Iro

Iro “Brightheart” Taayin

Male // He/Him // Heterosexual

Deepmine Aardvark

Familiar

This elusive mammal plunders dragon caves for its insectoid diet. Along the way, it amasses benign colonies of glowing fungus that help provide vision in the darkest passages.

2050

Wraith Hound

Familiar

The chilling howl of these phantom dogs can be heard for miles.

2750

Blue Tang Hippogriff

Familiar

Regarded as a top-tier predator of land, sea, and sky, blue tang hippogriffs are at home in any environment.

2750

Myosotis Fox

Familiar

A loyal, but forgetful companion.

2000

Wooden Marionette

Familiar

This enchanted puppet moves when you don't want it to, and hangs limp when you'd like it to dance.

1500

Buff Dunerunner

Familiar

This avian may be small, but it is mighty. With plumage as dense and heavy as armor, it's no surprise this bird is so buff!

1950

Crystalcleave Canary

Familiar

This colorful canary dazzles the eye in when in flight, especially when flocking and flourishing their very sparkly, very sharp cleavers.

500

Curious Kettle

Familiar

Baldwin might nonchalantly refer to this impossible monstrosity as "the one that got away."

1500

Vigilant Spear

Familiar

This razor sharp lance augments the user's strength by adding obedient momentum to their movements.

1500

Blushing Tangle

Familiar

Gravity's laws do not seem to apply to this gently floating creature. What a rebel.

2940

Aspen Gall Dryad

Familiar

Dryads will attack dragons that attempt to cut or harvest any piece of their grove.

2000

Sable Feathercroak

Familiar

The springtime brings a symphony of loud croaks, as these creatures seek potential mates.

250

Cherry Blossom Caterpillar

Familiar

Well camouflaged for one week a year.

1000

"Precious Life"

None of the Gaolers really liked the Scarred Wasteland very much. Not even the Caravan’s resident Plague dragon Lumio enjoyed returning to the place of his birth very much, as it held some sour memories for him. Still, sometimes is was necessary to traverse the rotting lands. Maybe the quickest route to a new client was through the disease-riddled area, or perhaps the client was living in the Scarred Wasteland themselves. Either way, most Gaolers had come to terms with the fact that the Plague element was a necessary part of life. It’s not like it was infinitely worse than other elements either— it was way easier to get lost in Shadow, most dragons from Nature resented the Caravan bringing their “filth” into the green lands, Lightning had a penchant for constructing fatal contraptions, and Arcane was just plain weird. Plague just got the worst rep due the Gaolers having quite the mass of fur upon them, which was always a pain to wash.

No two dragons hated the Plaguelands more than Alastair and Rhyosymedre. The former was a germaphobe who believed that all his meals would be tainted by disease, and the latter resented hunting in a place where almost all food needed to be sterilized. Every time they were scheduled to travel in the Scarred Wasteland, the two would put up the biggest fuss, dragging their feet and being generally unpleasant. But as they would soon find out, even the Scarred Wasteland could be home to a plethora of pleasant memories.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Rhyosymedre! Wake up!” a peeved voice hissed.

The hunter grumbled, rolling over. Their semi-robotic back tail swished in annoyance. He covered his face with his paws, ears flattening against his head. This did not please the voice, and Rhyosymedre sighed as a familiar rhythmic tapping started against his snout. With a grumble, he opened his bleary eyes. “Can I help you,” he muttered, glaring up at his husband Alastair. The purple Gaoler rolled his eyes. “I swear, it’s easier to wake the dead then it is to get you awake!” he huffed, before his posture became less snarky and more nervous. “I was looking for a clean stream to wash my kitchenware in. But... then I heard something. It sounded like crying.”

Rhyosymedre snickered and rolled over on to his back, scratching his belly absentmindedly. “And what does this have to do with me?” he mused, raising and eyebrow. Alastair appeared to become agitated again. “It sounded much too high-pitched to be a grown dragon! Surely you’ve heard the tales? A monster which mimics crying to lure its victims into a deadly trap!” Of course. Alastair was afraid of another local legend. This didn’t surprise Rhyosymedre, and he orange Gaoler couldn’t help but chuckle. Then, he though back upon his husband’s words.

The crying was high-pitched? This caught Rhyosymedre‘s attention. “What if it was a hatchling?” he said slowly, mulling over the idea in his head. Alastair scoffed. “Honestly, in a place like this, a cryptid is more possible than a lone hatchling,” he snarked. With a grunt, Rhyosymedre stood up, shaking his shaggy fur. “Welp, only one way to find out,” he shrugged. Alastair looked at him with surprise, expressions mixed in with bits of shock and fear. Rhyosymedre gave the purple Gaoler a sly smile.

“What? Did you think I would just go out all on my own?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The two walked for a bit, their only companions the avid sounds of nightlife. Creatures dashed in between the bushes that dotted the rotting landscape, though nothing was ever big enough to cause a threat. Soon enough, they approached a small river. Alastair noticeably stiffened, straining his ears.

“Are you sure that this is the place?” Rhyosymedre rumbled.

“Positive,” Alastair responded.

The two stood still, waiting and listening. Alastair shifted from paw to paw nervously. Time passed, and soon the first light of dawn was shining upon the horizon, although it would be a while yet before any parts of the sun were visible. Rhyosymedre was just about to call it quits when he suddenly felt sharp teeth digging into the tip of his tail. The orange Gaoler whipped around, teeth bared in a snarl and a growl ready to pass through his lips. But instead of some unimaginable monster of legends, there was just a little Gaoler pulling at his tail. The hatchling wore a fierce expression, feigning rage, but Rhyosymedre was no stranger to the scent of fear which radiated off of the tiny creature. He nudged Alastair, who gawked at the hatchling upon taking notice of it.

“Any who might you be?” Rhyosymedre asked, almost impressed at the little dragon’s bravery.

The little hatchling only growled, a sound which sounded more pitiful than anything, and continued to pull and gnaw on Rhyosymedre‘s tail. The orange Gaoler rolled his eyes and sighed, quickly lifting his tail and thumping it down upon the ground. The struggle, if it could even be called that, was over in a second. The little hatchling dropped to the ground and rolled away, head spinning when it finally sat up. It looked shocked for a moment, but then began to sniffle and cry. Alastair took a cautious step forward. “Who are you, little one?” he asked, offering a kind tone.

The little Gaoler shook his head. “Doesn’t matter!” he shouted, suddenly jumping up. “Imma kill you so dead right now!”

Rhyosymedre sat down, eying the hatchling with curiosity. “And why is that?” he prodded. The pastel hatchling scraped up some dirt from the ground, dragging his paw through it over and over again. “Momma and papa said that I gotta protect our land from intruders like you! You’re not allowed here! I gotta keep ‘em safe!” With that, the hatchling let out a squeaky war cry, and rushed at the older Gaolers. He started headbutting Rhyosymedre front leg, letting out as vicious a growl as he could muster. Rhyosymedre didn’t attempt to move away, knowing it would do no good. “And where are your parents?” he asked instead.

This got the hatchling to stop. He fell back, sitting on his rump dejectedly. “They’re not here anymore,” he whispered somberly. “They said that they had somfin’ to do, and that I needed to stay back and protect our home.” The hatchling wiped his face. His voice quavered and shook with hopelessness. “I wanted to go with them, but they said it was too dangerous. B-but I’m strong, aren’t I? I can handle dangerous things! A-and they said they would be back s-soon, but they’re still not home y-yet...” The little hatchling suddenly cringed, a weak rumbling noise filling the air that hadn’t come from his throat. “They said I couldn’t leave. I dunno how to hunt, but they said that that’s good. That way I wouldn’t stop guarding our home. But I’m s-so h-h-hungry...”

It was then that the older Gaolers notices the thin outlines of bones poking out from the hatchling’s shaggy coat. Rhyosymedre and Alastair looked at each other. Left to fend for himself before he even knew how to hunt? The hatchling’s parents weren’t dead. They had abandoned him. “Oh, you poor thing,” Alastair sighed, front paws moving to rest over his heart. “You look starved! Perhaps your parents won’t mind if you stop guarding for a little bit, I’m sure they were just being daft when they told you that! Tell you what— I’m a master cook, perhaps I could make something for you?”

The hatchling looked up at the purple Gaoler, eyes untrusting and unsure. “...R-really?” he asked. Alastair mustered yo his kindest smile. “You bet! I’ll even make you your favorite food.” Rhyosymedre cocked his head to the side a bit, inquisitive, then realized what Alastair was doing. “He’s right, we’ll make you the best food you’ve ever tasted!” he nodded. “And we live with a lot of other Gaolers, so you’ll make plenty of new friends!”

Alastair and Rhyosymedre had adopted stray hatchlings before, mostly those whose parents had been lost either to the elements or the claws of their foes. But never had their temporary children been abandoned by the parents willingly. Neither had the heart to tell the young Gaoler the truth, but perhaps if the two proved that their intentions were kind over breakfast, then the hatchling would make the decision for himself.

The pastel Gaoler smiled happily. “O-okay!” he said, fur puffed out slightly. Rhyosymedre had just turned back to the direction of camp when he felt something scurrying up his back. He turned back to see the hatchling nestled in his fur, staring at him happily.

“M-my name’s Iro, by the way.”