Aral

Aral is the captain of the band of Seeker gaolers that have recently settled in the clan. Driven in much the same way as clockwork and about as rule-abiding, Aral was in training to be an Overseer before a disastrous breakup with her fiancée caused her to follow a long-suppressed urge to travel and she joined the Seeker order. She’s still not certain that that was the right decision, but her team looks up to her more than she realises, and she’s starting to realise that she might like it here…




Eldest of nine very loud siblings, she grew up having to corrall her sisters into line while her parents, rarely at home, worked tirelessly for the Icewarden. They were left mostly to their own devices, so Aral grew up quickly to save the youngest from having to do the same, in over her head. Her shepherding duties kept her from joining an Order while her peers did, and a quiet, slinking resentment grew while her age-mates won respect and she, working just as hard as they did, did not.

Her family, an old and prominent line, had been members of the Overseer's Order as far back as memory could trace, and so she trained to do the same. Her fastidious nature, methodical and unwavering, served her well in training; though her size led to comments on her usefulness in holding the Horrorbeasts captive, she dedicated herself to her work, and found a style of combat that turned the tables. She drilled manoeuvres until she was quicker and lighter than lightning, staying back in training long after everyone else had gone to bed.

In the quiet moments, which were few, she read cheap novels about far-flung places, the places where the snow didn’t fall and things were different. Not necessarily worse or better, but strange and new. Her sisters, she said, needed to be read stories to be convinced to go to sleep; this was as close to a lie as she could be convince herself to go.

White-furred and fluffy, delicate-looking aside from the pale tattoos trailing down the side of her face, she’s easy to underestimate. The truth is that the twitching end of her over-long snowy tail isn’t a white flag of surrender; it’s bait. Most people take a certain number of hits and fall over, or pass out, or give up and go home. Most people have the sense to stay down; most people see an opponent the size of a coastal shelf and turn around. Sometimes you get a tiny little ******* with a ten-tonne will in a two-kilo jar. Aral is an evil little maniac who would put her head through a wall if she thought it stepped out line, the kind of bantam-weight fighter who, if her arm came off, would pick it up and use it like a club.

Taranth was her favourite sparring partner, which was fairly impressive, given that he managed to survive. He was polite, and hadn’t ever told her to be careful, and he wasn’t too large, and her parents approved of him in a vague way since he had a respectable family. He was gentle with hatchlings. These were the reasons she invented to explain why she said yes when he asked to marry her.

A year later, as she prepared to swear her oath and join the Overseers, ushering Taranth’s ridiculous crab-thing away from the meat stores to stop it from chewing on bones, she noticed something: one of her sisters had added something to her calendar. It said, with no explanation, seeker sign-ups 2day.

The future unrolled itself in her mind in technicolour. She didn’t have to say a word; they were under subscribed, they would enrol anyone willing to leave the Fortress of Ends. Taranth wouldn’t be home until late that evening, and even if he found her before she left, he wouldn’t be able to stop her; they both knew that. The girls were grown, now, and it would do her parents good to have to manage them for once. The world was out there. The sea, the land, rolling desert-- what was a desert?-- and foothills not heaped under ice. Valleys where the glaciers had long fled. She wanted to see. For the first time in her life, she wanted to write the story instead of reading it; she wanted that even more than she wanted to follow the rules. Even more than she wanted to win. She could be free. She wouldn’t have to be responsible for anyone.

Taranth’s absurd crab tipped itself onto its back, scrabbling to keep hold on a fragment of smoked fish. Aral sighed and nudged it onto its front again with her nose, licking off a scuff from the ice floor. She could do it, but could she then continue being the dragon that had done it? It wouldn’t free her, it would tangle her in guilt. Taranth, her sisters, her friends-- they deserved explanations.

Art by STARFOX3D: