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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.48 m
Wingspan
2.05 m
Weight
96.78 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Vipera
Vipera
Blood
Daub
Daub
Chocolate
Spines
Spines
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Spiral
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
| CARABAS |
"in the crease and spasm of the thing about to be done | is lost in his work"
The Shark, Mary Oliver |
Carabas spent a lot of his hatchling days reading. All kinds of things - scientific papers; fairy tales; other dragons' grocery lists, if there was nothing else around. He grew up a little strange, but the Sunshower Settlement has always had a place for strange Spirals, and the dragons in the workshop were the most likely to leave him to his own devices. In the workshop, though, everyone is working on something - and Carabas didn't have a project of his own. He took to the work like he did his reading, trying a little of everything one at a time: alchemical tinctures, mechanical devices, weaponsmithing; studying tomes and spellbooks and the other dragons' grocery lists (he certainly wasn't going to talk to them about their works-in-progress). Was there something no one else had done before? Was there something he could do better? In the end, he found what he was looking for in his fairy tales. There was a common theme, he noticed, of creations - artificial dragons, constructs, mechanical or alchemical creatures - which always carry some sort of flaw. In some stories they didn't last long enough, and in others they turned against their creators. Carabas thought he understood the problem. If the aim was to make something just like a dragon, then by tying their longevity to their ability to understand dragon society, both issues would be solved. Carabas is good at what he does. Everything that he took into account, he executed flawlessly. His creations would be self-sustaining and self-teaching. They woud feed on energy generated by- well, love and adoration seem a little too strong, a bit much to ask, so he expanded it to any strong emotion. He used his own blood as a model for life, but he didn't want them to look like him, necessarily, and so he pulled in a touch of shapeshifting magic, too. They'd be better at relating to dragonkind if they could look like whoever they were talking to, he reasoned. Carabas is very good at what he does, and that encompasses a great many subjects - alchemy, magic, science, metalworking. What he's not good at - and what he failed to take into account - is interacting with hatchlings.  
"... Oh, no," he muttered. "I didn't mean to make you so tiny. And fragile." He hurried to sweep his sharper tools and corrosive solutions into a bin out of reach, and when he turned back, they were gone.
&
"You made shapeshifting hatchlings who feed on attention?" one of the other scientists asked when Carabas flew to her for help. "Made and then lost," he mumbled, twisting himself into sheepish loops around her workbench. "But they'll be okay until we find them, right? I made them self-sustaining." "Sure, maybe. What are they like?" "Uh. They were yellowish when last I saw-" "No, not that. I meant - they're not like you, are they? If they feed off of affection and they're as shy as you are..." "Oh, no." continued in Mettle's bio
When his wayward hatchlings showed back up, Carabas was relieved - that they were safe, and alive, and that he hadn’t messed up that badly so as to lose them completely - and wary - because something had already gone wrong, and he hadn’t been around to see what kind of dragon they grew up into - and proud - because they were grown up, so big and different from when he’d last seen them - and nervous - because they’d brought strangers with them!! - and, well -
He hid under his workbench for the first twenty minutes. Not a great first impression. By the time he calmed down enough to come back out again, one of the strangers had set up a little tea party on the floor, and one of the other strangers was asking Mettle about the things on the shelf, one by one. Carabas darted out just in time to stop her from reaching out to pick up a potion, and by then he was caught in pleasantries and curiosity. He learned that the purpose of their visit was to figure out why Mettle and Marrow were deteriorating. He could guess at why, in the first five minutes of talking to this little group - the two strangers took the lead in conversation, which meant that his little experiments took after him. Like Aeisvas had warned - they were too shy. “Love... from more people?” The one Mettle called Whyfor tipped his head to one side. “I don’t know if that’s, hm. Well.” “I don’t want to talk to more people,” Mettle cut in. “I’m going to die if I don’t?” “Well- No- Um- Well-” Carabas tried his best not to twist up into knots again, because that was always embarrassing to have to undo. “I’m sure there’s some way... you can make people like you... without? Talking to? Or interacting with them?” Honestly, if any of them figured out a way to do that, he’d be first in line to learn. He dove back into his books and notes at the first opportunity, and the little group hung around his workshop - “We’re not just leaving without an answer,” Mettle insisted - and got in his way surprisingly little.
&
In the end, it was a hatchling who solved the problem. Marrow and Rhizoma’s first clutch came out healthy - oh good - and shapeshifting - uh oh?, and as they grew they clung indiscriminately to each member of the eclectic little family in the Settlement’s workshop. The eldest girl picked things up fast, always with a listening twitch of her ear and a sharp understanding look in her eye that Carabas didn’t much like from a hatchling that young. But she asked the key question. “Miss Mettle,” she said, because Marrow and Rhizoma’s babies are raised polite, “you like talking to us, don’t you?” “You’re different,” Mettle conceded. “You’re like us.” “But if you and papa don’t like talking to other people - and you need to? Why don’t you talk to us and we talk to them?” She blinked up at the adults with the easy straightforwardness of a child, and she was met with a pensive silence. ... Why don’t they? 
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Creations:
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