Pipaka

Baby sister of Novo, hatched in Fire after he flew her egg over from Wind since her egg wouldn't hatch due to residual Ice magic from the war so long ago. The sacred magma from the Heart's volcano helped her to finally hatch. She's still quite young, and does not understand the circumstances of her hatching, or why her parents aren't around, but she does understand her brother's love and care for her. Curious and rambunctious, she loves her brother to no end and is content living anywhere, as long as it's with him.

'And she was loved.'

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The first song of the Banescales was a raucous greeting - a triumph of sorts, a victory of life and of being given the Fire that beats steadily in their chests, connecting them to one another and to the lifeblood of their Mother. Their voices intertwined just as their flames danced around in the sky, becoming familiar with the family they were given.

Over time, more songs were learned and remembered, passed down and preserved reverently in the bright minds of the storytellers. Like a spark jumping from a coal to a dry branch, the songs and their stories were gifted to the youngest of them so they could continue to be sung into the night sky, floating like embers in the warm wind. So they could continue to be sung on battlefields won, or over warriors fallen; over sprawling feasts, or new life hatching forth. The melodies and voices - rough and smooth, low and airy - grew to countless numbers, celebrating their life and the Fire burning true in their veins.

Songs filled with anger and teeth were what rang out as Her children faced against antlered foes, fighting a war they didn't fully understand, but fighting it with fire and passion nonetheless. This time was different from the fights that had come before, with frost clawing along the walls, past the battlefield and into the heart of their nests. The elder storytellers, curled around the most precious of their group, watched their breath steam out of their mouths as their Mother's power dimmed, hearts stuttering as the cold pierced their scales.

The songs outside had turned to the high notes of pain and grief, shattering through the din of battle. The storytellers bowed their heads, sorrow catching on their horns, pulling them down to whisper the softest of lullabies to their eggs, the children and siblings they would never be able to meet. The song they crooned to them was one of warning, of remembrance, of love, of hope, drowning out the desperate notes crashing in from outside. Even those cries silenced eventually, and the elders spread their wings, shielding their unhatched children from the waves of frost, curling tails around one another as scales fused together under the sleet of sheer cold. They called out the last of their song, voices cracking like ice, pushing the final Flames of their magic to their eggs in a final bid to preserve the life flickering under eggshell.

For the first time since they were born, the voices of the Banescales grew quiet, silenced by the Ice that fought with their Fire, seeping in and slowing their flames, cracking scales and horns like freezing chains wrapping around, choking, smothering. Tiny heartbeats echoing whispered notes, sleeping under frost.

The first song of the Banescales was a greeting.

Their last song was a goodbye.

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Shiny Residue?, Loga?, woodoon