Sarlen
(#48894378)
Level 1 Wildclaw
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Lightning.
Male Wildclaw
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.05 m
Wingspan
6.56 m
Weight
685.14 kg
Genetics
Smoke
Wasp
Wasp
Charcoal
Alloy
Alloy
Flint
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Wildclaw
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
8
AGI
9
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
They had been there ever since he first opened his eyes. Dark, bleak. No one else could see them. They thought he was crazy. Sometimes he wondered, maybe they were right.
Sometimes they were quiet. Those were good days. Other times, however, they were loud, sometimes they shouted. Endless noise, echoing screams. Those were horrible days. And sometimes, rarely, so, so rarely, they just talked.
There was one, their name was Zaar. They never screamed. Sarlen didn’t know why. Perhaps they’d screamed so much, that they no longer had it in them. Or maybe, they didn’t care. Maybe they liked being dead.
That’s what he assumed all of them were - dead. At least, when they talked or screamed they acted as if they were.
He didn’t know a lot about Zaar, but they were comforting. They appeared at some point and simply never tried to leave. They were calm, so different from everyone else around Sarlen - both dead and alive.
His mother smiled at him. “There’s nothing there, darling, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. She was wrong. It was the brown ridgeback again. Her screams filled his head. There was nothing but her agony. So loud and consuming it hurt. She had been screaming herself hoarse for hours. Just shouting. No words. She never used words. It was just pain. Just Sarlen, the ridgeback and pain.
Sarlen saw what it did to dragons. Death. It broke, destroyed most of them. Those that screamed, and there were a lot, all stopped at some point. Broken down. One of them, a spiral, didn’t stop screaming for years, at first. Now he just lays there, broken, rarely moving. Just like most of the other ones. Until more appear. And then they start screaming too.
Except Zaar. He’s known Zaar for years, they never screamed, never cried, never broke. They just were.
“Why?” he asked one day, looking at a small fae, who’s screams had turned in to quiet whimpers in the past few days. “Why aren’t you like them?”
“Because it doesn’t matter much. Because there’s no point screaming when nobody can hear you. When nobody bothers to, because they’re also screaming.”
“What’s so different about you?”
“I don’t feel the need to scream, beg others to notice me. They never did. Not when it mattered. Dying hasn’t changed that.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“They weren’t ready to die,” they ignored him.
“And you were?”
“I knew I would, soon.” They sat for minutes, quiet, listening to fading screams. Then:
“And that didn’t matter. Just because you’re alive, doesn’t mean people care. Even dead, I’m just as important as you are. Not so much. That’s the truth. All of us die. Very few are remembered. Most memories die too. Then there are those that stay. In books and legends. They get to live forever. The rest of us fade in to dust. I think that’s why they scream. They don’t want to accept that. Don’t want to fade.”
“And you do?”
“I don’t really care.” They give him a sad smile. They rarely smile. Most of the time their face was blank.
“I do. I’ll remember you.”
“And you’ll die. Then who will remember you?”
“You will.”
“I’m dead.”
“One day, we all will be.”
“You’re imagining them.” The fourth psychiatrist said. They all said the same thing. Sarlen decided he didn’t like psychiatrists. They kept trying to explain things he had given up trying to explain long ago. In the end it didn’t matter if they were real or not. They felt real. Their screams definitely were.
Zaar didn’t talk about being alive a lot. It didn’t bother Sarlen. Being alive wasn’t always worth talking about. They also didn’t talk about how they died. He appreciated that, most of the time. He heard enough about dying from the others. He was curious, of course, but curiosity killed the cat. And by now he knew satisfaction didn’t really bring anyone back.
Then she showed up. Zaar stared at her for so long. And she stared right back. Zaar didn’t talk for weeks after that. What surprised Sarlen the most was the fact that she never screamed either. Everyone did. At least sometimes. Just for a little while. Except Zaar. And now her.
“Who is she?” he asked.
“No one,” they lied.
It turned out she spoke even less than Zaar did. Not at all. She had been there for months and hadn’t uttered a word. A record.
Almost three months after she arrived Zaar didn’t look at him when they said.
“She was one of them.”
“One of who?”
“Us.”
It only gave Sarlen more questions.
He made a list of all he knew about the stranger.
After six months and eleven days, she whispered, voice hoarse.
“They still don’t care.”
Sarlen looked at her in confusion. Naar answered:
“Did you expect them to?” they walked away, clearly not expecting an answer.
Sometimes they were quiet. Those were good days. Other times, however, they were loud, sometimes they shouted. Endless noise, echoing screams. Those were horrible days. And sometimes, rarely, so, so rarely, they just talked.
There was one, their name was Zaar. They never screamed. Sarlen didn’t know why. Perhaps they’d screamed so much, that they no longer had it in them. Or maybe, they didn’t care. Maybe they liked being dead.
That’s what he assumed all of them were - dead. At least, when they talked or screamed they acted as if they were.
He didn’t know a lot about Zaar, but they were comforting. They appeared at some point and simply never tried to leave. They were calm, so different from everyone else around Sarlen - both dead and alive.
His mother smiled at him. “There’s nothing there, darling, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. She was wrong. It was the brown ridgeback again. Her screams filled his head. There was nothing but her agony. So loud and consuming it hurt. She had been screaming herself hoarse for hours. Just shouting. No words. She never used words. It was just pain. Just Sarlen, the ridgeback and pain.
Sarlen saw what it did to dragons. Death. It broke, destroyed most of them. Those that screamed, and there were a lot, all stopped at some point. Broken down. One of them, a spiral, didn’t stop screaming for years, at first. Now he just lays there, broken, rarely moving. Just like most of the other ones. Until more appear. And then they start screaming too.
Except Zaar. He’s known Zaar for years, they never screamed, never cried, never broke. They just were.
“Why?” he asked one day, looking at a small fae, who’s screams had turned in to quiet whimpers in the past few days. “Why aren’t you like them?”
“Because it doesn’t matter much. Because there’s no point screaming when nobody can hear you. When nobody bothers to, because they’re also screaming.”
“What’s so different about you?”
“I don’t feel the need to scream, beg others to notice me. They never did. Not when it mattered. Dying hasn’t changed that.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“They weren’t ready to die,” they ignored him.
“And you were?”
“I knew I would, soon.” They sat for minutes, quiet, listening to fading screams. Then:
“And that didn’t matter. Just because you’re alive, doesn’t mean people care. Even dead, I’m just as important as you are. Not so much. That’s the truth. All of us die. Very few are remembered. Most memories die too. Then there are those that stay. In books and legends. They get to live forever. The rest of us fade in to dust. I think that’s why they scream. They don’t want to accept that. Don’t want to fade.”
“And you do?”
“I don’t really care.” They give him a sad smile. They rarely smile. Most of the time their face was blank.
“I do. I’ll remember you.”
“And you’ll die. Then who will remember you?”
“You will.”
“I’m dead.”
“One day, we all will be.”
“You’re imagining them.” The fourth psychiatrist said. They all said the same thing. Sarlen decided he didn’t like psychiatrists. They kept trying to explain things he had given up trying to explain long ago. In the end it didn’t matter if they were real or not. They felt real. Their screams definitely were.
Zaar didn’t talk about being alive a lot. It didn’t bother Sarlen. Being alive wasn’t always worth talking about. They also didn’t talk about how they died. He appreciated that, most of the time. He heard enough about dying from the others. He was curious, of course, but curiosity killed the cat. And by now he knew satisfaction didn’t really bring anyone back.
Then she showed up. Zaar stared at her for so long. And she stared right back. Zaar didn’t talk for weeks after that. What surprised Sarlen the most was the fact that she never screamed either. Everyone did. At least sometimes. Just for a little while. Except Zaar. And now her.
“Who is she?” he asked.
“No one,” they lied.
It turned out she spoke even less than Zaar did. Not at all. She had been there for months and hadn’t uttered a word. A record.
Almost three months after she arrived Zaar didn’t look at him when they said.
“She was one of them.”
“One of who?”
“Us.”
It only gave Sarlen more questions.
He made a list of all he knew about the stranger.
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Quote:
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After six months and eleven days, she whispered, voice hoarse.
“They still don’t care.”
Sarlen looked at her in confusion. Naar answered:
“Did you expect them to?” they walked away, clearly not expecting an answer.
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