Sorrel

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He speaks perfect, fluent tree, he knows all of their stories, even the ones of the shadowy spooky trees with their clawing branches and dark trunks. He perches among their branches and coaxed whispery words from their gnarled bark and their dark wary leaves. He tells the trees his own stories, tells them of places trees cannot go, of choppy oceans, colorful reefs, of the friendly fish he meets, even of the lands scarred by disease.

In return the trees sing for him and with him, his voice giving their songs words and meaning. In the autumn, when the leaves turn gold and red and pale yellow, he dances for them, he calls and the leaves answer his call. They whisper secrets to him, things long forgotten and the people they've seen.

He knows the beasts well too, knows how the children run to him with joy, wishing to feel his warm, worn scales, to braid flowers and trinkets into his mane. He plays games with them, hide and seek and search and find, he makes them laugh with joy and dances for them with jubilant glee. The adults are relaxed around him, for they see the laughter and wisdom in his green green eyes, they know he will never harm their young.

He speaks their language, as fluent as he speaks tree, and he tells them all about what he knows. He warns them of approaching storms, of dangerous creatures and other threats they worry about. The beasts don't know him by any name, they call him the green-of-the-leaves, the oak-of-sorrow, they know he is a protector of everything wholesome and alive.

This dragon fears nothing, for his voice calls authority to every plant and beast, even where plague runs wild and disease sinks deep into the ground. He steps there with no fear, with his head held high and voice calling to the beasts and to the horrid trees. He gives them his stories and his attention. In return they tell him what they know, though they cannot shed leaves or play with him as others do.

He doesn't mind, he still sings and dances and twirls in the humid air. The plaguemother cannot stop him, for nature is in everything, and he does not fear her as most of his kind do. He goes where he wishes, whether that be the sea, the fiery woods, or the southern icefield. His words are kind, and his laughter echoes the wisdom of a thousand years and more.

No matter where he goes, he carries an old, pure soul, full of stories and languages and all things alive.

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Sorrel is a kindhearted, affectionate dragon, who's heart is light with laughter and joy. He's cheerful and easy going, and very, very trusting. He's unable to see the bad in anyone, and the trees chastise him for this very day. He only ever smiles at their cautionary words, and he always tells them he'll be alright.

He's rarely home in the clan of plague (formerly fire) and Sakkuare absolutely hates this, but Sorrel never fails to calm his temper with a smile and a few flowers. It's incredibly difficult to do this imperial any harm, with how warm and bright he is. He adores having company, and will strike up a conversation with any dragon that will humor him.

However, Sorrel is almost always alone in his grand garden, which sprawls the entirety of a small valley, over ten acres of land covered in beautiful flowers and trees. It's never winter there, it never snows. There is no biting chill, simply the warmth of spring and summer and the comfortable chill of fall. The garden is a sanctuary for anyone who wishes for it, as the gate shows itself to those who need the quiet of the garden.

If he meets anyone near his garden, he'll invite them inside, for as much as he loves the trees and the beasts they aren't much company. He's lonely, and sometimes can be found wandering far from his garden gates, looking for others he can speak to.

He speaks fluent tree and beast, but his dragon seems a little rusty, and although he speaks with warmth, his voice is soft and whispery, and sometimes many people don't hear him.

Ignore them. We hear you plenty well! The trees say, coaxing him to their highest branches and calling for him to come play with them. He will always go, because the trees were the first things he knew.

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art space

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Twirl and twist and dance to your heart's desire. We will sing for you, our little tree-boy.