Ilsaire
(#50742279)
Level 1 Wildclaw
Familiar
Maren Defender
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Wildclaw
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.87 m
Wingspan
6.26 m
Weight
697.9 kg
Genetics
Pistachio
Iridescent
Iridescent
Moon
Bee
Bee
Mist
Stained
Stained
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Wildclaw
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
Word of the tragedies at the Fletching Clan had begun to spread, and fewer and fewer dragons came to attend holiday festivities. Though the market street was still open, and merchants still brought their most luxurious goods to hawk, the Gala was not as cheery as it had once been--at least, that is what Ilsaire was told. He watched the sparse few dragons wandering the market street and making their ways to the temple--but he wouldn’t be there.
Maybe I am a coward, he thought, bowing his head. I cannot even bring myself to beg the Icewarden’s protection. The alcove he’d hidden himself in, atop one of the hundred opal spires, was barely big enough, even for a wildclaw on the small side, like himself. His claws were dug into the fae-amber just to keep himself from falling.
But he’d seen what had happened to the other priests. As a hatchling, groomed specifically from a long line of holy workers, he had originally thought it the highest of privileges to be sent to the Fletching Clan. He could still remember the day he’d been brought, along with gifts of sealskin coats and Rasa porcelain. It hadn’t been a long flight across the sea, but he recalled looking down at waters as they turned a marvellous pink approaching Windstar bay, and feeling a thrill of excitement. Soon the spires of the palace had come into view--it had just passed Mistral Jamboree then, and glittering pinwheels and ribbons still spun in the warm breeze. He closed his eyes for a moment, bathing in the memory. None of that would happen this Jamboree, he knew.
Maybe I am just hiding from the inevitable. None of the priests in the last cycle of holidays had escaped some miserable fate or another, and they had only grown more violent of late. He shuddered as he remembered Evraine’s broken remains, however carefully they had been buried, after they finally excavated her from the landslide. Since then, he had considered so many times fleeing--but he knew that it would only shunt his fate onto the other Ice dragons. When the Plague priest ran, all of his flight in the clan had been culled in his stead. Skadi, Vindler, Whisper, Emilitia, Kalaedin, Elathan… He couldn’t do that to them.
Some part of him thought that hiding where he was might incur the wrath of whatever force was behind this, but the greater part of him knew that no matter where he hid, so long as he stayed in the palace, it would find him.
And it did, two nights later. The next day was to be the high point of the festival, the traditional Gala itself, and Ilsaire was to lead the religious rites to precede it. As twilight came and went, he sat awake on his perch, his whole body sore from clinging to the opalized sap, but it did not matter. He could feel it coming. And he was scared.
“You’re not going to fight,” came the voice from the shadows, and it didn’t even surprise him.
“No,” he said, barely able to raise his voice above a trembling whisper.
“So unlike the others,” said the voice. In the darkness, Ilsaire could barely make out the shape of a long, slithering dragon coiling itself around a tower across from him. A spiral. Or an illusion? It was impossible to tell. “Do you not pray for mercy?”
“I know that it won’t change anything.”
A laugh--a laugh like any other. Not rasping or deep or menacing. Cruel, perhaps. But it could have come from a normal dragon his own age. It made him recoil.
“Why do you serve the Icewarden if you know He will not serve you in your time of need?”
Ilsaire looked at his claws. His shaking was causing a skittering sound where they scratched the crystal beneath him. “I was raised for it,” he said, truthfully. “I love the Icewarden, but in another life, perhaps I would have been a dancer, or a sculptor.”
“You’re honest,” said the voice. Ilsaire saw the shape in the darkness shift, and suddenly it was before him--yet despite its proximity he still could not make out any of its features. It reached out a claw and tipped his face up. A shudder ran through him and his breath hitched.
“Don’t be afraid,” it said. “I like you. I’ll have more mercy on you than the others.”
Ilsaire couldn’t breathe. The claw under his chin turned his head this way and that, presumably allowing it to examine him.
“So pretty,” it said. “I know just what to do with you.”
-
When the massive doors to the ballroom were cracked open the next day to allow the small crowd inside for the Gala, for a brief time all seemed normal. Then, a shriek rose up from one of the Fletching Clan’s dragons.
On the dais, a beautiful ice sculpture sparkled--a wildclaw, twisted as though he was mid-step in a dance. His silks and jewelry hung from him, still fluttering, like the master who shaped him had left in a great rush only moments before. A beautiful icicle brand was carved into his neck.
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Exalting Ilsaire to the service of the Windsinger 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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