Lamechial

A young but stealthy imperial, sent out by the council to supervise the clans at the edge of the Radiant Eye.
He is but the symbol of what the council wants to be perceived as; light, just, and a force to be reckoned with.
They send out around 150 cherubim all over the ancient lair every year. They take a place inside the clan for a limited amount of time, more often than not under false pretenses as wandering prophets.
Their cover has been blown many times though, and most of the older clans know when to expect them. Newer clans do not know their real purpose, and thus cannot be expected to hide their troubles in the face of the "prophet."


Lamechial was welcomed into a mediocre, white tempel. It's core struture sunken halfway into the ground many decades ago, leaving green vines and weeds twisting themselves around the backpillars of the building.
He was led forth by a rose-covered pearlcatcher, her whole demeanor seemed strange and untrustworthy by his standards. But then again, the newer clans had a more liberal set of values for their professions and apparel. He shan't judge anyone of their skin until their insides are revealed.

A dark guardian welcomes him inside, and the pearlcatcher leaves.
"What business do you have here?" The guardian asks, scrutinizing him.
He's got his whole speech prepared, and could probably recite it in his sleep.
"I am a wandering prophet of good fate. I visit the tribes of the Radiant Eye in hopes of enlightenment and wisdom. I wish to speak to your leader, give her the words of our mother and protector, and bring her into the Light with guidance and prophecy."

The guardian narrows her eyes. "Our clan already has a prophet, and I fear she will not take lightly to your interfering with her mission."
Lamechial stands up a little straighter. Towering over the guardian.
"The ways of the Lightweaver is not a straight line, and I dare say two prophets will not undermine her message." He's used to this, and he's not directly lying either.
He may not be a prophet, but he knows the ways of the Lightweaver by heart and through the mouths of his superiors.
He has lived in the very tower she resides in, and though he has never felt the warming touch of her presence personally, he knows the expression and words of those who have.
This is what his job is for, after all. Find the tribes who get too comfortable in their own feuds and lives, and forgets to worship their true Mother.

The guardian studies him, and doesn't seem too affected by his height.
No, she seems rather amused by his posturing.
"You want to speak to Tendanor is that so?"
He nods sharply, barely lowering his head. He will not back down.

"Fine, I'll lead you to her. She might not be happy with your visit, but if she choose to let you stay, you will not be staying long, is that clear?"
He snorts offendedly. Only he choose how long his stay will be. He doesn't say so, though.
"Lead me to her."

The guardian turns and walks briskly further into the building, into what once could have been a room of prayer.
How symbolic then, that the leader of this little tribe has chosen the priest's office as her nest.
"Tendanor," the guardian calls.
"There is a prophet here to see you, he wants to talk to you about the ways of the Lightweaver."
There's a huff that might be irritation, he's not sure. Then a small mirror steps through the open door, and looks up at him.
He balks at what he sees.
She looks like a heathen, decorated in the dead mount of a tangled wood lion, covered in fur.
Her whole demeanor calls for respect, but her skin is dark and her eyes set in stone.

"Prophets? Out on a pilgrimage then?" She says hauntingly. Is his work a joke to this heathens being?
He gives the same speech to her as he did the guardian, unaware that the guardian is rolling her eyes behind his back.
"And what do you wish to achieve by staying in my clan?" She asks, studying him with a doubtful expression.
"I simply wish to reside her in a month's time or so. To spread my message to your people, and wish them peace and guidance through the word of our Mother."
She looks from him to the guardian, clearly communicating something behind his back. He is too proud to turn, and keeps his gaze locked on her through the whole exchanging of looks.

She sighs deeply, bored-like.
"Very well. You may go into town, find yourself a host and a place to sleep. I will not interfere with your work, and you may leave without giving me notice. It's not my problem what happens to you or whether you find someplace to stay."
He widens his eyes in offense. The rudeness of this stuck up dragon.
Leaves a wandering prophet to fend for himself, that is against the council protocol.
Defying, he huffs, and looks down at Tendanor.
'May we hope that you do not treat your people with the same hostility that I have been treated,' he thinks.
He nods politely, and turns around to leave. The guardian moves as he steps past her.

Emerging into the light of the outside, he looks past a grassed hill to the top of buildings.
He hopes the other people of this tribe are not as heathen nor rude as their leader. If so, he sees very little hope for their continuous residency in the Ancient Lair.


Lamechial has been.. settling down, so to speak.
He never anticipated the warm welcome he'd get from the dragons around him. They were even-tempered and kind, and though he looked down at them for their uneducated upbringing, well, they were most welcoming.

He had been sleeping at the tavern for weeks, his across the hall neighbour, Nergal, continuously reminds him not to "knock on doors to hear about our lord and saviour Lightmother." Whatever that means.
Their weird everyday rituals start to get closer to him, and he's getting more involved in their social gosip. Who travelled where and who heard what from Tendanor's office. There's strangely many dragons who joke about her profession, about how she stalks around the corridors like a shadow. Despite the seemingly big "inside joke" (as they call it), no one jokes about it around her closest, and certainly not among the higher ranking clan members. Despite himself of course.
No, most of it is said in a drunken stupor in the tavern late into the night.
When the morning comes, and Lamechial pries for more information, they're all shut tight, and most of them groaning from headaches.

It's the end of the 3rd week when Haures, Tendanor's guard, approaches him.
"Tendanor wishes to speak to you," she says. Lamechial must look sceptical because she hurries to assure him that "it's all good news, nothing to worry about. I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear it.. Prophet."
Her respectful manners towards him make him more trusting, and he follows her to Tendanor.

He's looking more coldly at their leader, but she seems inclined to ignore it.
"Lamechial! Good to see you, Prophet. I have great news for you," she says. He looks at her in clear disdain, something he'd be ashamed of doing any other day.
"Have you planned to stay here? I have space for you, your own study, meetings with our own prophet if that is what you wish," she smiles, but it's very put upon. Not warm or joking like the dragons he's got to know. No, despite the tight upper lip he's used to, her smile looks ungenuine in comparison.
"You did not wish to accommodate my stay the last time we spoke, whatever made you change your mind?" He asks coldly.
Tendanor shakes her head. "If you wish to stay with my people," she suggests. He's never heard her speak of them as anything friendly, and the words of "her people" remind him why she's not very popular.
"You're free to roam and live where you wish. But I have one demand of you, prophet.
Our hospitality has a price, a very small one, you might see it as a reward. But it is a must nonetheless. A guarantee of our next generation's flourishing future," she says cryptically.

"Your next generation?" he asks. He looks down at her bird-like tilt, and is reminded of vultures.
"Why yes. I have come to see the Light, and that the way to a brighter future is the ways of the council. The older ways of the council perhaps, but traditions are traditions for a reason," she says.
He blinks. "The council? So you have come to see reason?" He asks.
She nods. "Yes, in a way. I have come to see what the older traditions will bring us, and how we might strive to be better, more worthy of our Mother's life. We live as freeloaders in her land, but if we contribute to the big dominance war she's got going on with her siblings, we have a greater chance at spreading the light. Would you not agree?"

Lamechial thinks it over. It sounds like something his superiors would say, when they hold big speeches about the best for their element. He must say he agrees.
Tendanor folds her hands, and calmly continues.
"I would like you, if you are willing, to contribute and further our clan. Bring forth the brighter generation of Light," she says.
Lamechial is confused.
"You wish for me to father some of the next generation in this clan?" He asks in puzzlement. That's certainly a first.

She grins and opens her arms. "That is right! And I have chosen a worthy mate for you, one that will bring forward worthy genes for this clan."
Lamechial looks at her wild fur and the persuasive expression on her face. Yet he can't see anything malicious in this plan. What bad will come of producing offspring? Unless the mate she speaks of is someone like herself. No that wouldn't do.

"What mate have you chosen?" He asks.
She looks extremely pleased, but bows her head in respect. Something she has never done before, and he can't help but wonder if she's changed for the better.
Haures walks forward with a scroll, and Tendanor opens it in front of him. He bows down to see the small writing.
"Your mate is Erbero. She is not of age yet, but will of course be given due time to think about the proposition, but I have spoken to her mother, and the mating is just."
Lamechial carefully reads through the sentences on the paper.
It's a contract of sorts, with names and the due date of his chosen-mate's day of becoming.
He's seen the contract before, a version of the ones kept in the archive in the Radiant Eye. They used to make these, back when it was important to keep the imperial lines pure.

"How old is Erbero at his time?" He asks, how long until she becomes of age.
"At this time," Tendanor says. "She is very young. You will of course not meet her until she grows into her adolescence years. That would be unnatural and unfair," she adds. Tendanor gives him a little feathered pen.
"You're of course used to arranged matings. I assure you, whether you choose to leave after the mating is up to you, and the responsibility of your offspring is not yours, and nothing you need to be concerned about. A wandering prophet such as yourself must have other places to be.
But it would be good for our relationship with the mother, and to further develop these good, purer bloodlines."
Lamechial cannot help but agree.
He has no children of his own, but it is not forbidden.
The council would see this as a just cause anyway.
He looks into Tendanor's eyes.
"In sense of good tradition, will I speak to the mother of the child you're giving away?" He tests.
Tendanor shrugs.
"If you so wish, but it is not part of tradition. It is the leader who speaks with the families, you are only a part in this union, no disrespect."
It is obvious that she's educated herself with it, and it is the final piece he needs.
He takes the quill, and writes his name in practised cursive.

"Very well," he says afterwards.
"I will aid you and your clan in this growth," he nods. Tendanor grins pleased. She rolls the scroll together and ties it with a little purple string.
"But I will decline on your offer for shelter, I've quite gotten used to the dragons in town, though I graciously accept your offer," he inclines politely.
She continues to smile in return, showing sharp teeth under her still unbecoming fur.

"Haures will show you out, and I'll notify you when the time is right."
He walks back into town, not as stressed as he should be. He didn't know clans still did arranged unions, but he knew they used to. The cause is just and his place as an insider for the council is apparently still hidden. Good can come from this development, he thinks.
He doesn't stop to think of the surrounding circumstances nor the feelings involved from the other side. About the little hatchling who has no idea she'll grow up without a choice, already promised to someone.

---

Soft Lightweaver Idol Trinkets A crudely-fashioned stuffed doll that resembles the Lightweaver. The stitching is finely threaded and the fabric is shiny silk. 1000

Huh, this was lying in his room, it looks fairly old too..