Starstone
(#48646697)
he/him! Arasel's husband, lost track of how many kids he has
Familiar
Assassin Bug
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Wildclaw
This dragon is under the permanent effect of a Silhouette Scroll. A toggle on the dragon's profile allows swapping between the artwork poses available for the breed.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.76 m
Wingspan
4.85 m
Weight
464.77 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Starmap
Starmap
Obsidian
Alloy
Alloy
Antique
Firefly
Firefly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 9 Wildclaw
EXP: 7045 / 21526
STR
8
AGI
9
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
Arasel rolls those lovely yellow-green eyes at your offer, settling more comfortably into the nest he's made of every outfit you own and aren't currently wearing. "I'm a fighter," he says. "We don't dance."
"Oh?" You're almost out of wine. Horrible, but it means you can swirl the dregs seductively in the bottom of your glass and lean closer to him, offering a smile that you hope is even more alluring than the gesture. "Don't? Or can't?"
He's...amused, at least. The time he spent in the snowfields of the ice clan he grew up in molded how he emotes; his smiles are always just barely there, laughter never more than near-smothered chuckles. Still, by now you can catch those tiny smiles, anticipate the soft laugh before it comes, infer the existance of the ones he doesn't let escape. "Both. Where would I learn?"
"From me, darling." Dear Flamecaller you love the way his pale cheeks color at the endearment. "Come on. Up up up, come on."
Your coaxing is effective enough that he's on his feet before you, or maybe that's got more to do with his combat reflexes and how much wine you've already been through. It gives him an opening to show that chivalry you love, though; he reaches down and pulls you to your feet with an ease that still amazes you. "Starstone, I don't think you're in any shape to teach me right now..."
"Don't be ridiculous—as long as I can stand, I can dance." Then again, you're not so sure you can stand just now; you're unsteady enough that if he didn't has an arm around your shoulders, you'd be in the pile of silks and fluff on the floor. "Hm. This could take some maneuvering."
"Or you could sit down." Arasel actually laughs as you whine and grasp his wrist, spinning out of his hold and pulling back until you almost lose your balance. It'd be more than almost, but he tightens his grip and pulls you back in, tilting his head back to meet your eyes as he steadies you again. "I'm going to have to carry you to Gaia, you great romantic idiot."
"Only if you let me fall, sweetheart." You treasure the soft sound he makes as you lean down to kiss him for a breath before you take a half step back, tugging at his hands to get him to use your greater weight as a pivot. His footwork wouldn't pass muster at any court, but it's more than enough for you. "Come on, trust me."
"As if I'd ever not." He rolls his eyes again, turns your stumble into a dip that you can't believe he can sustain as perfectly as he does, and rights you again with an oh-so-sweet kiss. "Lover. Beautiful. Galaxy."
"Arasel," you return back, because he knows his name's the sweetest thing you've ever had on your lips. "Darling, sweetheart, flower in the snow and crystal in the flame—oh!"
His face is flushed nearly the same shade of pink as his hair; he pulls your arm over his head, twirls underneath it for a moment—so graceful, so divinely graceful!—and settles with his back pressed against your chest, head tucked under your chin for a moment. You fold your arms around him, admiring how the star-flecked darkness of your skin contrasts with the snowy rosette pattern of his.
Another moment, and he tips his head back, one hand coming up to tangle with the hair at the nape of your neck, wrapping sparkling curls around his fingers. "Starstone," he says, low and loving.
"Arasel," you murmur back. It's all you can manage—he's robbed you of your voice, stolen it along with your heart.
And he knows, because he smiles. He smiles. "You're my home," he whispers, and his hand tightens in your hair to pull you down for a kiss, and for a moment this moment is the best and only thing you've ever wanted to know.
(skin: redrock cove)
"You wouldn't leave me, would you?"
Arasel doesn't lift his face from where it's pressed into the crook of your neck, as he asks the question. His breath is warm against your skin, even warmer when he speaks, but that's more to do with your own icy blood than anything else—the air's much hotter still. Sometimes you wonder if he first came to you purely because you're the lone island of ice in the unceasing heat of the annex, the first thing that reminded him of home.
Be that as it may, you're glad he's here, now, with you. Wait, he asked a question about that, didn't he?
"Of course I won't leave you." Smoothing down the pink spikes of his mane is an exercise in futility, but a pleasant one. "It's not like you to ask, though."
"Mmm." He rubs his face against your chest for another second, then raises his head, shifting his weight more fully onto you as he meets your eyes. "I was thinking about your last nest."
"With Regal?" It was a good one—you and the glitch princess hatched out two princelings and one tiny princess, marked with intricate circuitwork like her mother—and already sent two to other clans, before they're even fledgelings. The last might go to Flamecaller, though. You'll have to ask Nepeta and Subtlety if he's marked for a clan or for service to the goddess.
Arasel's still silent. Usually when he goes thoughtful like this, it's because he's been reminded of himself as a hatchling, but somehow you doubt that's it—the spectrum of your and Regal's children fell mostly in deep blues and purples, and all three children were coatls; you swear Naomi's bloodline wins out over yours more than's fair, even seven generations removed.. Even if they weren't they would have shown your paternity rather than coming out as tiny, perfect skydancers.
Still quiet, even with your own distraction over the thought of the hatchlings. It's odd, especially since it's that specific hesitant silence, rather than just the feeling of your lover simply holding his own counsel. "Darling?"
Greenish eyes flick up to meet yours, then squeeze shut, and his grip on your shoulder tightens. "I've done something stupid."
Oh, hmm. He's never actually admitted something like that to you before—yes, he's gotten himself into all sorts of messes before, you've seen him go to Nepeta and explain what's happened with all the familiar cool patience of ice—but this hesitance is wholly different. As if he's...afraid?
It's closer to what you expect from one born of the labyrinth than you see from him most days. You smooth down his hair again, consider your options for a moment, and answer with the soothing levelness of newly fallen snow.
"What's happened, dearest?"
He takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. "I took one of the eggs."
Eggs. What? Oh, wait—of course, the ones gathered in his time spent battling. You're always only vaguely aware of the spoils he brings back (other than clothing for you to pick through, of course) but you know that now is the time of year most likely to result in the precious, treasured eggs being brought back to the lair.
Not that the clan of crows ever hatches many—this place is gathered from those who choose to leave other clans (or are made to leave.) The eggs are usually bartered off to other clans, sold for—
"Oh, Arasel—if you needed treasure for something, you can ask for it." It's obvious. It should have been obvious. Arasel's felt guilty about everything he's received here—the time spent on training him, the assests used to make him what he is—but he's valued, and not just by you. "You're a part of this clan, we'll make sure you get what you—"
You stop. Arasel is shaking his head, slow and deliberate.
"No?"
"I...no. I don't want to sell her. I'm not giving her up."
"Her?" Eggs aren't he or she, rarely even they—until they hatch, an egg is an it. "Arasel. Arasel."
You're actually struggling to not laugh, but from the look on Arasel's face as he raises his head, you don't think he can tell. He thinks he's about to be chastised or worse. "Starstone?"
Instead of giving him what he expects, you pull him down to press your forehead against his, letting your eyes close. "Tell me about her. Our daughter."
He shudders against you, going limp after a moment. "Oh."
"What?"
"She is, isn't she? Ours." He pulls back slightly, blinking a few times as his face goes into that transitory blank state that comes before his smile. "Mine and yours. Ours."
He's nearly crying, you realize. and before he can graduate from there to the actual act (and freeze up with what he considers the shame of breaking down) you pull him close to you again. And he comes willingly, burying his face in your neck again.
As you murmur softly to your love, you wonder what your daughter will be like.
You can't wait to find out.
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Exalting Starstone to the service of the Flamecaller will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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