Wick

If you asked him today, Wick would probably declare Crownfire his home with pride. He might hem and haw for a moment, eyeing the ground or looking up at the setting sun as if in deep thought, but inevitably he would stamp his foot and start telling you all about the clan that he loves, leading you towards a busy construction site around a deep hole in the ground and telling you proudly of the chantry tower that once stood there.

"When I came here," he would begin, "This chantry was abandoned. Even before I came, the dragons who once sang the chants had given up the post. The tower was the most amazing thing about this clearing. It rose up through the trees, straight for the sky, and it also dug down into the ground- hence the hole, yes." Here, he would gesture at the hole just to make sure you'd noticed. "A hole was all that was left after the fire, a hole and a bell- though, I'm not sure where the bell has gotten off to." He would look around for a moment, eyes passing over all of the building materials until he noticed the bell tucked away behind a neat stack of stone bricks. "Ah! The bell, see?" he would say, and you would follow the direction of his point and see it, of course.

"It was the first thing I saw when I got here. At night, fireflies flicked around it and flames inside illuminated some of the finest stained glass windows you'd ever see. And that bell reflected the moonlight like a mirror." He would fall silent for a moment, and you would both reflect on the possible inaccuracies of that statement, on the likelihood of an old bell to shine like an actual mirror. Neither of you would say anything, until, to break the tension, he would speak again.

"Only Calaenrus lived in the chantry, he's a quiet little coatl you might see around here somewhere. He kept a laboratory in the top floor. He didn't seem to mind when I took over things. Nobody really seemed to mind. Crownfire dragons, we are fairly accepting. There is no grand ceremony in moving here. Just like you- did you have a ceremony when you came?" You would shake your head no of course, and he would continue on.

"It took some time learning the chants, and honestly most of the time I didn't sing them. But the hatchlings liked to hear them sometimes, and the elder dragons. Mostly I sold candles and said kind words for the clan members who needed to hear them. When I needed to, I lit incense and spoke the stories of the deities. Parts of the ground floor were renovated for a clinic, which was nice to have. The clean air and the comfort of the colored light from the stained glass were wonderful in a healing environment."

Here, he would grow quiet, watching the builders, who would be standing around a table arguing with a wildclaw as she pointed repeatedly at something on a scroll, brows drawn together in irritation. Behind them, a tundra would be quietly casting glowing runes onto various building materials, markings for strength and protection and wards against fire on the wood and stone that would glow in the growing dusk. A skydancer would approach from somewhere behind you with a lantern, setting it on the table near the architects plans and lighting it with a touch of his finger.

With a sigh, Wick would turn back to you, smile, and say "I suspect it will be the same after they build it back again."
Having been inundated with his father's vast knowledge and appreciation of the Flamecaller, this dragon grew up dreaming of taking the journey back to his father's native land. He spent hours a day leafing through the dusty books of the Toadstool's library, soaking knowledge of the Eleven.

Vulcan took to this hatchling readily, preening and primping him with the same grand tales he was told as a hatchling. And, when he was old enough, his father gave him an important mission: return to the Ashfall Waste, as Vulcan himself could not.