Cut the small talk. Darya knows the heart of the matter as soon as one enters the room. She read it in their posture, their eyes, an aura of context. And she knows what to do, the solutions lay themselves out before her. In fact, so deep is Darya in the matter that she seems somewhere else. Her eyes look into the distance and she shies away from eye contact. If she focuses on another dragon she runs risk of getting too far into their business, so she'll distract herself and often murmur about anything but. Her tail taps in repetition, her claws scratch wave patterns in the sand, always preening and looking away. Should somebody catch her eye she gets lost in a soul-searching gaze for a minute before she finds herself again.

The hatchlings of the lair are her delight. While the worlds of adult dragons sink heavily into her mind, young dragons with bits of eggshell stuck to their sticky wings find heartfelt pain and joy in relatively small matters. But oh, they are not small matters to the young! First pain, first hunger, first burning curiosity. Darya dotes upon them with the perfect gifts for each, a mockingly stern glare which melts into a smile and a presented seashell. Listen to the ocean, small beastie, cutest jellybean, play in the sand and run shrieking from lapping waves. Darya respects and loves these tender babies.

In her bad hours, she retreats into the dark below where the toothy horrors glow. These times she sees only the bitter shattered pieces of other dragons, and shows only her own growling, cynical side, baring her teeth and her pain.

She is still Searching.