Pythia

Beauty from Brokenness, Hope from Despair...

After losing her last seven eggs, helpless to prevent it, by the cruel whim of the Plaguebringer, Pythia left the Clan of the Festering Crag and her mate of many years. She wandered to the Viridian Labyrinth as the antithesis of her former experiences; to seek out a gentler life for herself somewhere that would smell so fresh and clean and alive, that the stench of rot and death could finally leave her feathers and fade from her mind.
Pythia wishes that her name didn't mean 'to rot'. Wishes that her face wasn't famous as the Oracle of the House of Snakes. Here in the Viridian though, everything is seen in a different light; plagues and disease are little-heard-of; decomposition is just another natural part in the circle of life and rebirth; here, snakes are little more than fellow creatures, to be respected as a part of the environment in which they live. The taint of her name and her past need not rule her future, and thus she determined that she would find a new way of life for herself here in the Oakheart Clan.

She works as a Mistress of Ceremonies, for she knows more about rites and rituals than almost anyone, and she fell into this role with barely any discussion. One day she saw someone botching a symbolic wreath on a festival holiday and was so incensed that she let the perpetrator have more than a piece of her mind. After a heated and furious raised-voice argument, she ended it by smashing the offending article over their head, then whilst they ran off crying, proceeded to calmly and competently re-weave the vines and (somewhat bruised) flowers together into an extremely complex pattern that most of the other dragons had never even seen before.
Some of the elders, who could dimly remember, and some travellers for whom the memory was still fresh, met eyes and nodded in sagelike approval- and they all agreed that here was a dragon that really valued tradition.

She would not have stayed in such a busy clan with so many visitors, lest her past catch up to her, but for a fortuitous gift that the famed seamstress Tourmaline, on her brief stay in the clan, crafted especially for her; a beautiful, delicate silken veil. This hid her features from any who might recognise her from her 'bad old days', softened her harsh blue gaze until you could almost be fooled that they were Nature-green. Tourmaline herself could relate closely to the ambition to reinvent oneself; the need to forget the darkness of the past, and to embrace a future greater and wider and more vibrant than any they could have hoped for before. Sometimes, that's just what it takes to live a happy life. Pythia wept for the first time in years, when Tourmaline parted company- she was so distraught that she allowed Goldanna to put a wing around her in a gentle hug, somewhat grateful that this hid Pythia's tears from view. Friends you cannot hold in your arms, Goldanna reassured her, you can always hold in your heart. Tourmaline and Pythia still exchange letters and fashion commentary from time to time, and are close despite the distance between them.

Shyllantham (Tourmaline's successor as aesthetic designer and fashionista) and Pythia spend a great deal of time together, planning out complex displays to celebrate the turning of the seasons, the changes of the moon, to celebrate special events in the clan's history, and how best to immortalize them in fabrics and crafts and rituals.
They create beauty, from ashes and brokenness. Rarely is there such a blessed calling.


Pythia is all about appearances. It's less that she loves herself, far from it- moreover, she loves beauty. Pythia is the Mistress of Ceremonies, and loves taking charge of the ornamentation and orchestration of celebrations and important dates of the calendar, big or small. She takes pride not in herself, but in what she can do for the clan- she appears to be vastly successful, earning considerable wealth from her popular clothing designs, and open permission from the Council of Elders to take whatever she needs from the treasury, within reason, so her creativity knows no bounds.

Pythia is no underling, but neither is she strictly one of the leaders, but she has definite clout- almost everyone follows her instructions, be they as difficult as 'go and find me a thirty-foot high mahogany tree, and return it here unharmed!' or as simple as 'put your finger here while I tie this knot.' Many people rightfully fear her ire- she isn't exactly cruel or vindictive, but she has a very, very long and detailed memory. Sooner or later, someone will want a favor from her. And if they haven't held up their end, ever, she will remind them of that. Anyone who looked at her, and her fancy accents and elegant skins, ever-changing with the seasons like the leaves on the trees- anyone else, would see success. Achievement.
She herself, though, cannot look past the darkness of her past. Every day she claws back an ounce of hope, a smidgeon of pride, but it seems so vast and impossible that she can scarce bear to dwell on it. So she covers it with a veil, wears her new role as a cloak, and tries to settle into her new life and accept the warmth and welcome her new 'family' has for her here in Oakheart.

Recently, she was contacted out of the blue by a daughter she'd long since lost touch with, and had long thought dead- Stephanie! Daughter of herself and her most beloved of her passing lovers, Hershy! She peered down at the photo, smile growing wider by the second, blinking to see through fast-blurring eyes-



Stephanie had grown into a beautiful coatl with the same luxuriant velveteen pelt as her mother, and chocolatey glimmer stomach like her father. The photograph enclosed was of her seated at a grand desk, with an elegant polished nameplate and- was that a kettle? What a splendidly sophisticated dragon she'd grown up to be! A secretary for the Shade, no less!
Pythia paused, and frowned over the letter. Then shook her head. It must be some sort of title, not the actual shade itself. It must be a Tribe thing. But that desk, that proud bearing, those piercing eyes- Pythia was reduced to tears of delighted pride- so overwhelmed was she that she actually hugged the letter's carrier, Farfalla- not an action which many people survived to tell the tale. Farfalla was so shocked that she didn't even think to disembowel the 'attacker'- she froze up. Eventually, horrified and blushing furiously, the younger coatl struggled free with an embarrassed squeak. Both usually-aloof dragons stared at each other, settled their feathers into a semblance of composure, cleared their throats awkwardly, then walked off fast in opposite directions.