Heliotrope

Heliotrope hatched into this world too early, too frail, too young. His premature body was frail and feeble, his limbs failed him at every step. The Arcanist, frail too in his physical form, blessed Heliotrope with the gifts of braces for his legs so that he might walk as far as he wished to see as much as he pleased, supports for his wings so that he might soar as high as the Pillar of the World, breath of arcane life so that the small whelp might go farther and further than any of his hatchmates would dream of going.

Heliotrope grew fast, his weak limbs supported by the braces became lean with muscle no longer atrophied. His eyes glowed the bright magenta of the Arcanist's most blessed. His once-plain scales now wore sleek stripes and spots, and his wings had grown into great sanguine sails he used to see the world he loved. Indeed, he loved the world, he loved everything about it, save for the clan he hatched in. He never felt right, sitting below the laboratory of the god that saved him.

At some time in his life, Heliotrope acquired a ceaseless urge to enter the wretched hellscape that neighbored his home. The lands of the Plaguebringer and her horrendous followers no longer seemed as foreboding as his older siblings had said. He ventured out into the dark night, his feet landing on the rough terrain. He ran as fast as he could into the unknown badlands until, eventually, he became tired and stopped to rest and to eat.

There were many more excursions such as the first one, each time going further and further into the Plague territory. Each time spending more and more days in the diseased landscape, until one day he stopped going back to his clan altogether. He decided, for whatever reason, to carve out a life for himself there, in a cave he found that smelled the least like rotting flesh to his sensitive nose.

Time progresses, as in every story. Heliotrope met another wanderer, a Lightning mirror named Cinnabar, who was also drawn to the badlands by subconscious urges. Together, they founded a clan for any and all who are different, weak or unnatural in the eyes of others, or for those who understood they had no business telling another dragon what to do. And for this time, in the present, Heliotrope is happy to have been born the way he was.

Heliotrope's attention is usually turned to a young Mirror, Gunnr, who scrambled into camp one day, patched scales flaking and weak lungs fluttering from trying to fight yet another creature. Heliotrope wishes the best to her, being a runt himself, and can often be found gazing proudly at her as she tries yet again to surpass the limitations of her frame.