Inky
(#28625018)
Level 1 Tundra
Familiar
Iridescent Scaleback
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Nature.
Female Tundra
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.54 m
Wingspan
2.42 m
Weight
209.55 kg
Genetics
Banana
Iridescent
Iridescent
Azure
Shimmer
Shimmer
Blue
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Tundra
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
7
VIT
7
MND
7
Biography
Incelcia "Inky" Corandriel
The Bookbinder's Daughter
The Bookbinder's Daughter
Inky - or Incelcia, as she's know amongst her mother's people - is the daughter of a mixing of worlds.
Her mother, an elf, grew up in the high forests of the elven capitol. A musician by talent, she spent millenia practicing amongst the sweeping oak trees and cascading willows - perfecting her magic and her craft.It was not until she was nearing her centenna - her ten-thousanth year - that she first left the forest and ventured out to a human city.
The city was bustling with the speed of human lives - bizzare and baffling to one as old as her. Humans passed her by like mayflies, birthing and growing and dying as the city grew around them, and it wasn't long - to her - before she grew to yearn for the unchanging slowness of the elven woods.
It was after nearly three centuries that she first met a man who didn't die - a man who persisted long into her thoughts, who didn't change as swiftly as the world around her did. At first, she thought him a human, shorter than most and strangely shaped though he was, but it was not long before he corrected that assumption.
A gnome. One of the low races: people of open fields and broad meadows, of small stone houses and thatched roofs and the smell of woodsmoke.Craftspeople, much like the elves - but unlike an elf, who might spend millenia teaching themselves a singular art and mastering it in all it's forms, the gnomes passed on their knowledge, handing their mastery down the generations.
Her gnome was a word-smith - a calligrapher,a bookbinder, a designer and crafter and structurer of words. Not a mere author, not a mere craftsman... The elf watched him, long into the night, as he worked his art. It was... inexpert, by her standards. Hands slipped as they tooled the leather. Fingers paused, hesitant, between brushstrokes. The gnome worked without the surety of a thousand years of practice - but what he made was beautiful.
When he left the city, she followed him - and followed him to a hundred other places, a thousand other stories. They saw the world together, never caring for the speed at which the world passed them so long as they did not pass each other.
And then they had a child, and that child brought them back to the woods.
The agreement was easy - the world of humans was beautiful, and fascinating, and wide, but no place to raise a child who might see five generations pass before she was old enough to live alone - no place for a child whose peers would be grown in the blink of an eye. The gnome had never lived among elves, and settling down was not so hard with a lifetime of travel and a wife and daughter at his side... and the elf, perhaps a little more than she had expected, was relieved to be back among her people at last.
Their daughter was beautiful, though her gnomish heritage was plain to see - pale-skinned and pale-haired, with her father's steady surety to match her mother's grace. As she grew, she took to her father's art - and he taught her everything he could, in the ancient way of gnomes, baffling though it was to the elves around them.
Gnomes live a long time - but not as long as elves, and Inky was still a young girl when her father succumbed to age. He died peacefully in his bed, with her at his side, but the experience was still jarring for the child,who had never before seen death invade the quiet peace of the elven glades.
Rather than give in to grief, however, she tossed herself into work. With his death, her father's business and her craft were passed to her, and she dedicated herself to his notes, eager to learn the esoteric and secretive inner workings of his art - the skills he had not yet had time to pass on. She learned things, sitting amongst the dusty velours of his workshop, that elven craftsmen with all their skills had never dreamed of: the mysteries of inks and dyes, the nuances of brushmaking and quillcarving, the delicate intricacies of preparing hides sheave-thin and white as fresh snow.
Inky spent centuries there, among the books, learning all the little tricks developed by nine lifetimes of the finest gnomish artisans: every challenge that had been examined, over and over again, by a new generation's eyes, every solution redesigned and refined over a life's work.With elven patience, she practiced the craft, time no obstacle to perfection for someone with millenia to seek it.And when, at the age of near two-thousand years, she was called upon with others of her generation to produce some evidence of how she had spent her life thus far, she produced a book.
It was... a singular work. As wide across as she could stretch her arms, when open - longer at the spine than the pedestal she was invited to place it on was tall. In the leaf-stained light of a summer afternoon, the inked drawings seemed to shimmer against the absolute black of the elegant caligraphy. Strange creatures - fantastic creatures - twisted against the pages, woven in amongst the words. Some were beautiful. Some were terrible. All seemed alive with color,like they might slither off the page and into the sunlit wood.
The book was a work of craftsmanship and skill like few among even the ancient elves had ever seen, a mastery unmatched by even those millenia older than the young half-elf. She left it, there in the glade - and by moonrise, she was gone from the woods, her father's tools packed away and carried with her, his workshop empty save for a few still-drying velours in the corner.
The eternal forest proved fine for a student - but it was her father's world, the changing world, that tugged at her with stories she must tell.
Her mother, an elf, grew up in the high forests of the elven capitol. A musician by talent, she spent millenia practicing amongst the sweeping oak trees and cascading willows - perfecting her magic and her craft.It was not until she was nearing her centenna - her ten-thousanth year - that she first left the forest and ventured out to a human city.
The city was bustling with the speed of human lives - bizzare and baffling to one as old as her. Humans passed her by like mayflies, birthing and growing and dying as the city grew around them, and it wasn't long - to her - before she grew to yearn for the unchanging slowness of the elven woods.
It was after nearly three centuries that she first met a man who didn't die - a man who persisted long into her thoughts, who didn't change as swiftly as the world around her did. At first, she thought him a human, shorter than most and strangely shaped though he was, but it was not long before he corrected that assumption.
A gnome. One of the low races: people of open fields and broad meadows, of small stone houses and thatched roofs and the smell of woodsmoke.Craftspeople, much like the elves - but unlike an elf, who might spend millenia teaching themselves a singular art and mastering it in all it's forms, the gnomes passed on their knowledge, handing their mastery down the generations.
Her gnome was a word-smith - a calligrapher,a bookbinder, a designer and crafter and structurer of words. Not a mere author, not a mere craftsman... The elf watched him, long into the night, as he worked his art. It was... inexpert, by her standards. Hands slipped as they tooled the leather. Fingers paused, hesitant, between brushstrokes. The gnome worked without the surety of a thousand years of practice - but what he made was beautiful.
When he left the city, she followed him - and followed him to a hundred other places, a thousand other stories. They saw the world together, never caring for the speed at which the world passed them so long as they did not pass each other.
And then they had a child, and that child brought them back to the woods.
The agreement was easy - the world of humans was beautiful, and fascinating, and wide, but no place to raise a child who might see five generations pass before she was old enough to live alone - no place for a child whose peers would be grown in the blink of an eye. The gnome had never lived among elves, and settling down was not so hard with a lifetime of travel and a wife and daughter at his side... and the elf, perhaps a little more than she had expected, was relieved to be back among her people at last.
Their daughter was beautiful, though her gnomish heritage was plain to see - pale-skinned and pale-haired, with her father's steady surety to match her mother's grace. As she grew, she took to her father's art - and he taught her everything he could, in the ancient way of gnomes, baffling though it was to the elves around them.
Gnomes live a long time - but not as long as elves, and Inky was still a young girl when her father succumbed to age. He died peacefully in his bed, with her at his side, but the experience was still jarring for the child,who had never before seen death invade the quiet peace of the elven glades.
Rather than give in to grief, however, she tossed herself into work. With his death, her father's business and her craft were passed to her, and she dedicated herself to his notes, eager to learn the esoteric and secretive inner workings of his art - the skills he had not yet had time to pass on. She learned things, sitting amongst the dusty velours of his workshop, that elven craftsmen with all their skills had never dreamed of: the mysteries of inks and dyes, the nuances of brushmaking and quillcarving, the delicate intricacies of preparing hides sheave-thin and white as fresh snow.
Inky spent centuries there, among the books, learning all the little tricks developed by nine lifetimes of the finest gnomish artisans: every challenge that had been examined, over and over again, by a new generation's eyes, every solution redesigned and refined over a life's work.With elven patience, she practiced the craft, time no obstacle to perfection for someone with millenia to seek it.And when, at the age of near two-thousand years, she was called upon with others of her generation to produce some evidence of how she had spent her life thus far, she produced a book.
It was... a singular work. As wide across as she could stretch her arms, when open - longer at the spine than the pedestal she was invited to place it on was tall. In the leaf-stained light of a summer afternoon, the inked drawings seemed to shimmer against the absolute black of the elegant caligraphy. Strange creatures - fantastic creatures - twisted against the pages, woven in amongst the words. Some were beautiful. Some were terrible. All seemed alive with color,like they might slither off the page and into the sunlit wood.
The book was a work of craftsmanship and skill like few among even the ancient elves had ever seen, a mastery unmatched by even those millenia older than the young half-elf. She left it, there in the glade - and by moonrise, she was gone from the woods, her father's tools packed away and carried with her, his workshop empty save for a few still-drying velours in the corner.
The eternal forest proved fine for a student - but it was her father's world, the changing world, that tugged at her with stories she must tell.
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