Gwyrrd

Gwyrrd, that’s how his father named him – “like rumbling of da stones fallin’ from da mountains, just like in me ol’ home”, he said. His mother… Gwyrrd doesn’t remember. His father told that she went away in search of her Charge – bloody, beaten, a Light creature tired of shadows lurking everywhere in the Tangled Wood… yet beautiful, “like da brightest gem from Cairnstone Rest, I tell ya.” Gwyrrd looks like his father, though. No gemstone. His face has weird markings, like scars, and the ridge of his spines is bloody red.

Dangerous, said the Shadow priest once, looking at him training to eliminate his enemies in one crashing blow. And laughed.

He is. He likes hurting the enemies, feeling them tremble with fear under his mighty paws, scenting the blood spurting from their crashed bodies. He’s dangerous, yes, and though he’s the best fighter of the clan, they fear him. The Shadow madness is strong in him and sometimes it’s too hard to resist – then he leaves and goes to the forest to smash trees and roar wildly at the moon. And when he comes back they stay out of his way, and they all smell of fear. Gwyrrd hates it and loves it at the same time.

When his Search calls, they can’t conceal their happiness. The only one who’s sad to see him go is his father, but he understands.

“You’re too big for da forests, boy. Need more space for ya wings, being cooped up is bad for ya,” he sighs. “Go search, and find what you seek soon.”

Gwyrrd leaves. He goes through the murky woods, fighting and tearing apart the beasts lurking in the darkness, wades through the rivers and comes to Dragonhome. The vast space feels nice, but the beastclans see him from afar, and the harpies are vicious and fight both in the air and on the earth. He kills, and tears, and claws, and shreds, but there are too many of them, and no matter how strong he is, even he can’t fight endlessly. He roars, but this roar is full of desperation and anger, and tries to smash the enemy, but misses, and he’s too breathless to continue. He falls, bloody and torn, and tries to move but harpies claw at him, shrieking and murderous, and Gwyrrd feels the Shadow coming for him…

And then a great form, twice as large as he is, drops down from the skies and blindingly bright runes suddenly bloom everywhere, making harpies screech and scatter in all directions.

“Stay with me,” he hears an urgent voice, deep and melodical. “I’m a healer, you will be fine, just stay with me, do you hear? Don’t go to that shadow, look at me. Look at me!”

Gwyrrd slowly opens his right eye – he can’t feel the other side of the face but there's a lot of blood trickling down and he thinks that he might have lost an eye – and sees long whiskers. A soft pink mane. A worried face. And deep Arcane eyes.

He inhales, harshly and embarrassingly loudly.

And Finds.