Faillon

Mate: Comet

He's in charge of running the activities of the clan

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“Altair!” Faillon’s deep, booming voice echoed out into the room from the entranceway. It prompted a diminutive purple fae to poke his head around the corner, his eyes flicking away from a spellscroll and toward the sound. “I need you to take a message!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Altair hurried down from his place atop the table, leaping over the edge to greet the large imperial.

However, his jump did not go as smoothly as planned. Instead, the tip of his wing caught the stand of an oil lamp, sending it crashing down onto the table. The lantern cracked open, splattering oil everywhere. The flames came after immediately, lapping up the fuel like a hungry animal. They leapt wildly, igniting every scrap of parchment within reach.

Altair froze, his eyes going wide. He gazed blankly at the growing fire, completely horror-stricken at what he had done. He was not even able to twitch a single muscle as the flames lashed out angrily. They reached out for his petrified form, devouring the notes and beginning to dig deeper, scorching the oil-soaked wood of the carved mahogany table.

“Windsinger’s belly scales!” Faillon roared as he rounded the corner into his study, his voice shot through with alarm. Leaving his precious notes to the massive blaze, he snapped up the tiny fae, darting from the burning building. He ran to safety, carrying the shocked and terrified Altair dangling from his mouth. Yelling for the water dragons, Faillon dropped the fae on a moss-covered stone quite a distance away from the inferno that had engulfed the paper-filled study. The enormous imperial glowered, opening his jaws to deliver the scolding of a lifetime.

He didn’t even have time to utter a word before Altair yelped, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I really am!” The fae crouched down, his tail shoved between his legs. While his face bore the typical neutral expression of his breed, the erratic fluttering of his frills clearly displaying just how afraid and apologetic he was. “It--it was just an accident! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I know I always cause trouble, I’m sorry!” His voice quaked uncontrollably, deviating from its usual monotone, choking on the words. “I don’t mean to, promise, I’m so clumsy, I’m so sorry!” Faillon’s expression softened as he took a deep, steadying breath.

“It’s--all right.” He said finally in an even tone, his head dipping down to eye the fae.

Altair’s frills quavered. “R-Really?” He stammered, barely daring to look up at the massive dragon.

“Yes.” Faillon said kindly, the anger melting out of his expression. “Notes and belongings can be replaced. Not easily, mind you, some of those were inordinately valua--” He cleared his throat for several moments, reminding himself to get back on track. “But great assistants,” he looked at Altair with a little glimmer in his eye, “. . . well, those are a sight harder to come by!” Altair heaved a sigh of relief, his limbs still shaking visibly. Faillon coughed, as if to cover up the previous softness in his tone. “But! The moment they get those flames out, I expect you to transcribe everything that can be salvaged!”

Altair grinned, his frills quivering upward hopefully. “Straight away, sir!” Faillon’s mouth twitched into an approving smile.

(ty to SkyLarK)