Alesseia
(#32167001)
Level 4 Fae
Familiar
Miniature Sornieth Globe
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Female Fae
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
1.5 m
Wingspan
0.96 m
Weight
3.18 kg
Genetics
Ice
Tapir
Tapir
Lavender
Basic
Basic
Obsidian
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 4 Fae
EXP: 1307 / 4027
STR
9
AGI
12
DEF
9
QCK
10
INT
12
VIT
9
MND
13
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- Moonlight
- Hibiscus
- Punahilkka
- Umeshu
- Darkwillow
- Maryse
- Rainknight
- Artair
- Tenebris
- Nox
- Nychta
- Aerinite
- Fain
- Glesni
- Elen
- Carmichael
- Kanon
- Breezewing
- Fori
- Cheren
- Ivory
- Ebony
- Ogatan
- Lauda
- Vespula
- Tinea
- Miro
- Cassius
- Ulysses
- Cicerbita
- Asterial
- Madrigor
- Brienne
- Marzu
- Zea
- Keskiyo
- Aina
- Mond
- Luca
- Caligo
- Faeriflosse
- Kilgal
- Morainn
- Gobrey
- Noikyla
- Maxence
- Yadon
- Raigi
- Rohais
- Alkahest
- Doshima
- Imith
- Darrowmere
- Irani
- Misa
- Eria
- Nijah
- Adony
- Nathair
- Unnamed
Biography
ALESSEIA
the matriarch
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L O R E
Despite these signs of activity, nothing moves. The world, nevertheless, continues to wait, a length of time between a heartbeat and an eternity; in the Strand, it was always hard to tell, or to remember. A claw, then a foot, then a finned leg detaches itself from the shadows. The leg is thicker, larger, than the trunks of even the most venerable trees it parts to make room for it; the body of the creature that follows, meanwhile, snaps off the tips of every specimen that dared to grow tall enough to graze the sharp points of their body. As they fall to the ground with a thud, the dragon’s tail lashes out of the gloom, exposing their entirety to the early morning airs. The dragon turns their beardless face–so it was a her, at least physiologically–looking this way and that with short, stiff movements. The dim floral twilight makes the Guardian’s opaque fins transparent, her midnight scales oil slick-shiny, with the eyes that marked her as the Arcanist’s own like twin pink stars glittering in the vast emptiness of space. The effect, much like the contrast in color from her body to the leathery pink wings folded neatly on her back, is striking, perhaps even beautiful. There is nothing beautiful, however, about the emotions contained within them, wavering in their decision to surface like something about to explode. The dragon trudges forward, the ground shaking under her feet, the bulging bag slung from her shoulder ringing with the tell-tale sound of glass against glass. She steps over the piles of rotting wood, around the square of moss, pauses and stares at the spun sap creation seeming to pulse gently with light. She stares, and she stares, for another second, or another forever, while the boughs above her groan and dead blossoms fall in clumps to the ground and the black that surrounds her turns a little more grey. She turns her face away and towards a remaining patch of shade, veiling her expression completely from no one but for her eyes; those glow even brighter, with anger, with fear, the emotions in them even more apparent, like– –like nothing, for the Guardian suddenly relaxes, sits on her scaled haunches, her countenance turned back into the slightly less deep gloom. The look on it is curiously blank as she returns to observing the amber mass. Time once again passes. The guardian's eyes stare glassily, watching not for shapes but for movement. Amidst a light breeze through the great rustling tangle of branches, a light, fluttering shadow within the pale yellow seems to detach itself from the greater darkness pooling at its center. It slithers and it floats, eerie and near-weightless, as it approaches a seam in the hardened sap. The dragon holds a breath, and her world along with her. Thin, delicate fins, icy blue and translucent, are the first features to come into view. A more solid set of lavender ones appearing next, twitching in response to the chill of the outside world. A membranous wing, the sharp tip of a tail, a small, oval head; all these flashes of another living being the dragon watched with an overt eagerness, all the way until the Fae emerges, hesitantly, from their den. Alesseia stares silently up, large, pupiless eyes luminous in the morning light. The wind grows stronger a little, enough to whistle but not enough to cover the silence that falls. Then a smile of absolute joy grows on Osciure’s face, and she bows her great head low. 
The clearing is much darker now in the early afternoon than it ever is at night–the trees, growing so close to each other that their roots clump and ball together, choke any light that attempts to get through. In the resulting murk, a shadow moves with half-graceful speed, fluttering across the clearing and back again. Next to her den of spun tree sap there is a leather pouch, a miniature of her Guardian’s own; around her are glass bottles of liquids and glass bottles of live insects and glass bottles of shining treasure, each surrounded by a pink aura. They go into the pouch as neatly as soldiers marching in file, clinking against one another as they fill it to near bursting. As the last of these nestles sideways at the bag’s brim, Alesseia lands on a branch and looks around. Though it is hard to tell in the dark, her darting, narrowed eyes and wings still positioned as if about to take off imply some level of nervousness. She gazes around from her perch, slowly turning her head left and right in order to take in the entirety of the space. She repeats this, once, twice, thrice. Finally, she stops; she breathes in, then out; an unsure smile flickers on her face. Motioning with a claw, the same colored aura surrounds the bag as it hovers to her, haphazard. From a place too far away to matter and too near to breathe, there comes the piercing sound of a crash. The Fae’s head shoots up, large eyes widening; in her shock she almost spills and breaks all the glass bottles on the forest floor. Quick as a whip she pushes off the branch and flies upwards, the pouch floating after her. Though after a few meters of climbing she already seems exhausted, she continues on, the effort evident in every flap. Just as she is about to slip out of one of the larger holes in the ceiling and into the barely visible sky, there is, a long distance below her, a sudden bellow; then, the flapping of leathery wings, the shouts of inquiry, the usual anger at her stupidity, the usual pleading to her common sense, to her love. Alesseia trembles, but she doesn’t look back. As she squeezes her lithe body through the gap, she hears Osciure cry out her name.
Sunrise in the Starfall Isles has always garnered renown as one of the most beautiful sights in all of Sorneith. This is especially true in the Crystalspire Reaches, where the once-granite peaks curves inwards towards Focal Point island, the pink crystal glowing in the gentle yellow light. It was no wonder that its denizens, usually fledgling flights nursing their fledgling magic, sometimes wake up early simply to look at the burst of color all around them. The Fae was no exception. With a slightly open mouth, she watches as sunbeams filter ethereal purple through the boulders just steps from the mouth of the cave she had padded out of. Her eyes, bleary from a long, fitful sleep, capture that same light, the brightness that encroaches on the edge of her field of vision allowing her to only barely catch sight of the black shape that flies above her and dives down towards the fallen rocks– She blinks. A range of unconcealed emotions show in her countenance–curiosity, fear, excitement. Shaking slightly, she takes to the air, flapping her wings and propelling her forward once. Twice. There is a sharp point, gently, against her shoulder. Alesseia practically jumps out of her skin before she fully awakens, summoning all of the magic she can at once to form a deflective shield that sends the other creature flying a respectable distance, hitting a rock with a meaty thump. Turning towards the sound, she gazes upon another dragon, purple-bodied and red-winged; bigger than her, though she knew in theory that that such a thing was not difficult. Panting in exertion, she approaches her downed opponent, furtive. On their back against the boulder they had been hurled against, they bark a laugh and give her a sardonic grin.
There was no more roaring, now. No more fear or anger. The Guardian that knelt at her feet–and, even then, almost towered above the outcropping–was not demanding, but offering. An apology for mistakes made. An explanation for her forcing of fear and obsession. A promise that things would be different. That the future would be different. They glitter, the twin pink stars twinkling in the vast darkness of her face, and there is something beautiful about them, about what is contained within them, clear for all to see: self-reflection and realization and the faintest hint of hope. Umbre hisses from the mouth of his and his mate’s shared den, but otherwise the Mirror says nothing. Alesseia stares silently down, large, pupiless eyes luminous in the light of the setting sun. She nods. The wind grows stronger a little, enough to whistle but not enough to cover the silence that falls. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the edges of Osciure's mouth twitch upward, tugged by degrees, by seconds, into a great, beaming smile, unrestrained and radiant. Then she raises her great head high and, for the first time in longer than Alesseia could remember, genuinely laughs.
lore written by Passerinde #246523
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Exalting Alesseia to the service of the Arcanist will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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