Clawrake

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Clawrake, the Verdant Huntress

Clawrake came from the north woods before anyone living could remember, stepping from the mists of myth into the rhythm of Arbor’s daily breath. Unlike the grovewardens, she bore no shimmer of enchantment, no aura of leafy incantations. Her strength was simpler, but no less sacred. It lay in tendon and tooth, in weathered bark-bound muscle, in eyes that saw with the calm certainty of a creature who'd already survived a hundred winters.

She towered over most of her kin, walking upright on hind legs as though claiming the posture of a queen long before anyone thought to crown her. Plates of bark armor clung to her body—not by magic, but by years of careful crafting. Each piece bore the etching of claw and weather, scars of hunts gone awry and beasts bested in the dark places where the forest whispered death.

Her head was crowned not with horns but a forest of antlers—great sweeping branches that grew from her skull like the very trees she protected. Between them, feathers ran down her spine in a serrated crest, twitching with emotion where others wore stillness. They flared in anger, quivered in thought, and sometimes, when she thought no one watched, dipped in sorrow.

Clawrake wore no regalia, but on her wings was a weaving of branches and feathers, wound tight in twisting spirals—a hybrid of defense and flight. They rustled when she moved, a sound like wind through leaves. She did not speak often, but when she did, the hunters listened, and the trees did too.

She led the hunter caste not by decree, but by quiet endurance. When others faltered, she carried the kill. When younglings got lost, she was the one who found them—mud-streaked and silent, but always on time. She did not wield magic, but when the grovewardens cast their long, leafy shadows, it was Clawrake who stood between them and the world’s cruelties. Not as a servant, nor a subordinate, but as a promise—silent, wild, and unbreakable.

And in the deep green halls of Arbor, where roots gripped stone and vines grew thicker than rope, they called her the Huntmother. But to those who knew her best, she was simply Clawrake—the dragon who walked like a beast, ruled like a warden, and hunted with a purpose older than fire.

__________ ~Miscellaneous Information~ What you do? Where you come from? Who you love? Who your fam? All the other stuff

First impressions ~ trait | trait | trait ~

Maned Cobra Familiar The scales of this cobra will stand on end when agitated, creating an impressive mane. 0

Emerald Striker Meat The emeralds are not gems, but reserves of venom; a glittering disappointment. (KS Sponsored by Opal.) 55 7

Amethyst Striker Meat After consuming the bitter flesh, dragons will often disagree whether to preserve the hide or pick out the glittering gems. (KS Sponsored by Opal.) 55 7

Onyx Cobra Meat The venom of an onyx cobra can cause the onset of a gembond in dragons. It is wise to give them a wide berth. (KS Sponsored by Opal.) 55 7

Newt Meat It's said evil magic can turn dragons into newts. If that's true of this one, it never got better. 35 4

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______________________________________ ~Genes~ Pending!

~Outfit~ Pending!

You famous?

What you look like?

What you called?

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Looking for a mate with green color range, preferably with Rare primary/secondary genes and Limited/rare tertiary

Iridescent, Metalic, Petals, Pharoh, Starmap, Wasp

Alloy, Bee, Butterfly, Constellation, Sarcophigus, Shimmer

Capsule, Firefly, Runes, Scales, Veined / Filigree, Glimmer, Glowtail, Koi, Opal, Soap, Stained

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Scene: Where Root Meets Flame

The clearing was older than any map, older than most mountains, some said. Trees arched over it like cathedral ribs, bark thick with moss and time. The air smelled of sap and loam, and something deeper—power left too long in the ground. A single, weathered stone stood in the center, covered in ancient druidic script. That was where they met.

Clawrake arrived first. Always early, always prepared. Her bark armor creaked as she stepped into the circle, claws brushing the edge of the runes without crossing them. The woven talismans on her wings rustled with each breath, whispering of storms and hunted things. She stood tall on two legs, antlers like a crown of thorns etched in shadow.

She did not like meetings she didn’t call.

The wind changed—first warm, then sweet, then still. A shimmer moved across the clearing, and the shadows between the leaves bent toward something older than light.

Druid appeared—not with fanfare, not with sound. One moment, the stone was alone. The next, she stood beside it. Her scales shimmered like morning dew on spring leaves, her body tall and regal, but still—unnervingly still. Where Clawrake’s body was made for movement, for action, Druid’s presence felt like a pause in the turning of the world. Her wings were folded, her expression unreadable. The only sign of life was the slow ripple of feathers along her spine, swaying with the forest’s breath.

Clawrake growled low in her throat. Not out of threat. Out of instinct.

“I expected one of the grovewardens,” she said.

“You got something older,” Druid replied.

Clawrake eyed her. “I don’t trust older. Older forgets things. Like why they matter.”

“And yet you came.”

“I don’t make a habit of ignoring stones that hum with druidic intent.” Clawrake stepped closer, claws clicking against the roots. “Why me?”

Druid tilted her head, just slightly. “Because the grovewardens dream, but you bleed. They whisper to the forest. You feed it.”

Clawrake frowned, gaze narrowing beneath her crown of antlers. “You think that flatters me?”

“I think it’s true.”

A pause stretched between them, long enough for a bird to land nearby, chirp once, and flee.

“I know what you are,” Clawrake said at last. “The others think you're a legend wrapped in scales. But I've seen your name carved into stones older than our oldest wardens.”

“And yet here we are,” Druid said, voice soft and dry as pine needles. “In the same forest. With the same problem.”

Clawrake rumbled. “The Rot.”

Druid nodded. “It spreads where magic thins. Where belief fades.”

“And what do you want from me?” Clawrake’s wings flared, feathers snapping like dry branches. “A soldier? A sacrifice?”

“A root,” Druid said. “You anchor what the grovewardens cannot. The forest trusts you in ways it no longer trusts us. That matters.”

Clawrake didn’t answer right away. She looked away—up, toward the treetops where sunlight filtered through like dust through stained glass. “I’ve hunted a long time,” she said finally. “I thought I’d seen everything this forest could throw at me. But this… this rot—it doesn’t fight fair.”

“Neither do we,” Druid said, stepping forward until their crests nearly touched. “We were not born fair. We were born necessary.”

Clawrake met her gaze, something kindling behind her eyes. Not respect. Not yet. But recognition.

“You speak like someone who’s forgotten what it means to lose,” Clawrake said. “But you’re right. This forest doesn’t need dreams. It needs teeth.”

She turned, talons digging into the soil. “You’ll have mine.”

“And you,” Druid said, “will not stand alone.”

For the first time, Clawrake smiled—just a twitch of her lip, more grimace than grin. But it was something.

“Good,” she said. “I’m tired of carrying it myself.”

Together, they stepped from the clearing, side by side. One born of endless flame and forest-deep time. The other, scarred, armored, antlered—but still standing.

And the forest, ancient and listening, took notice.