RemanLT » Lair » Autumn

Autumn

(#36111564)

Level 17 Imperial

Familiar

Autumn Millifae

Energy: 48 50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

29.06 m

Wingspan

19.5 m

Weight

6889.2 kg

Genetics

Ginger
Poison

Denim
Toxin

Caribbean
Spines

Hatchday

Sep 22, 2017
(7 years)

Breed

Adult
Imperial

Eye Type

Shadow
Common

Level 17 Imperial

EXP: 4844 / 81619

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

Biography

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• • AUTUMN
a team nickelklaus dragon

equinox representative

quality • quality • quality

xxxx

Many stories begin with the heroine or hero growing up alone. On their own, with no one to guide them, they must make their way to adulthood and to their eventual destiny by muddling along themselves. These beginnings are invariably sad. “Oh,” one will say upon reading, “Oh, how awful. I am so glad that I grew up with a family.”

But, though they may contain a great deal of truth, many stories are just that. Stories. They tell the idealized version of one being, for one purpose. Life itself is much more complicated. The world is built of shades of color, shades of truth, not simply one or the other. Sometimes, growing up alone is the best thing for someone. And it is a fact that the definition of “alone,” and all that it implies, is different for different beings.

She grew up “alone.” Her egg found its way to the northern shore of the Sea of a Thousand Currents, just on the edge where Shadow and Water territories meet, and rested there in the sand for many moons—how long, it is difficult to say. Without parents to incubate and care for it, it is possible that it matured more slowly than its counterparts, warmed only by the occasional sun striking through the clouds and heating the sand, dark golden on the knife-edge of the territory split. Again, this may portend badly—but again, please remember that the stories you read do not tell all the truth of any one thing. At any rate, the egg did mature—slowly, the mark of the Shadowbinder graven into its surface growing more and more pronounced and luridly purple than the week before—until finally, on the day of the autumn equinox, the thin, glowing shell membrane split, gushing the black fluid that is the life-giver of Shadow children. Gushing her as well, in fact; the force of her egg-splitting actually propelled the little dragonet out of the shell entirely and onto the sand in a heap of legs, wings, and tail. Mouth full of sand and egg fluid, her first impulse was to spit, then cry—and nothing answered the cry. Indeed, the water birds and woodland fauna had all been driven away by the crack! of the egg.

“Oh, the poor thing,” you think. “How awful.” As you are supposed to, as you have been trained to.

But after that first impulsive cry—and she did have lungs on her!—went unanswered, she did not die. She did not suddenly know loneliness, and become depressed even before she had the language to express it. Her world did not stop. She simply grew quiet, and waited, looking around, processing, beginning to use those faculties that in dragonets are already full-formed. Her first lesson: listen. Her second: watch. And as she did, the world came back to life around her. The water birds, understanding that she was not yet a threat, returned to their wading and pecking. The fauna of the woods resumed burrowing, scratching, even playing. None of them paid any attention to her; it wasn’t as though she gained a “woodland family.” But nevertheless, she had a thousand teachers, hundreds of classmates to emulate or strive against. And she learned all she could.

If you asked her, and if she had the words to respond, she would say that her childhood was the happiest of her life. Perhaps they were hard; she had to hunt for herself, and to learn all of those attendant mysteries and complications. But she didn’t know anything else, anything better. So she grew, and more than that, she thrived. The deep brown of her hide became sun-streaked, mimicking the layers of sand in which she burrowed every night to sleep. The blue of her wings lightened, taking on the colors of the waves at dawn, at sunset, at every time of day, until she was a walking personification of her home—and eventually, a flying one. She grew spikes, perhaps a part of her mysterious heritage, perhaps a magical defense against those who wished to prey on her until she was too large for them to do so safely. She became a fully realized creation, one of which the Lightweaver would surely have been proud, had She looked upon her. One which, absolutely, the Shadowbinder was proud to call Her own.

And she was happy. No responsibilities other than to her own self. Nothing to do but eat, sleep, and play. No one to tell her that the mark on her shell at birth meant that someday, she would be Called into service. No one to force her into that path, or any other. So what if she had no language, and no one with which to use it? Pray tell, what use are the trappings of everyday life, other than a comforting routine? She already had that.

Another thing that stories often get wrong: they act as though childhood is the be-all and end-all of life. That once you have passed some magical threshold, nothing else matters. You cannot become more than what you were at two, three, five summers. Perhaps this is true for some people; as we said before, every story has truth, just not all of it. But another truth is, every day has the opportunity to radically change who you are.

One bright autumn day, not unlike the one on which she was hatched, she looked up from digging clams for her next meal to see the shadow of something moving through the woods at the edge of the sand. It was large; much, much larger than anything she had ever seen. Around her own size, in fact.

Her past was set. This day would mark the beginning of her future. What truths would be found there?

“Oh, how awful.”

xxxx

a labor of love brought to you by:
tulmultuous (artist) | Pard (lore writer) | minty (trainer)

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