They say that different colors can elicit different emotions. Red promotes anger and energy, green promotes soothing, pink promotes softness, and so on. Evalau felt that it went deeper than that. Purple was more than imaginative; it is the sky before the sun sets, those shades of violet dream, fading yet vibrant. White was more than purity; it was the first soft snowfall in winter, the joy that colored the faces of every hatchling in the clan. Then, of course, there was his favorite color—blue.

Tidal blue was the color of his parents’ eyes. Both of them had passed down a bright blue heritage of loyalty to the Tidelord and respect for the seas that he had given them. From his mother, he also got a sharp wit and quick smile. From his father, he inherited the fear to use either. It was stifling, to be so unsure in conversation. He pursued more solitary hobbies as a result.

A flurry of blues were the colors of his first painting. He dove into the Fishspine Reef to find just the right shade of plants to dye his paint, then fell over the canvas with careful brushstrokes for hours on end. When it was finally finished, a part of him said that it was still incomplete. He felt there was more to be done, though he did not have the skill to do it. His mother’s resolve gave him the confidence to show only one person; a childhood friend. Her jaw fell open when he revealed it. It was the ocean, seen from the inside. The dark shapes of swimming dragons blotted out the sun and the speckled light that fell through the waves was vibrant enough to taste. More than anything else, it was comfortable. Evalau had never been afraid of the ocean—he hadn’t yet had a reason to. He was still young.

Dark, dark blue was the storm. The Stormcatcher had a score to settle with the Tidelord that day. Evalau felt the riptide, crueler than it had ever been, pulling him into its depths. His father screamed his name, and seconds later, his mother’s. All that Evalau could do was squeeze his eyes shut and pray. Pray that the Leviathan Depths wouldn’t claim him, pray that the current wouldn’t hide his body, pray that his parents would be alright. The Tidelord, it seemed, was too busy to respond. When he washed up on the beach an eternity later, he was alone.

The sky was a lonely, expansive blue when he finally opened his eyes. Everything was upside-down. His family had been ripped away from him, and the deity he had so piously loved had let it happen. The ocean made him shiver. It was no longer comfort. Instead, it was danger. That was what he painted. Depths of unfathomable fear and mourning, the darker side of the seas, all laid out on canvas. He traded his creations for food and housing. None of it was permanent.

Sweet, soothing blue was the music that drifted into his bedroom. If music could be colored, this would be blue and purple spiraling on a dark backdrop. He took out his paints and followed the sound. When the song drew to a close, he had painted a symphony. It felt only right to give it to the musicians who inspired it. Their singer introduced herself as Laurangue. She stepped with a grace uncommon in mirror dragons, and plucked the sketch from his claws with equal elegance. A look of soft awe came over her.

“Do you like to paint?” she said, voice steeped the same deep-ocean drawl she sang with.

“It’s how I live,” he replied.

“How poetic,” Laurangue muttered. She took him by the hand and led him under the waves.

Brilliant blue was the theater. The Company, a makeshift clan of the best artists on the ocean floor, welcomed him straight under their wings. They put his art on pedestals and hung it on walls. He smiled kindly at every compliment, but felt distant as ever. Socialization was an art that he had never managed to master. His time was spent in a room with all the company of his creations, a silence more keenly felt miles beneath the surface.

A hatchling stepped hesitantly into his workspace. She turned her blue ocean eyes up at Evalau and asked quietly, sweetly, for a lesson on painting. Children were absolutely his weakness. How could he say no? Each day, she returned with more and more hatchlings. They crowded around to watch as he colored the canvas, then clumsily tried to recreate his work. Their messy paint splatters were the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. Often, they painted the ocean, as nonthreatening as it was when he was young. It felt like home.

Credit to resplendentChaos for the fantastic bio!