Xyshaun

Weathered Grimoire Trinkets If holding just one of these makes you feel knowledgable, imagine how wise you'd be if you had a hoard filled with them! 35 Intact Parchment Dragonmade Perfect for diaries, manifestos, and shopping lists. 15 Empty Inkwell Trinkets A darkened glass bottle that once held ink. There are remnants of fluid crusted on the bottom and rim. 80 The tools of my trade. Living in the reborn temple claimed by Past's Echoes. I think of cluttered library shelves, old growth forests and the smell of new parchment.

-- As scribed by Xyshaun Iceborn formerly of the Frostsberth clan, now of Past’s Echoes, clan historian and scribe, et cetera. Edited by a charitable passer-by who took pity on an young cockerel (Oh no. Did someone make edits to my manuscript?) Xyshaun was born to a conservative Ice clan by the name of Frostsberth. He was taught to preserve history at all costs from the moment of his hatching. “History is how we know who we are,” they would say. “Without it, we are nothing.” His studies focused on the importance of a clinical historian’s perspective. Xyshaun excelled, but he showed an especial talent for forgetting current events. (Vandals! Who did this to my notes?) When his training was completed, Xyshaun was encouraged to travel and learn about the world first hand—or first paw, as the case was. (Revise? Humor is unbecoming in biographies.) Lighten up. After traveling the world for a few days, Xyshaun chose to settle with a small but thriving Light clan. They had a budding passion for history and finding artifacts, much to Xyshaun’s delight. He was particularly interested in the backstory of a labyrinthian nest of catacombs under the temple they chose to call home. As they discovered the secrets of the land, he taught them the ways of cataloging finds and memorizing notes, passed down to him by generations of his clan. Many members of Past’s Echoes credit Xyshaun’s lessons as the first spark for their interest in archaeology. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, do you? His mnemonics, such as “pick up every single piece of gear or trip over what someone else left lying here”, are still taught to the hatchlings today. But an unfortunate encounter with a cursed staff soon into the temple’s rediscovery left his once boundless memory damaged. Or maybe you’re just a tundra. (Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to prank an Ice dragon?) Xyshaun was devastated. Even the briefest memories would slip out of his mind like water from a melting ice cap. He had always prided himself his beautiful tales. He had failed those he had come to love as well as himself. Yawn. Desperate to regain what he had lost, Xyshaun landed on a simple yet brilliant idea: he would write down what he remembered instead. It took you that long to learn to write? (When I find out who’s done this, I am going to use their hide to rewrite my manuscript!) It was a grueling task. Xyshaun’s memory had been his only tool; he had never needed to learn how to write. He left to study under a tutor, ashamed of his failure and determined to right his wrongs. Over many months, Xyshaun painstakingly transcribed the majority of the clan’s stories. Some of the minor ones were lost, much to his regret. Still, he returned to them triumphant, with a massive set of journals detailing the clan’s oral history. Each journal is stored away, spelled by Summoner to never fade or rot. When he fills one, he lovingly makes another from the leather and salvaged paper in the clan’s storehouses. What was once a hardship is now his heart’s passion. We all need our hobbies. He writes down both his own history and the history of the clan at dawn and twilight every day, for what is every hour passed but another day of history? Ugh. Past’s Echoes is a vibrant, ever-changing clan, sure to leave behind a rich legacy. Visitors come and go often, each giving him new tales to tell and information to record. Xyshaun is always busy scribing down a new piece of the clan’s history and always ready to give out a bit of gossip, the little loudmouth. (Watch your tone! Oh, what am I doing?) The vast library of journals is one of the most valued treasures of the clan. Xyshaun has begun illuminating some of them, gilding the pages with beautiful designs that somehow feel like the subject. He is especially fond of complex knotwork and scrolling patterns along the spines of his journals, with fanciful designs around the dates of each page. His nose and paws are permanently stained with the proprietary brand of ink he uses. What do you get when you cross a tundra with a puffed up pigeon? Xyshaun. But unfortunately, his beautiful illuminations are often destroyed by the clan’s confused dating system. Too often, as soon as he’s done illuminating a date, a scholar will correct him and he’ll be forced to start all over. Though Xyshaun has tried to standardize it, even going to far as to suggest the tribunal announce the name of each year to the entire clan, all his work has been in vain. Forgetful scholars often use names they’ve chosen themselves. Treatises on the exact same discovery on the exact same date may be given to him dated with as many as six different Years. He often has to follow the thread of a story to its source to translate the date to its proper form. (Why can’t we all use the same year? It isn’t that hard. It’s the Year of Fog, not the Year of Old Growth, not the Year of Trees or the Year of Gardening, for Icewarden’s sake. Ah look—now I’m taking notes in my own manuscript. ) And that’s just the research papers. Every visitor to the clan has a different dating system, even those from the same flights. When he isn’t sure, Xyshaun surrenders and approximates. Shame on you, young man! Have you no respect for historic integrity? (This is getting out of hand.) He often looks harried and irritated, perhaps from too long spent chasing down the exact date of a discovery when he could have been recording the event itself. His work is hard, but he does it without complaint with plenty of complaints without complaint. (Can’t be Brother. I rarely see him anymore. His sis—No. I shan’t entertain that thought.) In addition to taking notes, Xyshaun also offers transcription and copy-making. He has a special talent for translating notes into a full paper, all of which are stored in the clan’s libraries alongside his journals. Many a weary scholar has been relieved of their burden by his dedication. Puff yourself up a little more, eh? Summer coat come in too thin this year? (Diagram? I can’t have crossed her. Or I hope not…Is this vengeance for my notes on her? Oh well. I have resigned myself to remaking this copy anyway. Note: get more green ink for the edging.) He is a close companion of Loom, one of Past’s Echoes’ seers. He helps her read the tomes the archaeologists uncover and she helps him puzzle them out. Together, they’ve deciphered out some of the most famous mysteries of the clan—such as a strange dig site that made everyone spontaneously sing an eerie tune (It was a tough curse to break. Some of us still hum to ourselves.) and a tablet written in such an ancient form of draconic it was nearly illegible, Long experience has taught him that her intuition is just as strong as his relentlessly researched logic. Loom and Xyshaun sittin’ in a tree k-i-s-s- (Disgusting. We are friends—and I would have it no other way.) Xyshaun is content to be a part of Past’s Echoes past, present and future—the beating heart of the clan. He hopes to see many more years within the abandoned temple with his beloved, peaceful clan. After all, there are so many stories left to write. His gaze is blank, his mind is base I had to salvage something from this disgrace. So I have tried, but will he see? My turn of phrase is of more grace Than ever his shall be. His ears are always primed for gossip Will he remember it tomorrow? Well, that’s a toss-up. He knows so little, he’s really no fun He puffs himself up like an overtaught drum So what’s his name, this tundra dumb? It’s Xyshaun, of course, the only one. (Listrik! I should have known. She hacks apart every sentence she touches. Note: have a talk with her later…And set up some wards.)

I was born to a small but hardy clan beneath one of the smallest of the Cloudscrape Crags' mountains. I remember thick, warm blankets, hushed murmurs as we spoke our lessons aloud, and the smell of fir trees. Butcher's Fig Plant This crimson fruit stains a maw red for days. 64 8 Redblood Sapper Plant A virulent bloom, prized for the deep red dye it can produce; abhorred for its tendency to strangle other plants and take over a field. 42 4 Golden Milkweed Plant When not used as a snack, this milkweed can also be ground up for pigment. Art you can eat! 46 4 A small sampling of some of the plants I use in my work.

I had been sitting in my study, working on a new entry. Stardew had dropped by earlier to tell me of a spectacular find by one of her crew. I listened greedily to his descriptions of a vast hall deep within a temple, filled to the brim with all manner of machines and trinkets that recalled a Lightning dragon’s workshop. They each whirred and clicked to some incomprehensible rhythm. My mind was filled with hoards of glimmering golden structures, towering from ceiling to floor and cascading down in a metallic shimmer. I believe that is why the idea came to me.

Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if words could be gold as well? How beautiful they would appear, emblazoned on the page in every color of the rainbow, with gold in fine strands woven through them. How lovely…

I caught myself as I began to daydream. It doesn’t happen often, you understand, but some ideas simply catch your fancy and sweep you up into the sky with them. I went back to work—but the idea wouldn’t leave me. As soon as I had finished, it came back stronger and more alluring.

Gilded words. Who had ever heard of such a thing? I had barely gotten used to using paper. Ice dragons are famous for our long oral histories, you see, even some of us tundras. If even I could come up with such an idea, then I wasn't the first. I am hardly that original. My curiosity on the subject led me astray, much like my beloved Midnight. As is the way with felines, she always seems to be getting herself into some sort of trouble--and so would I, in due time. But it was inevitable. I couldn’t focus on my duties while I imagined how much lovelier the pages could be.

So I took myself off to the library. Past’s Echoes has a lovely library, in part thanks to my efforts. My journals of our history line every wall. Aside from them, we have collected hundreds of ancient books from our digs and hundreds more from enterprising traders eager to sell their wares to our scholars. It is a historian’s dream. And so, it is no surprise that barely an hour into my researches, I found the information I was looking for. I studied the cover of the book, careful to keep my candle back from its fragile pages. A fire in the library would be a catastrophic mishap. Its title, On the Ancient Art of Illumination, was picked out in golden letters. I turned to its first chapter, eager for more. The first letter was emblazoned with the most intricate, most colorful design I had ever seen.

I took it back to my rooms for closer study. Within its pages, I found its secret: a special brand of golden ink, made from a plant deep within The Shrieking Wilds. And more than that—other inks of other colors could be made from plants in the same locale. The book even held the recipe for a sort of everlasting black ink—one which, with a few efforts on my part, could be even more potent. I gave my Midnight a distracted scratch, accidentally spattering her with ink.

I left almost immediately, only taking the time necessary to be certain someone would look in on my cat. The tribunal saw the wild fire in my eyes and agreed immediately. Or perhaps waking them up in the middle of the night had muddied their senses. No matter. If they had raised a single objection, I would have argued most furiously. I was off the next day.

The Shrieking Wilds are a strange, dangerous place, doubly so for a dragon who hails from Ice. I am used to being able to see all my surroundings. The clustered overgrowth felt suffocating, the horrible heat cloying and sticky. Nevermind the feeling of eyes on me at all hours of the day and night, eyes who I could not trace to an owner. I would find the plants and then leave as soon as possible, I assured myself.

Unfortunately, my assumption had been that finding them would be the hardest part. I was incorrect. It was retrieving them. You see, the berries I needed looked much like a certain other type of berry—one which the book had warned me about. They were so poisonous that touching them might make one sick. The only difference between these and my true golden berries was the shape of the leaf of the plant it grew on. The one I needed was a round, gently curved leaf; the poisonous one was angular, almost a triangle shape.

Luckily for me, they also grew together. Sometimes, said the book, they would even intertwine into one large plant. Apparently both needed a specific kind of soil, one only found in this part of The Shrieking Wilds.

As many days as I had spent finding the berries, I spent carefully picking my way through each patch, terrified. Each night I made camp as far from them as possible. When I had left this place, I would find a way to synthesize this ink. These berries could freeze in Icewarden’s prison.
The work was exhausting too. Hours spent carefully examining leaves led to maybe one or two that I could pick without risking my premature death. By luck, I found a large patch of the necessary berry, growing a bit downstream and isolated from the patch I had been searching. I reached out to pluck one—and found myself barreling sideways. I landed hard and sprung up, ready for a fight. But the mirror who had tossed me snout over paws seemed calm.

“Gladekeeper protect you.”

“Icewarden keep you. Lightweaver illuminate your path.” I returned the greetings.

“Almost wound up bringing your corpse back to the Lifemother just now.”

“Oh no, see, these ones are not poisonous--“ I looked at the berry I had almost picked. The leaf was triangular. I shuddered and rubbed my paws on the grass, while the mirror watched impassively.

“So why are you picking Gilded Deathberries? There’s easier ways to poison someone you don’t like, Iceson. I could show you.” Which she quickly followed up with, “Not on you, I mean. You’re not a threat.”

That irked me. “I don’t wish to poison anyone. I’m looking to make golden ink.”

“Ah, you want the other berries then.” She nodded to a nearby bush, with gently curving leaves springing out of it. I bit back my growing irritation.

“You know, you could’ve asked,” said the mirror, tilting her head at me. “We harvest near here all the time.” Her quadruple dark green eyes blinked in a strange pattern. Was she winking at me? Or laughing?

“I would have, had I known you were here.” The mirror did it again, an asymmetrical pattern I couldn’t read. She had to be winking.

“Not for you to know. Ah, sorry. We don’t get many visitors out here. Had to have some fun with you, Iceson. Say, me and my clan could save you some time. What do you say we harvest you some berries and you get your tail out of here before you die? We’ll offer you a reasonable rate.”
I looked at the close-growing patches of Gilded Death and inkberries. What had I been thinking? Pure hubris on my part.

“Deal, if you can find me some of the others on my list…” She could. She knew where to find them all. A couple hours later, she returned with her entire clan—mostly mirrors, with a few fae who looked like nothing more than butterflies and moths. I almost mistook them for insects at first.

I pulled out my journal and jotted down some notes on this story as she and her clan worked, darting between the poison berries with a grace I’d never seen mirrors possess. They handed them off to fae carrying small baskets, who hovered just above. It was beautiful to watch. They were done before I had time to do more than jot a couple notes.

The mirror and I agreed on a shipping deal after that. I was impressed by her courtesy and efficiency. I get berries twice monthly from their courier, they take away a rather substantial part of my treasure allocation I receive for supplies for my work.

It’s worth it, though. Now every page shines.

And now old Mister Tundra has got his lovely gild
But whoops, what’s this?
Oh no!
Dismay!
It's ink I've spilled
Upon this page.

(Wretch. I shouldn't have left this out to dry. But thank you for using the removable kind I’ve been experimenting with—you made the cleanup much easier than you thought you would and gave me a test subject to boot. I’m afraid you’ll find it’s not the removable kind that I filled your leaky pen with, though.)