Mephela

• do not participate in crafting
• grown an affinity for song and bright colors
• keep their clutches with them at all times
• the flora and fauna of the region will overtake and proliferate in these abandoned warrens

Mephela (called "Meph" for short) didn't really know what he was doing in the Heart of the Grotto. He'd been sent here from his home in the. Wispwillow Grove quite suddenly and without time to pack his bags. A child thrust into a new situation might be terrified, especially one surrounded by shadows and magic on all sides. But Meph's ancestors were full of wanderlust, and it seemed as if that feeling was in his blood.

What's more, the energy from the circus tent before him was familiar, somehow. It reminded him of home. It felt like Shadow magic. It was, in fact, Shadow magic. He wandered into the tent, caught up in the feeling of mirth and joy that seemed sewn into the fabric of the tent itself. It felt like he thought a Trickmurk Circus should feel. His home in the Plaguelands was hot and devoid of life, but those in the clan he had left had told him enough for him to know the event as if he had attended it himself.

His mother, in defiance of the Ashfall Wastes and in defiance of her clanmates, had taken up jewelry making. Even though her wings were unfit for crafting, she learned to use her thumbs and teeth in order to aid her. Meph had wanted to learn the craft himself, and had swallowed a fair few beads for his trouble, but his mother had assured him that skill would come with time.

His sisters loved to sing, but he had no gift for it, even though he loved to sing anyway, in defiance of everything his lineage stood for. Perhaps that was why he had found himself here, under the care of Zaire and Hawthorn, who delighted in his presence as if he was one of their own. He could learn to dance. He could practice his craft. He could be anything.

He could even be...a she.