Israfil

A noble warrior in the ranks of Tendanor.
Even so, he follows not the order's of others, but the intent of their decision.
Lined with surprises, he's not cold-hearted, and values the kindness of younger dragons.

"You're a good soldier, Israfil. Dependable, knowledgable, like the Lightweaver created you."
Tendanor's mouth is moving behind the cowl as she speaks. As she hisses.
Israfil is standing before her on the marble floors.
He feels like the floor, stepped upon, expandable.
"It is of good use to us, and for you, that you keep the timing right, Israfil. Blow your horn, but only when the time comes."

He doesn't float above his own body anymore, but he's stuck in his feet, under his scales, he can vividly feel the silks on his body, and the tightly wound protection of armor around his chest.
And yet the world is set in stone, and his breathing is controlled and careful.

Tendanor sits at her high table, she's not taller than him, but he feels her presence. Her size doesn't matter when her intent and being fills the room, it's suffocating.
He feels his clothing move when he breathes, and the armor tightening with his pulse.

"I want you, with the top chain of my soldiers, to go under and learn about the chattery of my people. I want you to learn their customs, they trust you, they see you not as a threat. Do this for me, and you might be the resolution I see in the future. Perhaps you'll know of it too," she leers as she speaks, and his eyes widen fractionally.
Israfil has the sudden image of his newly acquired friends.
He can see them run, he can see them burn, he hears the horn blow.

Tendanor's eyes are dark and purple in the light of her fur, and he can see her scheming mirrored in her expression. She's been reluctant to tell him about her mission. Now he knows why.

He remembers the training with the council. The training he'd been put through when he first arrived from the Southern Ice-fields.
By the radiant eye tower, there were imperials all around him, different sizes different eyecolors.
No one purple and dark, but except that, most from different clans.
He remembers vaguely the feeling of freedom, as his gaze lingered on the eyes of a plague-borne imperial. Just as smart as himself, just as well-read and educated.
No shame in their eye-color, they were all children of Light after all.

He remembers distantly how he'd thought differences didn't matter here. How accepting it had been. What a naive fool he'd been.

His feet rooted, Tendanor tuts at him. "Take precautions, soldier," she says.
"There walks a false prophet among the people, an eye of the council. He knows not of my awareness. He is not welcome among us, for my god has plans for me that the council dare not interfere with. Yet let him roam, I have a way for him as well."
Israfil learns the difference between eye-colors.
He learns the difference between right and wrong. But he learns not the difference between war and peace, for his supposedly trumpeting ending, after comes paradise.
Or so Tendanor told him.



Traditions


Lamechial, who he still tried to avoid, met him on his way to the garden one day.
Israfil made his face look steely and purposeful, as if he had a place to be in a hurry, but the false prophet didn't buy it.
"I wish to speak to you, and it's important," Lamechial said.
Israfil could proudly say that he towered over the other dragon by 5 meters in height, and thus had the perk of staring him down, urging him to leave him alone.
He was, however, unimpressed.
"I wish to know if you've spoken to Tendanor," he said instead.
Israfil's mask slipped almost right away, and he'd managed to adjust it back to uncaring, but barely.
"Why would that concern you?" He asked.
Lamechail looked around subtly, with no one nearby, he answered in a more hushed tone.
"Tendanor mentioned to me that she wishes to keep the lines pure, as you've probably heard, and I was wondering whether she chose a mate for you yet, because I am certain she told me she planned to do so."
Israfil blinked confused.
If prophets or, false prophets spoke another language, this was a bad time to introduce him to it.

"What?" He squinted back.
Lamechial tried again, with a clearer voice, as if the volume was the problem.
"Tendanor is bringing back old traditions, to better the clan, improve it. Has she spoken to you about it yet?"
Israfil stared at him still. "No," he answered.
Lamechial seemed to draw back a bit. "Oh ok, I assumed she had. Very well, speak to me when you get the news, I simply want to know more of your customs so that my part of the upcoming union won't be a problem," he declared. He didn't say anything else, and Israfil's mind was still trying to decode everything.
"Nevermind, nevermind. Speak to me later, when you get the news."
Then he nodded once and left.

Then there's two reasons for staying in the garden.
Lamechial, who Israfil still didn't like speaking to, when he knew he had council connections. And Tendanor, who apparently had more news in store for him.
No, better get back to the tulips for the time being.





A change of plans, and in a daze. Winter passed and so did spring. When summer came and the date he'd been fearfully awaiting was at hand, the dragon who was promised to him had left. No one had told him, but when he asked about it, scarcely believing it could be true, he found out that she'd been sent to the exaltation pillar two months prior.
She hadn't been around for two months.
Two whole months he could have slept at night, knowing nothing would come of the union.

He didn't want to ask what had happened.
He didn't want to know whether Tendanor had any ulterior motives for the drastic change of plans. Would it be better not to bring it up?

Israfil had tried to distract himself after the first meeting with Tendanor by helping Morros in the garden. But when Morros, curious and concerned, had started asking more questions about his well being, he stopped coming. He hadn't known what to say, and whether he was allowed to talk about it. He'd also done his best to not think of it at all, but the concerned looks the wildclaw was sending promised a heart to heart he did not want to have.

Instead he did something outrageously foolish.
In a bravo of adrenaline of impending doom, clutching denial like a lifeline, he'd convinced Astaroth to take the coli team into the volcanic vents.
"It's been a long time since we were that far away, and the clan needs supplies. Let's burn some energy and fight the beasts."
They left the following morning.
Knowing what was awaiting him when he returned home, he had no qualms about fighting risky, with less thought of safety, and more on just mauling through whichever opponent was placed before him.
Astaroth asked no questions about such behavior, as it had been his main strategy as well. To maul through with no thought of himself.
Galdur on the other hand, who was left healing him and bandaging his wounds, was staring to worry.
"Are you alright? Israfil you seem.. Unwell," he'd looked at the weary and antsty look the imperial was wearing.
Israfil stood abruptly, before Galdur had the chance to bandage an awful looking wound on his shoulder.
"If you don't count the bruises and damage, of course. We've done a lot today, lets rest for tomorrow."
"Israfil, your shoulder is-"
"Not a matter, it clogs leave it be," he interrupted. As he turned, his wings that had been tucked up close to his body stretched out a bit, and Galdur gasped.
"Israfil! Your wings!"
Israfil looked distant and a bit disturbed at him, before stretching out one wing.

It felt and smelt like burned leather. It ached to move it.
Across the back and the front was a big tear, the edges dark brown with crusted blood, the bottom scorched with obvious burn marks.
They both looked at them, but Israfil didn't seem to feel much of the pain. It was a distant ache.
"I'll. Be fine," he said absentmindedly.
Astaroth, who'd watched them from the corner of his eye, made an undefined snort. "Looks like you're taking the long way home, there's no flying with those."
Israfil seemed to receive some of the shock this time, but shook his head.
"I'll fly, let's just.. Let's sleep on it."


The last days of fighting were gone in a daze, and Israfil could not remember in what way he'd returned to the sunbeam ruins, only that his wings still looked mauled, and still stretched like too thin skin upon his bones.
He hadn't tried to fly after his return.

It was all a moot point now. The battling and risks he had taken had been pointless, as the traditions he was supposed to upheld had been postponed or disregarded completely.
Morros' concerned looks had turned to an unavoidable conversation about health, as he had seen the consequences of his bad choices.
They hadn't talked much, probably not as much as Morros would have liked, but he'd said some.
Morros himself sat down with him on the dry autumn grass, and told him that his mate had left. It was peculiar, Israfil thought, that they'd both been abandoned.

"What will you do now?" Morros asked.
"I won't go looking for information, at least not yet. I don't want to remind her that she's forgotten about it."
Morros seemed to ponder on something, before going inside his hut. He came out with a scroll, a golden emblem holding it together.
He unfolded it, and read hastily under his breath.
"Muriel was her name?"
Israfil felt vile just hearing it.
"She's been exalted. Right here, it says." He pointed at the little scroll, which was too small for the imperial to see anyway.
"Early this summer," Morros muttered, looking up at him. "But it doesn't say why. This is the last list Crocell made before she left. Had them lying around the house for no good reason other to.. remind herself of her unfair job."
Israfil hummed. "I know she was exalted, but I'm afr-worried that Tendanor will find someone new."
"Maybe let it lie for a while then," Morros suggested. "Or I can casually ask around. The tavern is up to date with everything that has to do with everyone."
Israfil nodded.
He still felt foolish about everything. It churned in his stomach, and he couldn't believe he'd been left off the hook. It just didn't happen to him. He wasn't that lucky.

They sat in silence for a while. Morros' garden was orange and smelled of pines and dead leaves.
Only a single field of sturdy flowers still stood, most had wilted or been moved inside for the season.
"There's little garden work left," Morros started. "But if you want to stay here for a while that'd be nice?" Israfil looked down at his pleading expression. He must've been lonely without his mate all summer, and what would now turn to an even colder, more isolated winter.
"Can you house an imperial?" He asked, carefully smiling.
Morros seemed to sink down in relief.
"Of course I can. I have a tent."
Israfil continued to smile. "Well then I'll stay for a while. Rake leaves or something."
The wildclaw laughed softly. "Many leaves, it'll be a long winter."
The unspoken "thank you, please do" need not be voiced, Israfil would stay.