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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.75 m
Wingspan
4 m
Weight
840.81 kg
Genetics
Stone
Cherub
Cherub
Ivory
Peregrine
Peregrine
White
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
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"Full many sing to me and thee Their riches gather'd by the sea; But I will sing, for I'm footsore, The burthen of the barren shore. The hue of love how lively shown In this sole found cerulean stone By twenty leagues of ocean roar. O, burthen of the barren shore! And these few crystal fragments bright, As clear as truth, as strong as right, I found in footing twenty more. O, burthen of the barren shore! And how far did I go for this Small, precious piece of ambergris? Of weary leagues I went threescore. O, burthen of the barren shore! The sand is poor, the sea is rich, And I, I am I know not which; And well it were to know no more The burthen of the barren shore!" - Coventry Patmore ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ The Cathedral of Eyes sits on a lofty cliff, the foot of which is nearly always shrouded by the sea. These are dangerous waters, for the Cathedral’s sorcery baffles any travelers who draw near. Even without the ambient magic, the cliffs are perilous, fraught with treacherous currents. Occasionally one can see debris—sad mementoes of adventures past—being smashed against the jagged rocks. Twice each day, the tide recedes, and the sand at the foot of the cliffs is laid bare. That is when the beachside residents emerge. There are crabs, insects...and plovers foraging at the water’s edge. That was how she got her name, for like the seabirds, she is often seen just at the edge of the water. Plover, she is called, and at times it is difficult to see her, for she flits in and out of the cliffs’ shadows so swiftly that she seems to be but a mirage. Her body is as pale as driftwood and sand, marked with darker whorls and stripes. Around her shoulders, she wears a fishing net; it is interwoven with seashells, and rather than the clatter one expects to hear, they make a strange whispering noise as she moves. No one knows what Flight she hails from. There is no answer from her face, for her blind, white eyes are so faded by the years that they offer no clue to her origins. She does not always appear when the tide leaves. But when she does come, it is to sift through the debris left on the shore. She reaches beneath twisted driftwood, beneath rotting leather and weeds. Anything unusual is carefully turned over in her claws. If it passes muster, then it becomes hers, and she tucks it into bags belted around her waist. When the tide turns, so does Plover. She spreads her wings and flutters away. Her home is a closely guarded secret; no one but she knows how to find it: a rough-hewn network of caves and corridors twisting through pale stone. The outer rooms, near the entrance, are largely bare, but the deeper into the rock Plover goes, the more crowded they become—crowded with treasures stolen back from the sea. There are jars and boxes lining the sides of the corridors. Shelves of driftwood are covered with trinkets, from cheap wooden figurines to dazzling jewelry and blades. Children’s plush toys sit side-by-side with effigies of gods. The occasional scroll and book, rescued from watery ruin, rest against the pale stone walls. Each time she returns, Plover adds a little bit more to the haul. She organizes things according to a system only she can understand. Anyone stumbling into these galleries would think her a mad hermit, some miser or pirate guarding a hoard of mismatched treasures. There are days, however, when Plover takes things out of the galleries. The wind shifts just so, light comes through the caverns just right, and she pauses and turns towards an object in the hoard. It could be anything: a pen, eyeglasses, even a broken shard of porcelain. She clutches it close and breathes in its scent, head bent as if in contemplation—or perhaps listening to it. The wind shifts again, the light fades, but Plover already knows what to do. She steps to the entrance of the cave and spreads her sun-bleached wings. Although Plover is most commonly seen at the bottom of the Cathedral’s cliff, it is not the only place that has known her. Dragons tell tales of a strange Skydancer alighting on other shores—sometimes disappearing from one shore and reappearing on the next in the space of a few moments, although the distance between the two points is staggeringly large, uncrossable in that short span of time except with tremendous magic. She has skimmed the turquoise waters of the Tidelord’s inland sea. She has braved the miasmic hazes of the Plaguelands’ southern coast. She has flown out of the blizzards that buffet the Southern Icefields and has glided, ghost-like, among the trees of the Starwood Strand. Dragons encounter her on the shore. They may see her gliding towards them, a mirage breaking free of the mist, or they might look up, surprised, and see her already standing there. Her clouded eyes seem fixed on them, and she proffers the object she took from her gallery. The dragons recognize it immediately. How could they not? For the object Plover offers them is always one they have lost at sea. They may have spent weeks, even years, searching for it. Scouring the shores where they last had it, checking in with scavengers and fishers. Objects remember the claws that held them, too. They recall what it was like to be valued and cherished. Who doesn’t love that feeling? Who doesn’t pine for it after it has slipped away? Perhaps Plover hears it, or the world aligns just so so that she can finally hear these objects’ voices. Maybe they give her a voice, a name, even an essence—something she can follow so she can give these objects back. The dragons stammer out their thanks. They take the object with shaking claws, and they hold it close. There may be tears of relief, some joyful laughter. Plover does not begrudge them this. Once her work is done, she leaves, and often the last the dragon sees of her is her pale shape disappearing into the haze. Then there are those dragons to whom she offers not objects, but words. Perhaps the tides speak to her, and she decides their wisdom is worth passing on. Dragons who meet Plover are advised to listen to what she has to say. One who has dwelled near the sea for so long knows it better than they do. She understands its moods, its whims—and perhaps, too, she does not wish to see dragons lost to its watery embrace. She has retrieved many objects from the ocean’s grasp, but she knows, better than anyone, that a life it has taken is forever beyond reach. ~ written by Disillusionist (254672) Sandpiper: Often found foraging along shorelines, Sandpiper dragons are adept at locating objects buried underground. Using their appendages as probes, these dragons detect differences in pressure to locate buried goods. In most cases, organisms that move underground are most easily targeted. With practice, however, Sandpiper dragons can also learn to unearth stationary objects. In addition to their unearthing skills, Sandpiper dragons are also strong endurance fliers. Capable of traveling thousands of miles without stopping, some have even developed the ability to sleep with only half of their brain at a time.
Layout by Kintsy
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I N V E N T O R Y
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Exalting Plover to the service of the Lightweaver will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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