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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
7.04 m
Wingspan
7.64 m
Weight
806.24 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Crystal
Crystal
Crimson
Facet
Facet
Vermilion
Circuit
Circuit
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Coatl
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
7
DEF
6
QCK
7
INT
7
VIT
5
MND
6
Biography
On the silent eve of the Night of the Nocturne, a glinting vestige foretelling Yule dangles amidst the night bleeding twilit skies, reflected upon the skyward eyes of warriors.
A tear dribbles upon tufts of downy fur, stained in the fresh blood of hardy battle, her face abruptly cast downward as to obscure the sorrow. Her soft, silken mane tossled by duel, streaming in the gentle wind, fill the winter night with the sweet scent of the blood and sweat of struggle and an underlying chord of snowsquall spruce and gladevein poinsettia. A familiar intermingle of comfort, safety, hatchlinghood. And sadness?
Chlotachar nudges her muzzle tentatively, sore from their bout. "Why do you hide as if you've lost? You've bested me, dear Rade!"
She flushes despite herself before rectifying herself immediately. It must not be as dark as she thought. The haunting shrieks of the flight of the migrating nocturne's overhead seemed to disagree with her. She returned to confront her battle brother, her greatest friend, her true companion and her only confidant. Blood, sweat, Cragsward peppermint and Reedcleft ginger, she remembers.
"It is nothing," came the reflexive response, in a clipped and tight voice, "do not worry for me. The Night approaches, camp exp-"
"You know you can't lie to me, Rade," he ruffled her fixed mane into disarray, "you were never any good at it."
"You could say I'm as good a liar than you are a fighter," she teased, nuzzling him in retaliation.
"You could say you're a better crier," he countered, "do you always weep snowflakes?"
She gasped at the realisation. As the darkness of the Night suffocated the dim, quiet light, the overcoming frost scarcely recovered it. The land was transforming all around, flakes of soft snow slowly descending upon them, icing the hinterlands of the flats shoreline in spiralling strands of delicate crystallisations. Changed, just as they will be. The mere implication brooked a fresh wave of nostalgic longing and a twinge of trepidation. By the Radiant Lightweaver, I am a warrior, not a homesick hatchling.
She met her mate's eyes, without the occlusion of shame, pining for the comfort she always found in them. She found his eyes fixed on her, searching hers and quizzical beneath his mirth. Within the wonderous whimsy of the moment, she felt deeply the poignancy of endings. How ironic that her closest friend looked forward toward the prospects of what awaits them, whilst she looked back. The fragrant Yuletide, how it curses me with its onslaught of memories! How I wish to forget again!
"What a strange and fascinating journey its been," Chlotachar finally said softly to the eve Night. A conclusion to the end of their former lives.
The bittersweetness of the liminal twilight, of Night's Eve, of transformation, swirled around them like the flurries of snow, collecting upon blood matted fur and wingscales.
"We'll see if you're as good a fighter," he began tentatively, "than..youareaflyer!"
With those last quick succession of words, he took off and plunged into the falling night of nocturnes, leaving Radegunde struggling to close the distance behind him. The gap becoming wider as the snow clouds draw closer and harder upon her, her wings, tired with the strain, falter as she loses herself in thought and emotion. The closure was fastly dawning. His grey wings, darkened beneath clouds' canopy, fluttered out of sight.
Fly away at last and let go.
Her last thought dwelled upon her noble orphaned birth and the identity of her parents, scattering like snow in the wind.
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