Katakana

Katakana watched uninterested as each dragon in her class presented their final projects. Most of them were extremely nervous, shifting their feet, their eyes darting around at everyone else’s work. Katakana rolled her eyes. Amateurs.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to judge them too harshly. After all, they were taking her class to learn a new form of art and self expression. They couldn't really help it if their “self” happened to be excruciatingly bland and uninteresting, she supposed.

A male Tundra stepped forward to present what could only be described as an insult to the art of calligraphy, and Katakana rested her chin on a front paw, trying not to wince as the Tundra attempted to explain his “inspiration” for the piece he had created. Something rubbish about being abandoned by this birth mother in childhood… Typical…

Katakana gave the Tundra a mark just high enough so he would pass her class and she’d never have to subject her eyes to the torture of looking at another one of his “masterpieces” (as he called them). Looking down at the list of names on her parchment, the Coatl gave a sigh of relief. Only one presentation left.

In her peripheral vision, Katakana noticed the final student approach and looked up when the student gave a small cough to announce her presence. The calligraphy master braced her eyes for another horrid project but then she noticed that the female Guardian standing before her had nothing in her talons.

“And where might your final project be, pupil?” Katakana questioned, prepared for some excuse about clan hunting duties (Guardians were always going on about those) that had prevented her from completing the assignment.

Instead of replying, the Guardian merely turned, angling the right side of her body in Katakana’s direction.

The Coatl gasped.

Tattoos, written in the most elegant script Katakana had ever seen (apart from her own of course) graced the entirety of the Guardian’s body, even covering the delicate membranes of her wings. Ignoring the gaping mouths of her entire class, Katakana climbed down from her podium and strode towards the female, awestruck. This student had turned her body into a living, moving work of art that was unlike anything Katakana had ever seen.

She circled the female, taking in the smoke-like designs, her eyes going even wider as she realized there were words carved into every tendril of smoke. Some were composed of bits of poetry, some a list of names, others written in a language not even Katakana knew. The Guardian had taken her life’s story and engraved it into her body with the elegance and proficiency of a true master. It was… indescribable.

Blushing slightly as she realized she had unconsciously reached out to touch the magnificent tattoos, Katakana drew back with a huff and glanced down at her parchment, determined to know the name of the only student who would ever earn full marks in her course.

Kyoto watched with amusement, a sly smirk on her face, as Katakana read her name off the parchment and then looked back up to meet her gaze.

Kyoto.

Yes, that was a name she would remember.