questions. "What then? Did it hurt? How bad? Are we gonna do that?" Rosaspinam indulged them as Aria's sight blurred. Her mouth was filling; venom flowed from her as luminescent drool. Instinct took over, and she swallowed.

Her mate found her hours later and miles away. How many times now? It hadn't become any less terrifying. Offering prayers, he held her close, and listened to her divine revelations. She told him that they'd befriend the clan, that they'd protect it, that she was destined to take back every heart Rosaspinam's demon stole until, as one, the Glade Brigade and Clan Castoff hunted down that traitor general, and they would all dance together in the clearing, and they'd bask in the light of transformation, and no one would have to get hurt. Nature against Nature! No, no, no, no, no...

The prophet had spoken. Scion nuzzled his beloved and prepared to summon the Brigade.




----

Her prior look




The forest is heavy with falling light and whispers. Aria hunts. Boughs tremble with anticipation, loosing a storm of leaves that swirl around the coatl’s head. Her smile is wide and unbroken as she treads through the undergrowth. This is the territory of a fairly ordinary clan, well-protected in the Gladekeeper’s arms. What more can a wandering prophet ask for? Sylvan muttering overhead, a calm before the climax. Her hunt is holy and her way is blessed. She’ll come to its end soon enough.

The trail ends in a modest lair. Grassy terraces lead down to an ironbough wreathed in green and gold lanterns. They sway gently, casting their glow on the turf-huts and burrows that dot the soft slopes. The air is full of summer nights and fresh dew, a kindness after weeks in the dense jungle. She treads downwards, losing her claws in the thickness of the grass. All around her are the sounds of sleepm and beyond that, only the night-cicadas. Where is the guard? She looks over her shoulder to the forest edge, where her titanic mate keeps watch. He signs to her all’s well, but the silence is worrying. Her quarry is clever, prone to neither carelessness nor sleep. She approaches the first house.

They are not sleeping. She rears back and collapses to the ground, flattening herself against the silhouette of the turf. After several seconds pass without the sound of footsteps[/columns], she places her paws on the sill and cautiously pulls herself up. A fire burns low behind the grate. Before it lies a tiny hatchling, its sides rising and falling in contented sleep. Besides it, a table and half-shuttered lantern. Three figures hunch over it. She places her head against the glass, excited to overhear some valuable secret. But she is disappointed.
“…no, eat all you like…not put to use…most here eat plants, you’re doing us a favor…”
“…sssso kind. Mirror’s caravan carries little in way of fisssh. Mirror remindsss that it is sorry not to pay…”
“Mirror sh-oh, sorry, I do mean…shouldn’t…always wanted to try the recipe…consider it thanks for entertaining our daughter, so rambunctious at this age…”
The prophetess pulls away in frustration, but not before she catches the scent spilling through the mud-sealed window. Her treacherous stomach grumbles. Even as she hurries away from the hut, she is aware of how little she has eaten, and how poor her recent meals have been. Perhaps, if I asked nicely, they would let me have some. I don’t need much. But the stronger part of her wins out.

The next family is sleeping soundly. No sign of her runaway, just mounds of fur, with no indication where one tundra ends and the next begins. She finds some weaker part of her stirring. It reminds her how quiet she is, and that the door is unlocked, and how her mate would understand a few minutes of rest. After all, when last had she slept anywhere but an uncomfortable tree? How long since she’d napped in safety? But comfort belongs somewhere behind her. She moves on.



Old stuff, please ignore

Aria's greatest desire is to help. She flits from place to place as she plies her healer’s trade, comforting the sick with her soft words and soft feathers. My, but she is a tremendously soft dragon, the sort you just can’t help but curl up next to. How Aria would love that...but she’s terribly busy these days. Always working, that Aria! She has so many plans to help her flight. They’re good plans. Why do others keep interfering? It’s just frustrating, all these dragons who need her help and don’t want it!

Oh, but she loves them.

Aria loves all dragons, especially the ones who try to enter the Labyrinth in secret. She and her children catch them, and bless them, and make them healthy. And then they too become my children, and they hunt with me. I watch from the trees, my dear ones watch, they tell me everything. I wander and I heal and I find the children that ran. And I smile upon my little lost ones because I know how to fix them. I smile because they are going to join me and we are going to heal the world and we will bring victory to our mother. I have seen what is coming and it is beautiful, and we will bring it on our soft and gentle wings, and not one dragon will be forgotten. I smile because this world will know the blessings of our green tide. I saw you in a dream, once. I have been dreaming of you ever since. I am watching you.

I am smiling.
-
The forest is heavy with falling light and whispers. Aria hunts. Boughs tremble with anticipation, loosing a storm of leaves that swirl around the coatl’s head. Her smile is wide and unbroken as she treads through the undergrowth. This is the territory of a fairly ordinary clan, well-protected in the Gladekeeper’s arms. What more can a wandering medic ask for? Overhead, sylvan muttering, a calm before the climax. Her hunt is holy and her way is blessed. She’ll come to its end soon enough.

The trail ends in a modest lair. Grassy terraces lead down to a great ironbough, its branches hung with green and gold lanterns. Dragons bustle around as they tend to their errands before daylight fails. Aria’s smile widens. She can smell her little pink general. Where are you hiding, my lost one, my Rosaspinam? She sets down her satchel and nods at the passing dragons. It’s soothing watching this place, its gentle hustle-bustle at the end of the day. She knows she should get moving, but…well, what’s the rush? Her heart belongs to these innocent dragons. That is why she is here, hunting her dangerous and wayward general. Aria will find her. Just a few more minutes…

"A visitor! Ezekiel, we’ve got a visitor! Hello dear, have you got a place to stay?"

Aria snaps from her reverie, eyes startled to slits. A massive tundra dragon flops down, radiating welcome and poorly-concealed excitement. This is not part of the plan.

"Lovely to meet you! I’m really just passing through; I’d hate to inconvenience you."

The tundra’s head looms closer, nostrils flaring in a friendly sniff.

"I’m sorry, but I have to insist! It’s getting dark. We’ve got plenty of food…"

Panic buzzes through the coatl’s mind. Decline, and she’ll attract suspicion. Accept, and Rosaspinam may sniff her out. She could always lie. Not lying, really, she could easily stay in a tree, and the mission would be safest if she tells the tundra n-

"…fish often, but wanted to try making the recipe anyways. What do you say? Hot meal, warm bed?"

Aria's tongue betrays her. "Yes, please."


The tundra hadn’t lied. The food is hot and plentiful, and Aria had forgotten the feel of a full stomach. At first she tries to be dainty. But her host has an eye for hunger, and announces loudly that she intends to take a quick nap, and there is plenty more seafood in the larder, and it isn’t being put to any use, and anyone can eat as much as they like, and…and Aria doesn’t need further invitation. When she finally leaves her plate, she barely has the energy to stand. She drags herself past her host to the little fireplace and curls herself against the grate. Blearily, she notices a fae perched on the mantel above her. She tries to ask his name, but it comes out as a groan.

"Ezekiel, mated to Capensia. Zeke and Cappy. Ah…"

At the sound of his voice, Capensia stirs. Aria tries to rise to meet her, but her sluggish body rebels. The fae apologizes, but is shushed by gentle chuckling. No need to be sorry, she hadn’t intended to sleep so long. Muted clunking as earthenware plates are cleared and cleaned. The flames are burning low now, casting fuzzy shadows, filling the air with a slight and sweet smoke.

"Ah, Zeke, I’m a liar. I told her she’d have a warm bed, and there she is on the floor…"

Why can’t I fight this? Aria’s body lies motionless as the tundra stretches out besides her. A red wing tucks itself between her and the floor. I forgot my mission. How did that happen? Why aren't I leaving? The wing tips her up, and she slides down it, into the tundra’s waiting arms. They lock around her, pressing her into a jungle of green fur. The frustration fades to exhaustion. By the time the soft wings wrap around her, she is asleep.

Quiet hours pass.

"Ezekiel, are you awake?"

Aria’s eyes slide open. Had she just heard-

"Data point for you. Had the dream again. Managed to do something this time, thought you’d want to know. I think something’s coming."

She had. She had. She’d know that voice anywhere, she’d know it to the end of the world, she knew that smell and that shadow, she knew that dream, she’d seen her, she’d seen her, she’d have her back-

"Why can’t I move?"

Details filter through the animal alertness. Her limbs are splayed and useless, pinned within the tundra’s mane, and her wings are trapped by a larger pair. As she tries to twist herself free, her unwitting captor sighs and squeezes tighter. Why is this happening? How did I fail so badly? Aria shudders and growls. To be so close to her stray Rosaspinam and helpless to interfere was…no. She isn’t going to let this happen. Her jaw stretches, revealing metal-capped fangs. I’m sorry.

"Mmm, yeah, I’m up. Cappy’s out though, keep your voice down. Caring for a guest, y’know."

"A coatl."

Aria pulls back. No.

"How’d you know?"

"Fishbones in the compost bucket, no ridgeback snoring. Probably female, since Cappy wouldn’t curl up with a male, ‘least not without your ok."

"I hope I don’t come off as that jealo-"

"What does she look like?"

Aria sheathes her fangs. The general would be alert, expecting. Fighting would be costly. Might risk the lives of her hosts. New tactic.

"She’s our guest."

"What. Does. She look like."

A slight breeze buffets Aria’s face as the fae swoops past her. He settles with a clatter near the mouth of the lair.

"She. Looks. Like. A doctor."

"What else, Ezekiel?"

"Like our guest. Come off it."

But that’s all Rosaspinam needs. She ignores the fae’s protests, shoulders her way forward. Aria feels something vibrating against her neck. It takes a moment for the growling to register.

The voice is soft and low, but its sweetness is gone. “I will not have bullying in my home.” Rosaspinam tries to argue, is shushed. “I do not care who you think she is or what you think she’s done. Calm down or leave.”

“I’m sorry,” murmurs the general, “and I mean it. But I won’t let…” her voice fades away, and for a moment, the only sound is the gentle hissing of the coals. “When she wakes up, tell her that Rosaspinam is here and will stay here. Tell her that I don’t intend to interfere. Tell her that this is between the two of us, and if she wants to come for me, go ahead. But she’s lost her best chance. And…tell her not to involve the rest of you. Okay?”

Her Rosaspinam is gone, now. She hears the fading footfalls. No words from her hosts, at least none she understands--any conversation is carried in wide, worried eyes, in raised frills and gentle shakes of the head. Aria sleeps fitfully, if she sleeps at all. And when she wakes, it's to the sounds of muted arguing. When her hosts reappear, the fae doesn't meet her eye. But the tundra does. Welcomes her to stay as long as she likes. Welcomes her to their hearth and larder, to their clan, says with a forced chuckle that they'll probably be needing a medic sooner or later. She looks to the fae. He clears his throat.

"Last night, one of our clan identified you as as possibly having a quarrel with her. Have you encountered a dragon named Rosaspinam?" The coatl tries to keep a level expression, but her crest betrays her. "She's a bit curt, but she's rarely wrong...we can't treat this lightly, I'm sorry." He looks to his mate, but she is unrelenting. "...nevertheless, most of us here have some sort of history, and sometimes that history finds us. If we turned away every dragon that might have some problem with a clan member, it'd be just me and Cappy, yeah? So, yes, Rosaspinam left you a message. She won't be running, she doesn't intend to interfere, and if you want to fight, then she warns that you've lost your best chance. Her words, not mine. But if you start something with her..." Ezekiel grins, magic sparking behind his eyes "...you start something with all of us. Alright?"

Aria looks from one to the other, returns the fae's grin with one twice as wide, twice as fierce. Something went wrong in her yesterday. Something made her forget who she is. She is the mother of the blessed, the shepherd of the lost ones, and her place is not a warm den. Her claws dig into the dirt floor, grinding it to powder. Her eyes flit from one to the other. You made me forget. She'd seen the power dancing in the fae's body, and felt the muscles lurking in the tundra's softness. You are dangerous.

"If you don't mind, I would love to rest here. Don't worry about Rosaspinam. I would never hurt her. My work is all healing--in fact, there are a few I can think of, recently, healed, who would love a quiet place to stay. Could you welcome them, too?"

Capensia's eyes light up. Her mate shrugs. "As long as they pull their weight and don't cause trouble. We're a quiet clan, ordinary, peaceable. Don't need anything upsetting that."

Aria's tongue lightly traces the metal caps on her fangs, tastes their tang and the warmth of the poison they're restraining. Her heart belongs to the innocent, to the dangerous souls who hem themselves in with their own learned gentleness. Her children will be happy to know she's found them a home, and their general, and Glademother bless, these two little deadly ones that made a prophet forget her purpose...

She smiles.


Aria is named after Pueraria, the kudzu genus. In some parts of the world, kudzu is revered as a powerful medicinal herb. In others, its explosive growth causes millions of dollars in damage.