Nehalennia
(#27503191)
Level 3 Guardian
Eyesong
Tricky Telescope
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Energy: 44/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Female Guardian
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
10.74 m
Wingspan
20.3 m
Weight
11119.28 kg
Genetics
Blue
Jupiter
Jupiter
Twilight
Saturn
Saturn
Steel
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 3 Guardian
EXP: 419 / 1401
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
8
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
8
MND
6
Lineage
Biography
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 N E H A L E N N I A Skald 
╰ ╭ Nehalennia is Skemmdeljott's skald, whose ability to flatter egos, inspire confidence or courage or most other emotions in her friends' hearts is unequaled in her clan. Her voice, though on command high as the Pillar of the World or deep as Leviathan Trench, seldom rises in anger and is often as silvery or golden as the jewels she's so fond of (despite some other dragons looking upon her love of gems and ornaments as distasteful, she never takes them off, for Nehalennia has never been one to heed counsel when it pleased her not). Yet for a dragon so fond of music and song, hearing her talk is rare, and a quick look under her sturdy voice and straight bearing will reveal a fragile and all-too humorless soul, one that has seen too much. Greedy for love and affection, which most of Skemmdeljott lavishes upon her in unregulated amounts, Nehalennia never lacks for much, and is hard to dislike when truly well-known. No one really knew wherefrom Nehalennia came. She remembers a few scant things from her time in a thin-shelled egg – omnipresent darkness, the voice of her parents telling her their names and those of her kinsmen. Not that she cared much. To her, home was the wild wastes of Emberglow and its ashen winds and the constant clang of hammer upon blade. And, above all, the song. How her egg was lost, she knows not, but somehow it ended up in the claws of a clan of wild coatls, travelling as itinerant smiths and bards throughout the southern regions of Sornieth. All but one elderly she-dragon spoke no word of common Draconic, and it was from her, who knew the tongue of the longnecks and the tongue of the harpies and the tongue of the marens, that Nehalennia learnt harp and word and song-craft. |
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When they were hired to serve with some local nobility campaigning in Carrion Canyon against harpies, Nehalennia got her first taste of the world outside her clan. All she had known of war had come from her mentor’s songs and tales of old, and she set off with an eager heart, dreaming of the wonders she would see. It seemed a fine adventure at the time, with the dashing commanders in shining armour with longswords at their hips and the great unfurled banners. Probably the greatest she’d yet known. A moon later and half the host were fouling themselves from drinking bad water (not that there was much water to behold, in truth), and the scales of their feet were falling away from neglect. Another moon and the first signs of pillaging were there, and though the officers punished plundering harshly, they could hardly prevent the starving dragons from taking what they could entirely. Nehalennia’s clan had their own supplies, and were thus well-fed and free from the unsavoury spectacle below, but to a young untried dragon such as her, the resentment and horror were shaking.
With that amount of discontent, desertions were inevitable. Dragons slunk away in the night, never to come back - or at least they tried. When one day, a patrol came back dragging six of them along. Two of them were much older than what she had expected of defectors, one imperial even sporting a long beard gone to silver already. Their ages would not matter, in any case. Everyone in the army knew what would happen, as it did to all who tried to leave their post; a rope around the neck and a shallow grave by the roadside. In other words, a dragon whose dishonour would better be left forgotten and a sad, shameful death, but one which their commander sought to make at public as possible. Nehalennia still remembers that afternoon, to this day. The sun was blazing hot, enough to make even her, used to the warmth of Ashfall Waste, uncomfortable. The six prisoners were bound, staring glumly at the nooses being prepared. It was noon when the first one was brought forth, a youthful wildclaw who seemed panicked at what lay ahead, and started struggling as soon as they put the noose around her slender neck.
It was then that she surprised herself by shouldering her way up to the front ranks, for she had always been strong even for a guardian, and looking up to the young condemned. She did not know her, but she was desperately - and vainly - trying to escape her incoming fate. And she started to sing. That day, she sang of loss and courage and plenty more, and, above all, of home. There is a saying among nomadic dragons, that death was just another journey to one's final home with their gods and ancestors. She sought to embody her feelings, and those of countless generations of skalds, in her words, to bring courage for one long last adventure. For what more was death? And upon hearing her words, the young wildclaw straightened and stopped struggling, and she did not move until they removed the noose from her thin, broken neck and crushed pipe. Nehalennia kept on singing, and it was only when the last of them died that she realized she was weeping. That evening, she left.
There were whispers in the Windswept Plateau, of a frail, elfin soul wandering in the night, seldom seen yet often heard. For Nehalennia had foregone speech and the company of other dragons entirely, preferring her own self's presence to anything anyone else could muster. If the world outside her mind truly was so rotten as to make her sing to help a dragon die, then she would have no part in it. And thus she sang to the clouds and the reeds and herself, dancing on the breeze, all the while hiding as soon as she thought someone would come. No, she would not return to this world. She had no place in it, no more than it had a place in her mind. And dragons spoke of the fey spirit of Reedcleft, whom none had yet seen. For a Guardian dragon, she was surprisingly apt at remaining hidden out of sight. Yet for all that she was happy to live all on her own, she felt something was... lacking, somewhat. And when one day, as she sang, she heard a voice answer in the melodic tunes of Coatl songs, she found she had no choice but to follow.
It was not a long walk, and her steps carried her to where the other dragon was waiting. She was a slight coatl covered in vines, but her voice was as melodic as any she had ever heard, and mingled with the wind like a lover. Though she did not show herself, the next day, she waited at the same place, though she had no idea why. And the coatl came, and this time, she started humming with her. Another two turns of the sun, and she felt confident enough to make herself truly heard. Their voices went up and sang to the sky, sang of hills and meadows and forests and moors lying beneath the waves, of lands of old buried since the end of the Second Age, and this forever. It took longer for them to start singing of themselves - for they had, since their first meeting, not exchanged a word that was not accompanied by the trill of a note - and as Shinatobe told her story, Nehalennia could not help but think that Providence had some strange humour indeed. Two mutes, one by chance and the other by choice. What were the odds? For the first time in a long while, she thought she felt a kindred spirit. And so their game continued over the months, always in song, never in words. And though this very real sense of belonging she experienced was heartwarming, she knew better than to fully open her heart to another dragon, to trust in them. So why, then, when Shinatobe sang of love and mates and eggs and Pan, did it taste oh so so bitterly like betrayal?
They parted ways after that, Shinatobe back to her own lair and Nehalennia to a place she'd heard the coatl sing of, far off to the West in the Scarred Wasteland, one that she hoped would take her in. Skemmdeljott was welcoming enough, and she quickly made herself somewhat at home among the dragons there, most of them exiles and outcasts like she was. The dragons there were friendly enough, and she swiftly rose to the place of clan singer; entertainment was hard to come by in the Wasteland, especially for a small clan such as this one. She found a friend in Alba, the clan leader's daughter, whose mind was as broken as her own, albeit in a completely different sense. But song healed the older dragon's soul, just as friendship and learning about alchemy and plants healed hers, and after a few moons, she started talking again, slowly at first but soon forming sentences. She was tutored in this by Alba's sister Angharad, who took a special interest in seeing her learn.
Another dragon whose friendship she secured was Alba and Angharad's younger brother, charming and handsome and friendly enough. Of all, he was always ready to offer her assistance, always there if she needed anything. One winter evening, while she was lying under the sky and softly chanting to the stars, he sought her out. What he was asking, though, she was not ready for. She held him as a friend, but naught more, and moreover she held no interest in drakes, however kind they might be. Yet now, his ruby eyes which had ever been so gentle blazed like the fires of Emberglow, and she shrank away from him in fear. To no avail. He was faster, and knocked her over before she could try to fly away, and, while she was much heavier, she did not have his training or his muscles, and, before long, he had her pinned to the ground, one paw clamping her jaws shut to prevent her to scream. As his jaws came nearer to her face, she felt herself panicking.
Suddenly, a second tongue sprouted right out of his mouth, dripping with red. Angharad pulled her longsword out of the assailant's skull, and he collapsed to the ground. Nehalennia only had the time to register what had happened before the other she-dragon broke out in tears near to her brother's body, cradling his lifeless corpse in her arms, and the only thing she could do was to hold to Angharad herself. It was there that they were found the next morning, all three covered in blood and the two she-dragons weeping and wrapped around each other. When the princess failed to appear the next day, and the day after, Nehalennia knew she, who could share in her grief, had to do something. So she sang to her friend of love, and of loss, and of things come and gone. And as they both rebuilt themselves over again, Nehalennia knew she'd found two things, her charge - and her love.
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╭- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I N F O R M A T I O N - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -╮
ETYMOLOGY - Nehalennia is a pre-Celtic or pre-Germanic goddess, who was worshipped on the southern coasts of the North Sea, with which she is most frequently associated.
RELATIONSHIPS - Mate, first love
LIKES - Singing, music, solitude, hugs, Angharad
DISLIKES - Noise, jokes and laughing in general, solitude
╰- - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -╯
Credit for the image goes to the amazing stormydanish.
With that amount of discontent, desertions were inevitable. Dragons slunk away in the night, never to come back - or at least they tried. When one day, a patrol came back dragging six of them along. Two of them were much older than what she had expected of defectors, one imperial even sporting a long beard gone to silver already. Their ages would not matter, in any case. Everyone in the army knew what would happen, as it did to all who tried to leave their post; a rope around the neck and a shallow grave by the roadside. In other words, a dragon whose dishonour would better be left forgotten and a sad, shameful death, but one which their commander sought to make at public as possible. Nehalennia still remembers that afternoon, to this day. The sun was blazing hot, enough to make even her, used to the warmth of Ashfall Waste, uncomfortable. The six prisoners were bound, staring glumly at the nooses being prepared. It was noon when the first one was brought forth, a youthful wildclaw who seemed panicked at what lay ahead, and started struggling as soon as they put the noose around her slender neck.
It was then that she surprised herself by shouldering her way up to the front ranks, for she had always been strong even for a guardian, and looking up to the young condemned. She did not know her, but she was desperately - and vainly - trying to escape her incoming fate. And she started to sing. That day, she sang of loss and courage and plenty more, and, above all, of home. There is a saying among nomadic dragons, that death was just another journey to one's final home with their gods and ancestors. She sought to embody her feelings, and those of countless generations of skalds, in her words, to bring courage for one long last adventure. For what more was death? And upon hearing her words, the young wildclaw straightened and stopped struggling, and she did not move until they removed the noose from her thin, broken neck and crushed pipe. Nehalennia kept on singing, and it was only when the last of them died that she realized she was weeping. That evening, she left.
There were whispers in the Windswept Plateau, of a frail, elfin soul wandering in the night, seldom seen yet often heard. For Nehalennia had foregone speech and the company of other dragons entirely, preferring her own self's presence to anything anyone else could muster. If the world outside her mind truly was so rotten as to make her sing to help a dragon die, then she would have no part in it. And thus she sang to the clouds and the reeds and herself, dancing on the breeze, all the while hiding as soon as she thought someone would come. No, she would not return to this world. She had no place in it, no more than it had a place in her mind. And dragons spoke of the fey spirit of Reedcleft, whom none had yet seen. For a Guardian dragon, she was surprisingly apt at remaining hidden out of sight. Yet for all that she was happy to live all on her own, she felt something was... lacking, somewhat. And when one day, as she sang, she heard a voice answer in the melodic tunes of Coatl songs, she found she had no choice but to follow.
It was not a long walk, and her steps carried her to where the other dragon was waiting. She was a slight coatl covered in vines, but her voice was as melodic as any she had ever heard, and mingled with the wind like a lover. Though she did not show herself, the next day, she waited at the same place, though she had no idea why. And the coatl came, and this time, she started humming with her. Another two turns of the sun, and she felt confident enough to make herself truly heard. Their voices went up and sang to the sky, sang of hills and meadows and forests and moors lying beneath the waves, of lands of old buried since the end of the Second Age, and this forever. It took longer for them to start singing of themselves - for they had, since their first meeting, not exchanged a word that was not accompanied by the trill of a note - and as Shinatobe told her story, Nehalennia could not help but think that Providence had some strange humour indeed. Two mutes, one by chance and the other by choice. What were the odds? For the first time in a long while, she thought she felt a kindred spirit. And so their game continued over the months, always in song, never in words. And though this very real sense of belonging she experienced was heartwarming, she knew better than to fully open her heart to another dragon, to trust in them. So why, then, when Shinatobe sang of love and mates and eggs and Pan, did it taste oh so so bitterly like betrayal?
They parted ways after that, Shinatobe back to her own lair and Nehalennia to a place she'd heard the coatl sing of, far off to the West in the Scarred Wasteland, one that she hoped would take her in. Skemmdeljott was welcoming enough, and she quickly made herself somewhat at home among the dragons there, most of them exiles and outcasts like she was. The dragons there were friendly enough, and she swiftly rose to the place of clan singer; entertainment was hard to come by in the Wasteland, especially for a small clan such as this one. She found a friend in Alba, the clan leader's daughter, whose mind was as broken as her own, albeit in a completely different sense. But song healed the older dragon's soul, just as friendship and learning about alchemy and plants healed hers, and after a few moons, she started talking again, slowly at first but soon forming sentences. She was tutored in this by Alba's sister Angharad, who took a special interest in seeing her learn.
Another dragon whose friendship she secured was Alba and Angharad's younger brother, charming and handsome and friendly enough. Of all, he was always ready to offer her assistance, always there if she needed anything. One winter evening, while she was lying under the sky and softly chanting to the stars, he sought her out. What he was asking, though, she was not ready for. She held him as a friend, but naught more, and moreover she held no interest in drakes, however kind they might be. Yet now, his ruby eyes which had ever been so gentle blazed like the fires of Emberglow, and she shrank away from him in fear. To no avail. He was faster, and knocked her over before she could try to fly away, and, while she was much heavier, she did not have his training or his muscles, and, before long, he had her pinned to the ground, one paw clamping her jaws shut to prevent her to scream. As his jaws came nearer to her face, she felt herself panicking.
Suddenly, a second tongue sprouted right out of his mouth, dripping with red. Angharad pulled her longsword out of the assailant's skull, and he collapsed to the ground. Nehalennia only had the time to register what had happened before the other she-dragon broke out in tears near to her brother's body, cradling his lifeless corpse in her arms, and the only thing she could do was to hold to Angharad herself. It was there that they were found the next morning, all three covered in blood and the two she-dragons weeping and wrapped around each other. When the princess failed to appear the next day, and the day after, Nehalennia knew she, who could share in her grief, had to do something. So she sang to her friend of love, and of loss, and of things come and gone. And as they both rebuilt themselves over again, Nehalennia knew she'd found two things, her charge - and her love.
╰
╭
ETYMOLOGY - Nehalennia is a pre-Celtic or pre-Germanic goddess, who was worshipped on the southern coasts of the North Sea, with which she is most frequently associated.
RELATIONSHIPS - Mate, first love
LIKES - Singing, music, solitude, hugs, Angharad
DISLIKES - Noise, jokes and laughing in general, solitude
╰
Credit for the image goes to the amazing stormydanish.
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