Pilfer

Unlucky Tools Apparel Poisons, smoke bombs, and sharp blades are the tools every vile dragon keeps close by. 800 Stone Knife Trinkets A piece of history from the first beastclan conflicts. 78 Glittering Sphinxband Trinkets The gleaming silver beast that wraps around this valuable ring is said to ward off feline predators. Probably not best to rely on that, though. 33

PILFER "When we grew up, our shadows grew up too. But they're just old ghosts that we grew attached to." Outskirts Scout | They/Them Often labelled as reckless, Pilfer was given a position among the rag-tag band of warriors and scouts that wander the edges of the clan's territory. Their headfirst approach to jumping into scraps and haunted by the Prescence given an outlet at last, granting them a chance to help their clan and themself. TRIVIA Lore story written by BringItDown Is selectively mute, preferring to use body language to express themself Ever devoted partner to Sienna

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Pilfer’s mouth has never tasted like anything but copper.

It always lingers underneath their tongue like a memory forever carved into their psyche, like how to eat and what their name is. Sometimes it’s stronger, when the blood of a new meal stains their maw or a meeting with a stranger becomes a fight with an enemy.

But now, it bubbles in their throat, almost painful as it drools down their teeth. Pilfer coughs, and feels the way their ribs cry. The wound gnawed into their hind was hardly able to keep itself together.

Pilfer had feared death only once.

When their body was weak, small, and frailer, even frailer than they were now. Back then, it had been their chest that burned with the nasty slash of a creature so much bigger than them, something that should have killed them and been done with it.

Though they had struggled to not succumb to the unknown so harshly back then, Pilfer has now come to believe that death by the hand of that beast would have been for the better. To prove their mindset; to not let the Skydancer grow into the predator instead.

Alas, fate is not kind. It never has been, and now it’s catching up to them, fixing the mistake it made. (How nice it is, to have the privilege of such a thing.)

How fitting it would be, to die by bleeding out in the electrical mesa, alone and as a consequence of their own hubris. But the Presence had been so hungry, and the taste and smell of Shade both so close and so tantalizing.

But that smell did not warn of the hide of the prey the Shade had attached itself to, and Lionsnakes were always tricky when they got the first pounce. Especially when they went for the flank, and when they only wrapped themselves tighter around their prey when that “prey” fought back.

The blood on Pilfer’s tastebuds is not just their own - but it becomes harder and harder to discern the two when their eyesight quivers before them.

A groan releases from their throat as they lurch forward, pitiful and weak in a way they despise. A shudder, and they feel the way their legs almost give out. Is a battle truly won when it only leads to a pyrrhic victory?

And yet - would their own death really be considered a loss? Was there anything really left of them, aside from this hungering pain and the Presence apart of them? How, then, could a corpse feel the pain of losing a life–

Pilfer becomes conscious of a syllable, distant and yet close - too close. Something like ”er”, abrupt and sudden and yet somehow always there. And with it comes the acknowledgment of another presence, this time something physical, approaching their cowering form–

(When had they fallen to the floor?)

Despite their self, Pilfer gnashes, lashes out in a facade of wanting to live. They retreat into themself, using the last bit of strength they had to pull themself to a crouch to show off the way their fangs curl around their bottom jaw–

Lights like that of stars underneath a terracotta blanket of sky greet them - only it’s not something otherworldly, but something they recognize. Something they can acknowledge, feel, and chase the euphoria of familiarity–

“Pilfer,” The Obelisk calls - allowing the Skydancer to understand the previous syllables, and even more, realize the concern both the voice and face hold.

And yet still, despite it, she’s careful as ever. She approaches the injured dragon with caution, yet clear haste; and Pilfer can tell it’s not out of fear that she takes this stance, but out of a wish to not frighten or overwhelm them. Her firefly-dusted wings seem to cover the two as she stands before them, tall and warm, and just like that, the Skydancer allows their aching body to crumble in front of her.

They can hear her voice still, frantic with questions and worries, no doubt, but the blank black behind their eyelids is far too pleasant to bare staying awake.

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Pilfer only remembers two things about their egg parents.

First, they clearly didn’t want them, casting them out of the nest at a deadly young age, right into the boils and stench of Plaguelands. And second; the reason for it was because they represented nothing but their past mistakes, whatever those were.

They know this, because it is the only reason why the Presence would follow them around, hungry and yearning for either blood or Shade. And the Presence is a part of Pilfer the way a memory would be, and so, they listened to it.

Heat lashes against the Skydancer’s feather– far too far to burn anything, but enough to feel the striking heat. Yet, it’s not a terribly bad feeling.

They come too with shaky limbs and bleary eyes, trying to observe their surroundings the minute they realize they passed out.

“Don’t overwhelm yourself,” a soft voice speaks, and were it not for the familiarity, Pilfer would have forced themselves back into that “hissing snake” stance. Instead, they arch their neck towards the source, and spy what they were yearning to see, eyesight clearing and zoning in.

Sienna sits close beside them, watching the embers of a campfire spark onto the sandstone ground, just as quickly smothering themselves out. Silence passes between them, long enough for Pilfer to finally understand their surroundings; they’re in a small cave somewhere in the mesa, the lightning-filled night sky peering just from outside. Their wounds are bandaged, strips of dreary white draped tightly with mangled leather being used as a makeshift tourniquet against their flank. Pilfer notices how the Obelisk’s vest has a hole ripped into it, and they resist the impulse to coo in apology.

“Are you alright?” Sienna finally asks, their head turning to meet the other’s gaze. Pilfer responds by rolling onto their side (the side that isn’t nearly torn apart), opening a wing to look upon the injury themself. Even the minimal effort it takes causes a sharp pang to ring through them, wincing lightly through their teeth.

Taking that as a satisfactory response, Sienna nods, but her eyes betray worry. “At the very least, you’re not dead. That’s all I can ask for.”

Another pause for quiet, and in the midst of it, something rare begins gnawing at Pilfer; guilt.

“Reckless” has always seemed like a secondary name for them. They chase thrills and kills, they throw themselves into viper pits the second they smell food, and they don’t hesitate to sink their teeth into another’s throat for even a moment. But they prefer “Reckless”, because otherwise they were labeled “Intimdating”, or even harsher, “Monster”.

Eventually, when you’re called the same thing over and over, the brutality of the words loses their meaning. Whether from a stranger or new clan recruit, Pilfer could care less - unless it was Sienna or him speaking.

The fire shifts, casting illuminated shadows on the cave walls around them. Pilfer watches them, attempting to ignore their own crawling anxiety, before Sienna shifts. It’s subtle, but Pilfer keeps attentive to it like each second is worth their life.

The Obelisk shuffles closer, just a few inches, before lying down in a restful stance. They unfurl a wing, delicate yet deliberate, hovering over Pilfer’s head in a silent question of consent.

And Pilfer obliges - perhaps with embarrassing enthusiasm, gently pushing their head up against the wing’s underside, allowing it to follow as they then lay it against the ground. It rests over them with the same weight and warmth of a wool blanket; a sheet of cantaloupe stars comforting their very being, even soothing the Presence.

It reminds them of simpler times, back when they were small and weak. When he showed them empathy - took them under his wing, both literally and metaphorically, large and loving like a home should be. Like a father they never had.

That had been before their ragtag team of scouts had even formed. Back when Sienna too, was young, back when they first met - back when Pilfer had promised to stay by her side, and she theirs.

The Skydancer had believed back then that such a life of a lookout would only be ideal for them; not only was it suggested by him, but it felt fitting. Tucked away from the dragons of the clan who still showed caution towards, hunting down Shade-infested prey and mercilessly dealing with intruders. A solitary life, alone with the weight of their regrets.

But they hadn’t been alone, for better or worse. Everyone who joined, every dragon who carried the will to explore the outskirts, defend a clan and insist on holding weekly campfires of good food and stories… all carried the scent of regret. The Presence.

And yet still, they carried it together. Sienna described it as a makeshift “family” - one both they and Pilfer witnessed the forming of together.

Sienna, too, had been the one to show them the sky. To not fear Pilfer, like even some of their “family” did, and rather want them near. Like Pilfer was a dragon, an individual, and not some infected beast who should have died long ago.

“I know you’re you.” The voice snaps Pilfer out from their reminiscing, the Skydancer realizing that they had been dozing off in the soft warmth. Though Sienna does not make eye contact with them, they can still see the way her eyes glow, illuminated by the flames of the fire. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. So I won’t ask questions until we go see the doc. But I want you to stay safe.”

Sienna’s words have always been like lemonade to Pilfer. The type with little sugar, unsaturated and sour. If his had been of saltwater, life-saving and harsh, Sienna’s was invigorating, comforting. Pilfer had always preferred sour things.

“So live, Pilfer. Stay by my side.”

…It may have been he who gave them the name, but it had been Sienna who had given it meaning. When he had told them to become strong enough and find what would finally fill the Presence, it had been they who gave Pilfer reason to satiate it.

One day at a time. As long as they lived, surely they could find what would satisfy its hunger, instead of starving it. A corpse isn’t truly dead until it’s rotting in the ground, like Sienna used to say.

Under a glowing blanket of stars, Pilfer feels comfort. Temporary and fleeting; yet, it could feed them for days. The fire still flares, and their eyelids droop; for once, safe. For now, alive.

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