Thruda
(#2816790)
The Strength
Shavarash
Serthis Potionmaster
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Female Skydancer
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.51 m
Wingspan
6.51 m
Weight
629.06 kg
Genetics
Orange
Basic
Basic
Stone
Stripes
Stripes
Coal
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
ᚦᚱᚢᛞᚨ
The Strength
The Strength
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Thruda – second daughter of Sif and Thor – is the quietest of her siblings. She hatched with none of her sister’s beauty, and little of her brothers’ majesty. The eldest, Valkyrja, matched their father: bright and brash in both her colouring and her personality – in all but her eyes, in fact, which seemed the colour of a rosy sunset in contrast to Thor’s lightning-blue. Her brothers were more sedately coloured, though opposite in almost every other respect. Magni calm and princely in his bearing; Modi fierce and wild. Yet both wore their dappled shades of brown with similar ease. Thruda, meanwhile, was plain in her looks and shy as a result. She grew long in her legs and neck and tail, and was possessed by a lanky awkwardness that seemed to pass her siblings by as they grew into their adult figures. Her feathers were the colour of stone: not the rose-quartz of the Lundlaevungar’s spire, but the cracked and dried-out rock of the Earthshaker’s domain. Her fur and scales were too dull to be compared to flames, but seemed too bright in contrast to her wings, and looked jarring against the bright Arcane hue of her eyes. In a family of warriors, she had neither the temperament nor the nature for fighting; and combined with her mismatched colouring, she believed herself to be the greatest of her parents’ disappointments. She withdrew behind her sister and brothers, and spoke softly if at all. Holing herself up in the cavern she shared with her sister within the Lair, she avoided going outside unless it became absolutely necessary. She avoided her reflection at every turn, and made sure she kept to the shadows. Until, one day, Valkyrja carried home an injured Serthis Potionmaster. Ferocious and proud, the serthis resisted all attempts to help him. He denied any magical forms of healing and insisted on using his own potions and knowledge to tend to his hurts. Valkyrja kept him in the sisters’ shared cavern in the Spire, patiently doing what she could for him when her duties would allow; but it was Thruda who spent the most time in his company, thanks to her self-imposed exile. At first, he tried to ignore his ‘captors’, as he called them, but Thruda found it difficult to share the small space in silence – and he quickly lost his patience. ‘If you were Serthis,’ he said many times over, pain lacing his words tight as they hissed through his teeth, ‘You would be dead already with such an attitude.’ So it was that she learned that he had no time for self-pity. She was forced to dwell less upon her shortcomings after he began to snap at her whenever she spoke of them. He still rebuffed every attempt at conversation. Yet slowly, their enforced companionship chipped away at his resolve. Grudgingly, he allowed her to draw him into dialogue beyond mockery and barbed insults. She learned next that he was called Shavarash, and that he had been left for dead during his tribe’s assimilation with their parent sect. She heard the rest of his story in fragments over the following days and weeks: slip-ups, when his pain loosened his tongue more than he intended. She pieced together that he had been attacked not by members of the parent sect, but by a gang of his own companions, too great in number for him to overwhelm alone. He had been in conflict with several of the serthis leaders since his tribe was formed, making their lives difficult with challenges and objectionable behaviour; and although he had become used to being passed over in favour of other serthis, he had never expected them to betray him so openly. They had used the assimilation purge as a cover for their vengeance, and convinced the new sect that he was among those beyond help when the battle was over. As he began to remove his bandages, Thruda noticed that elaborate designs had been inked onto his skin and scales – from flowers and creeping vines to swirling abstract patterns. At first he only hissed and scowled when she inquired about them, but her polite questioning wore him down until he explained the significance of his tattoos. Some were symbols of strength and knowledge; others covered scars that might be seen as signs of weakness, or flaws in his scales that might render him less attractive if they remained on show. ‘Among the Serthis,’ he told her, ‘To be weak is to be dead. If there is something lesser in you … you change it, or you die. And I refuse to die.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘It seems that so do you. And yet you fear that which makes you less. Why? What are our weaknesses but opportunities to improve ourselves?’ Then he showed her the pigments he brewed to replenish his tattoos after every shedding, the dyes he crafted for his hair. She asked if such things would work on feathers and dragon-scales. He looked at her hard, and then whispered, ‘Let us see.’ A period of experimentation followed, during which Thruda and Shavarash worked to perfect dyes woven with Arcane magic, which that would neither run nor smear nor fade with the passage of time, and could be used on every part of a dragon’s body. The pair tested colours and patterns on parchment as they worked out what would look best against the burnt umber hues of Thruda’s natural markings. Finally they came up with a design both were happy with, and Shavarash began the slow process of cropping Thruda’s fur short where the new designs would lie along her flanks. Then together they applied the dyes to her wings and mane and body with both brushes and needles, serthis and dragon working in harmony on their shared project. Thruda’s eyes glowed as the magic took hold, amplifying the power they had brewed into the pigments to fix the colours upon her skin and scales, into every fibre of her feathers and deep within the follicles of her hair. They waited, Thruda’s body pulsing with Arcane energies in time with her nervous heartbeat, until finally the light faded and the magic was complete. Then Shavarash helped Thruda to wash away the dye they had painted onto her, and she closed her eyes – too afraid of failure to risk seeing herself before the job was done. ‘Look,’ the serthis ordered, and she opened them to find he was holding up a mirror before her face – still long and narrow, but now dissected with pale lines that followed the curves of her bones and muscles and stretched down her neck. She turned her head and caught sight of her feather crest, and behind it her wings: no longer the colour of baked stone, but a brilliant shade of woad-blue. She wanted to see more than the glimpses she could catch in the small mirror. However, she made herself walk through the Lair with Shavarash by her side, ignoring the whispers that followed them both. When she stepped out into the sunlight, she glanced over her shoulder to look at her wings, at the line of decoration that Shavarash had insisted on placing upon her feathers, and smiled as she unfolded them. Thruda took flight, first gathering the air beneath her wings with great beats that lifted her high over the main entrance of the Lundlaevaungar Spire, and then diving to skim over the sunlit ocean. Her reflection stared back at her from the surface of the waves. Her long limbs had somehow been transformed to elegance by the lines and knotwork that arched along them. The hue of her coat against the pale lines seemed brighter and deeper than before, her coat more coarse where it grew long in contrast to the soft, close-cropped fur of the lines, and the bare patches where Shavarash had placed the knotwork tattoos. The blue they had chosen for her wings and for the knots was the colour of warriors, Shavarash had told her, and she could see now why. She looked fierce and strong for the first time in her life. She drew in a breath of the fresh, salted air and spun upward, catching a thermal current and riding it high with more ease than she had ever felt before. She had learned to fly as a hatchling; but she had never felt confident enough to open out her wings to their full span, and so had never been very capable in the air. Now, she was finally able to spread her wings wide without shame, without fear of judgement or ridicule: she was able to soar. When she returned, breathless and exhilarated, Sharavash was waiting for her with his arms folded. The serthis did not smile, but he looked proud of his work, and nodded to her as she landed. Shavarash remains with the Lundlaevungar, even though his wounds are now completely healed. Valkyrja’s work with the Clan’s familiars has since taken her to live at the Scar, rather than in the Spire, and so Thruda shares her cavern with her serthis friend. The two continue to work on their potions and dyes, offering various temporary pigments and more permanent tattoos to dragons in the Clan and to dragons passing through the Lundlaevungar’s lands. |
 SHAVARASH  THE SPIRE FRIENDS:  NERA 
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