Constance

Dead men tell no tales, but she was no man.



Since a hatchling, she craved something more than the life she was given. She worked every day to make a name for herself, but she soon discovered her talent in smuggling and salesmanship. She profited greatly from her business, lived a comfortable life along with her wife and two business partners, until tensions began to rise.

It wasn’t personal.

A dark night crept over her band, the blood moon poisoned the minds of her friends. Greed grew like a wicked seed and they rose up against her. They stole her voice and tongue, and attempted to magically bind her, killing her. They murdered her wife and slaughtered any future they could have had. She fought to stay just toward them, to stay away from angry thoughts.

It was just business.

She was buried deep in the cold wilderness, her body freezing in the winter and melting in the summer beneath the ground. She laid there for years, her once tall, strong, able body withering away and reducing to nothing but bone and dust. Her scars vanished. Her anger left her for sadness. Her spirit wept over her own grave and the lost grave of her lover.

She was saved by what she thought was an angel.

She lived again.