Brianna
(#23018828)
The Deaf Minstrel
Familiar
Autumn Dryad
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Nature.
Female Skydancer
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.45 m
Wingspan
5.19 m
Weight
765.31 kg
Genetics
Brown
Cherub
Cherub
Brown
Stripes
Stripes
Maize
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 5 Skydancer
EXP: 2602 / 5545
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx♕ B R I A N N A The Deaf Minstrel ╰ ╭  ╰ ╭ 
MARIELA
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JERICHO
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SCUNNER
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Quiet | Smelly | Loner ╰ bio template by squidragon adapted by Katalist 
Daughter of Balefire - Granddaughter of Maple - Great Granddaughter of Chimalmat. |
""Now you all know the bards and their songs When hours have gone by, I'll close my eyes In a world far away we may meet again But now hear my song about the dawn of the night Let's sing the bards' song.""
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The resident Hobo. Fawn doesn't have a home and prefers to sit on the outskirts of tribal meetings and listen in. The main reason she hasn't been moved on is her connection to many of the coatls in the clan. To make her pay though, she sets up a little stage on the middle of the marketplace and plays a range of songs, in return for a few coins thrown in her hat. Often she provides the background music for the marketplace, as well as the soundtrack for the coatl twin's performances. Her skill in performing is intense, and could earn her a much more professional, well paying job, but she prefers to sit in the dust and play her battered instruments, with only the tinkle of coins disrupting her concentration. The other market people don't mind her music either, as long as she doesn't draw their customers away. Often times a pickpocketer has made quite a profit off the crowd of patrons listening, entranced to Brianna's playing. The furs and wraps she drapes on herself are gifts from Pyre and her great Grandmother, Chimalmat. She can't bear to take them off, plus they provide her with warmth during the cold nights. Everyone assumes she's a slightly taller tundra because of all the fluff, but she doesn't mind, as long as the fluff doesn't get caught in her harp strings or muddle the beats on her drums. Of a night she's taken to playing inside the pub Jericho owns, where she makes the most money. Drunken patrons are a lot looser with their coin.
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I.
The courtroom was dusty and old, but packed. Motes swirled in slants of liquid gold. Sometimes a sneeze would come from the crowd, only to be stifled and hushed. Every eye was affixed to the small Skydancer’s back. She stood on the defendant’s stand. Like the room, she was dusty. But she also had an air of faded elegance — like teacups rarely used but often polished. The judge, an old Snapper, pawed at his gavel. He glared at the Imperial with the bushy whiskers. “Will that be all, Abel Ringham?” The Imperial had fallen silent, his stone-hard eyes glinting with fury. He leaned toward the Skydancer and whispered, “Your life is over.” She didn’t reply. The gavel cracked down briskly. “This court finds Dr. Abel Ringham guilty of unlawful incarceration and cruel experimentation. Sentence pending.” The onlookers cheered, filling the courtroom with sound. Brianna smiled serenely. She couldn’t hear them — couldn’t hear anything — but whispered, “Thank you.”
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It’s hard to imagine for many, but there are clan-less, family-less dragons. In many cases, they get along alright. Sometimes they blow in and out with the seasons, like leaves. Sometimes they get picked up. Brianna was one of those unattached children. No one could guess where she’d blown in from, but they took notice right away. During market days, she stood atop a small wooden boxes and belted out music. Sometimes it was songs she’d heard before—long, soul-pulling ballads. Other times, it was light ditties made up on the spur of the moment. The other local musicians strove to join her, either on fiddle, lute or harmonica, but she sang them down with ease. Throughout the clan was the misty conviction: that girl deserves better, she should be in school, where’s her family? But no one had the means or connections, so they tossed a potato, coin or shiny rock into her small wicker basket and went on with their lives. If they awoke at night, they rarely realized it was her voice they heard in their dreams. They ascribed it to an angel. So Brianna lived on, notice and not noticed, for a long while. Until the wind blew in something far more sinister: Dr. Abel Ringham.
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Dr. Ringham’s Potions – Tinctures – Cures! Red lettering adorned his black wagon, which was pulled by two scrawny white geldings. That wasn’t what caught Brianna’s eye. A plush of Glademother sat in the window of his wagon, winking down at her. The prettiest toy she had ever seen. Well, never mind. Today, the market air was cold. The sky was pallid blue-gray, and leaves crackled over broken flagstones. She knew without knowing that times were hard and she had to sing very well to get anything. So she began to sing about day breaking the night, the sun pushing aside the clouds. It may have been her imagination — but the light grew brighter and bathed her scales. Her basket overflowed: small buttons, more potatoes, a few coins. She only noticed the dark golden Imp later. He stood before her tapping his foot and twiddling his whiskers. His sloe-dark eyes glistened, as did his mottled goldenrod scales. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome and lively he looked — how lithe, and how the gray sky frosted his scales… At last, she stopped. She began to gather the donations into her wicker basket, to lift it to her chest. “Excuse me.” The voice was deep, mellifluous as a bell. She blushed. Dr. Abel bowed graciously to her. “Such lovely music. Sparkling entertainment. Mightn’t I treat you to a drink?” “A…drink?” “That is what I said.” He bent low to her and winked. “Surely your throat hurts after all that.” “Oh, no, sir, not at all.” He was handsome, but something about him made her want to turn away and flee. Before she could move, he had taken her arm to lead her away. He took her into one of the local taverns. She had daydreamed about this one in particular, the one with roses on the tables and purple velvet curtains over the windows. A few well-dressed dragons shot them strange looks. She sat at a table across from him, her feet dangling. She smiled and blushed more, and couldn’t help it. He bought a bottle of pink-white champagne, winked again, and poured them both a glass. He handed her one. She could only hold it, admiring the long, fluted stem and its sacred gem-stone sparkle. “To your talent,” Dr. Abel Ringham boomed. “Now drink.” She did. And she woke up sixteen hours later in the back of his wagon as it trundled to the next town.
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Part pet, part experiment. He drove them into the shade of the Tangled Wood, where he was from — where eyes are averted from evil. A long chain snaked around her ankle and bound her to his wagon. She was forced to create endless songs extolling the virtues of his snake oil, on pain of starvation and beatings. But her voice began to crack and despair within the muddled twilights of the Shadow Realm. Soon she was hoarse, whispering where once she’d rang. And one night, he poured some of his snake oil into her ears. She awoke feeling numb and blind, but that wasn’t it. Her voice—her one constant—was now lost to her. Still, she sang on however she could. She had learned the notes not by listening, but by the level of vibration in her chest. Dr. Abel Ringham’s insults now fell on freshly-deafened ears.
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When he made the mistake of driving back to Nature, a villager there recognized Brianna at once. The young stockboy, a Nocturne, had long harbored a crush on her. Even when she’d gone away and he’d found a wife, he would think on her shy, timid beauty and beautiful voice, and awake in a sweat. To see her now, to see her tattered clothes and the ugly wound around her leg, filled him with horror. He rushed to where she stood before the wagon, his paws groping for her face. “Brianna, it’s you! What happened, love?” She peered into his face without understanding. Her gaze was mostly empty, her feathers pale. It was then the Nocturne realized that she was deaf. He didn’t know whether or not she’d always been deaf — he didn’t think so — but that wasn’t important. Dr. Abel, looking the same as he had years before, barreled out of the wagon, shaking his fist. “Lay off my girl, wretch. She’s mine.” The Nocturne spat in Imperial’s golden face. “No she ain’t. Not in Nature, she ain’t. She was our village’s — ours — and that’s final.” Among many other faults, Dr. Abel Ringham was full of pride and nastiness. So he didn’t drive his wagon on even though the Nature village refused to look his way. That night he ate a full, hearty meal, tossing Brianna a scrap or two, which she didn’t eat. And that night, when it was dark, the villagers came. They surrounded the wagon with burning torches and hauled Dr. Abel out. He was silent. Brianna stood in the doorway, looking out after him, pale as a ghost.
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A lesson about compassion, they say. Every home lights up at night, trying to coax the wandering Skydancer in to pass the night. They give her food and drink, mead and meat, and ask nothing in return. None of them have the arts to restore her hearing, but the police have seized Dr. Abel’s wagon and are trying their hardest to understand. Until then, Brianna stands on her box in the marketplace, singing and not hearing, gazing out and not seeing, their village’s beloved music box.
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ETYMOLOGY - Brianna: Celtic ""Strong. She Ascends"" RELATIONS -
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