Gibbous

Baby boy son

gibb is learning patience

abandoned by his parents as a hatchling, gibb was taken in when the clan was just a few dragons. he reacted poorly to being parented, and had a long, struggling path in learning to manage his anger and fear. the rose tangles around his limbs remind him to be mindful of the way he moves and acts, and the single iron gauntlet was gifted to him by atomic, in recognition of his strength and determination to protect his loved ones. he's a fierce and protective parent, and good with hatchlings. juup's his mate, but he and whistle still occasionally throw down as they often did in the early days

bemused "ambassador" to the troop of permababies who like to commit war crimes

reached level 25 on 7/3/2021

~~~~
“Beautiful moons last night, weren’t they?” a voice inquired from behind.

Gibbous jumped, whirling to find the tracker Doric standing close by, his head tilted at a polite, curious angle. Gibb forced himself to relax as he realized his clanmate’s question was genuine, not accusatory. He dipped his head. “Uh, uhm yeah, for sure. What phases are they in, again? F-first quarter . . .?”

“First quarter was a couple nights ago,” the mirror chirped. “They’re well into gibbous stages now! Just like your name, haha!” Doric nudged Gibb with his wing, and he chuckled weakly.

A bird called and Doric immediately perked up, head swiveling almost like an owl’s to locate the singer. “A yellow-bellied warbler?” he muttered to himself. “During this season? Incredible! Well, good talking to you, Gibb. Keep watching those moons, haha!” He bounded off in the direction of the warbler.

Gibb watched him go and scratched at his neck, his skin feeling prickly and uncomfortable as if many eyes were on him. Trust Doric to pick the one stretch of nights that made Gibb anxious to chat with him about how lovely the Shade-touched moons were.

“Gibb!” Juup called from a lair entrance. “You coming?”

He jumped again, then hurriedly picked up the sacks he’d been carrying in his mouth and bounded after his mate. “Sorry,” he mumbled around the canvas as Juup took the bags from him one by one.

She nodded curtly to him—she always got stressed on trading post days—before ducking inside to store the new goods in the hoard. Gibb hesitated, unable to resist turning his head to stare at the thicket of trees down a level of cliffs. Wind blew branches and reeds, and his eye twitched as he saw undergrowth rustling, but he knew it was just prey animals, squirrels and birds and the like. Nothing bigger could’ve gotten past the patrollers.

He stared a moment longer, straining. He could feel those eyes. But as always, he could detect nothing. So he finally turned and followed his mate in, winding through the short maze of tunnels dug out of the cliff until he reached the hoard. There, Juup bustled between shelves, putting the items freshly traded for away in their respective places. Gibb went to the pile of bags, crates, and packages neatly stacked near the entrance and began unpacking them, making sure to organize them in Juup’s manner the best he knew how, while the mirror herself went back and forth between the pile and the shelves. He knew better than to try and put the acquisitions away himself; Juup hated others messing with her perfect system. Indeed, his mate barely acknowledged him as the two worked, their communication consisting only of quiet, questioning growls and gestures with claws, usually whenever Juup wanted a particular container unpacked next. But Gibb knew Juup appreciated his help—she would’ve chased him out of the hoard if she didn’t—by the way her tail would absently flick against his wing or flank when she turned to go, the touches small reassurances that he was welcome.

Gibb hardly noticed when the last crate was emptied. Juup returned from a distant part of the hoard and he automatically held out his claws to hand her the next item—but Juup snorted a laugh and he looked down to see he held a clawful of small nails, apparently pulled free from the pile of splintered boards that had once resembled a crate. He set the nails down on the planks of wood with a little more force than necessary, his crest flattening in self-conscious frustration.

Juup set her claws on top of his, bringing his head up, and nibbled under his jaw, teeth skimming the softest part of his throat. “Gibbous moons tonight.”

He sighed, slouching even more, and lay his head on his mate’s shoulder, leaning against her as she worked her teeth down his neck and across his shoulders and back. “That obvious, huh.”

“You’re only ever droopy and distracted like this during now. And I do come out of my hoard to look at the sky sometimes, you know.”

“I know you do,” Gibb mumbled, pressing his face against her smooth, hard skin and breathing in her scent. “I don’t know, Juup, I feel bad continuing like this. Shouldn’t I do more? Or maybe less? Tell someone, at least?”

“You told me.”

“Yeah, because you about bit my head off when you caught me sneaking out supplies.”

“Only a little bite,” she purred. In the same sweet voice edged with the barest low warning growl, she added, “And anyway, you were carrying off the fresh rolls of jerky, when there were older bundles right there. First in, first out.”

“I hardly knew better, then.” He sighed again. “Don’t think I’ve improved much.”

She sent a pointed look down at the ruined crate lying between them. “Obviously.”

“At least it wasn’t one of Ladder’s rugs,” he joked, without any humor in it.

Juup said nothing, but twisted her head and bit down, hard, on the flap of loose skin at the base of his neck.

“Ow!” he yelped, yanking back to try and pull free. But his mate hung on, nearly getting pulled off her feet as she was dragged after him. “Ow! Juup, stop!”

“No!” she growled. “Not until you cheer up!”

“How—is this—supposed—to make—me—happy,” he spat, hopping around and twisting every direction in sharp jerks—but Juup had latched on tight, her jaws clamped deep in his scruff, so she couldn’t speak as she was flung around by Gibb’s flailing.

Finally he managed to flip her onto her back, and dived to pin her down, but she yanked on his neck, dragging him off-balance, and rolled underneath to kick him in his stomach. He coughed and doubled over, and Juup finally let go, slipping around to face him.

Once he’d recovered he shoved his face in hers and snarled, “What was that for!”

She moved her head to the side to dodge the spit flying out of his mouth. “That’s more like my Gibb,” she said in satisfaction. “We’re the two grumpiest b*tches of the clan, don’t forget.”

Gibb sat down heavily, irritably rubbing the sore skin between his shoulders. At least it was thick enough that Juup hadn’t made him bleed. “So what should I do about those kids, hmm? Fellow grumpy b*tch? How am I supposed to be cheerful about this.”

Juup showed her teeth. “That’s your problem, love. I’m just here to keep you from moping. And to make sure you don’t steal more supplies.”

“Juup, you help me steal them.”

“Steal them by yourself, then. We don’t want another jerky incident. Do we.”

Gibb scowled. “No,” he agreed reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll . . . work something out with them, tonight. But we’d better bring the usual shipment, otherwise Quilt will . . .”

“Rip their stitches?”

He shuddered. “Yeah. Or mine.”

Juup cocked her head, as if listening to something. “Sun’s due to set soon. We better get moving.”

“How can you tell?” he asked, following her deeper into the hoard. There were no windows here, so goods wouldn’t get damaged or so pests or thieves could sneak in quite as easily.

“The dirt settles differently.”

“. . . Right.” Only Juup could say such a thing with complete confidence. Well, her and Kudos too, Gibb supposed. Shaking his head, he padded after his mate and carried whatever bag of items she threw his way, once more settling into his quiet assistant role as he let the master concentrate on her work.

~

The first moon shone almost directly overhead as Gibbous crept through the forest, meaning he was almost late. But it had taken time to convince Russet to switch patrol shifts with him, so he got the route that would take him through this part of the lower cliffs at midnight, and longer to wait for the opportunity to lose the rest of the dragons on the shift with him. He’d finally gotten it when Bittersweet had smelled something strange and stopped, only for Magnetoreception to go hurtling through the underbrush to track it down, with the banescale chasing after them—leaving Gibb to quietly slip away.

He’d ran to the stream he and Juup had hid the shipment earlier, just after sunset, and floundered in the dark a while, unable to locate the cache. Finally his claws had found the stone, and he ripped it free from the squelching mud to reveal the carefully-wrapped supplies buried beneath.

With those bags tied to his back, Gibb moved more cautiously, now that he was getting close to the meeting place. The tiny clearing was secluded and hard to get to, with thick brambles and thorny bushes surrounding the perimeter almost completely. Over the moons, he’d forged a small path through the tangle, practically a tunnel, which was so tight he still had to crawl on his stomach, then wiggle through at the end. Often he got scratches on his tail.

He pushed out, and plopped down in the thick grass of the clearing in relief, panting quietly after all the exertion and stress of getting here. Warily, he scanned his surroundings, but not to his surprise, he again couldn’t spot his associates.

“They’re far too good at that,” he muttered, as he bent his head to tug at the straps of the packs with his teeth.

“So you’ve come again,” squeaked a high-pitched, haughty voice. Gibb looked up, one small bag dangling from his jaws, and met the stare of four small eyes that glittered in the shadow of the wall of thorns from across the clearing.

“So I have,” he said after dropping the pack to the ground, lifting his head so his voice carried easily. “As agreed. And again, I’ve brought you the things you requested.”

“Demanded,” the voice said sharply. “Under threat of death.”

“Of myself and my loved ones, yes,” Gibb grunted, pulling the rest of the bags free with a few quick jerks. They fell to the grass and he nudged them to the center of the clearing, then sat. His associates still hadn’t revealed themselves by then, but for the leader’s shining eyes watching him. “It’s safe to come out, Quilt.”

Laughter came from all around the trees towering above him, though the shrieking was more like the barely-contained glee of anticipated violence than true mirth. Gibb suppressed a shiver, knowing better than to show discomfort or fear. They’d take it as weakness, and they loved weak things. Apparently, those made for fun toys.

“Fool,” Quilt spat once the laughter had faded to snickers. All four of their eyes were narrowed to slits of white. “You come strutting in here as if you make all the rules, now. I decide who and when we reveal ourselves.”

It’s my clan’s territory you’re intruding on, he thought irritably, but kept to himself. “You’ve shown me yourself before,” Gibb pointed out. “I already know to whom I speak.”

Hisses rained down from the trees, and Quilt said nothing. Gibb’s gut twisted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he’d lied to Juup and wouldn’t be able to make any progress tonight. They were all so stubborn. And bratty. Dumb kids, like you once were, he reminded himself, and firmed his resolve. He had to try, at least. He hadn’t scared them off yet. Maybe it was about time he pushed a little bit more.

“Just as well, then,” he said, shrugging. “This is the last of it, after all.”

The hisses cut off. A long silence stretched, to be broken by Quilt’s suspicious snarl, “The last? Last of what?”

He shrugged again. “Last shipment I can bring. There’s no more extra things I can hand out.”

He expected more hissing, but received only icy silence. His skin prickled again, but he forced his crest to stay low, relaxed.

“You lie,” Quilt said at last. “Your clan is rich, and well-fed. You can afford to give up more.”

Gibb snorted. “Tell that to my mate. Oh, we may be fairly well off now, but it’s autumn. We have to start stocking up, to survive the winter. Even if I had more to give, I wouldn’t be able to get it to you in winter. Surely you’re not so young so as to not know that the Windswept Plateau is nigh impossible to traverse after the first heavy snow.” He put as much skeptical condescension as he could in his last words, and it worked as snarling once again broke out around the clearing.

“Do not dare to presume to know our position again,” Quilt hissed. “Unless you wish for my lieutenant to rip out your throat.”

“That might last us through winter,” one called out from the trees.

“Only if you don’t keep the whole skeleton to yourself, Femur!” another retorted, and again the pack laughed.

Quilt gnashed their jaws for silence, and was obeyed, but not before Gibb’s own amusement could fade. The Commandant must have sensed it, because their next words were even more cold and spiteful.

“You will continue the shipments, Gibbous,” they growled, menace dripping as thick as venom from their words. “Or else face the Legion’s wrath.”

None of the pack made noise at that, but the creaking of branches as dragons shifted their stances or the barely-audible exhales of breath as they bared their teeth in silent preparation of attack was confirmation of their leader’s proffered threat enough.

Gibb swallowed the dryness of his throat and coughed to clear it before speaking. “I wish I could acquiesce to your command, I really do. But without an accurate count of the troops I have to provide for, I just don’t know if I can split up the remaining supplies well enough to stretch through winter.” Which was actually fairly true. Quilt never asked for the same items in the same quantities, and he and Juup had puzzled over the numbers without being able to calculate any pattern to it. With the clan blocking off the lair as they did in the winter, Gibb would need to know how many supplies to give to the pack to last them to spring before it was too late. He breathed shallowly, waiting for the Commandant’s response.

The white eyes stared into Gibb’s own green. Then they blinked, first one pair, then the other, and Gibb’s breath caught in his chest as the pack leader slowly stepped out into the clearing, joining the older mirror under the light of two waxing moons.

Gibb tilted his head. Quilt looked the exact same as they had two seasons prior, when the mirror hatchling had first ambushed him just outside this very clearing. They’d been too young and small to fly then, and somehow, it seemed to remain true now.

The tiny mirror’s eyes glittered like ice, glaring up in silent challenge, and again Gibb could feel the tension of the small army that surrounded him in the trees, almost tangible in its thickness. So he merely bowed his head, and held his tongue.

That seemed to suffice. Quilt lifted their head and let out a shriek, and the trees rustled as the pack scrambled down at their leader’s call. Gibb carefully peered up, and found he wasn’t too surprised to see that the Legion’s soldiers were as youthful and ageless as the hatchling that led them. Small bodies sharp with teeth and claws equally small stared at him from all sides with eyes as colorful as the Commandant’s were pale, and equally vicious.

Another mirror hatchling stepped up to Quilt, eyes proving descent from Wind the same as Gibb, their body and wings a pale green that faded to warmer oranges and reds at the tips, but for their face and upper jaw, which was bleached a yellow-tinged white.

“Lieutenant Femur?” Gibb guessed, with a respectful nod.

The mirror’s jaws parted to reveal jagged teeth stained red. “I am she,” she purred, in a much deeper rumble that belied her small frame.

“Enough niceties,” Quilt snarled, stalking forward to shove their face into Gibb’s—though they had to stretch tall to even come up to his chest. “Have your numbers yet, vi’er?”

Gibb had yet to figure out the exact meaning of the foreign word, but since the Commandant always directed it at him, he was at least confident in it being derogatory in some way. Its use had never bothered him before, but now he felt sad as he looked round the clearing, counting heads, yes, but mostly studying the fierce faces that glared up so defiantly at him. There were fewer than he would have thought, estimated by the racket they made in the trees, but far more than he would have liked to see. So many young ones, so aggressively opposed to the world and any dragon that outside their pack. Too many, to attempt living without any help or protection.

That must be you, he told himself. There was no reason Quilt would return to him every moon, except that they were desperate. He knew they would have refused to agree to his terms, if only they had someone else to turn to. But there was none else save him.

“Yes,” Gibb said firmly, before remembering he had to act more reluctant. “I mean, I’ll see what I can do.” He grimaced. “It’ll be hard to scrounge up enough, with the season turning.”

“You better,” Quilt snarled, and began to pace. Femur shadowed their step, teeth still bared in a dreadful, twisted sneer.

“This is not our full strength,” they continued, and at a twitch of their tail, the rest of the pack started to circle around Gibb as well. The moons fell behind clouds, cloaking the clearing in darkness, and Gibb shifted to keep Quilt in view, even as shadows of little killers whisked past him and darted at the corners of his eyes.

“If there are more of you, I need—” Gibb began.

Teeth snapped dangerously close to his ear, and he whirled, but the hatchling was lost to the shadows in a single bound, only cackles trailing after them.

“This is my Legion,” Quilt said, on Gibb’s other side, making him turn once again. “The best of the best. You think numbers is how we survive?”

“How we win?”

“How we kill?”

“How we feast,” Femur roared, and launched herself at Gibb’s face.

He jumped back, but her leap carried her farther than he thought possible, and before he could react, her claws were digging into his face, and her teeth tearing into his right crest. He stumbled back, shaking his head and slashing claws at her to try and loosen her grip, but where his mate Juup’s grip had been firm, the hatchling’s was cruel, sharp pain slicing through his nerves as he felt blood stream down his face.

Before he could get a good grip on her, more of the Legion attacked, biting at the tendons in his hindlegs, jumping onto his wings to keep them pinned so he couldn’t fly, swarming across his back and clawing at every inch of skin until a thousand lines of flame-hot pain made him shriek.

Surely they don’t mean to kill me, Gibb thought, even as he tripped and fell, which made a handful of the attackers scatter, though they threw themselves back in just as quickly. He flailed, managing to beat a few of them back with wings and tail, but then one snaked forward and ripped into his exposed belly, and again he screamed.

“Underestimate us now, filth,” Quilt hissed in his ear, slapping claws warm with Gibb’s own blood over his eyes, and Gibb was sure they meant to blind him—

“Gibbous?” a voice called from beyond the clearing, accompanied by loud cracks and rustling as a dragon—two, no, three—came closer. “Gibb, is that you?”

The patrol, Gibb realized with relief. They heard my screams.

He opened his jaws to yell back, but a hatchling pounced on him, wrapping their tail tightly around his snout so that he could barely breathe. The rest of the Legion had stopped attacking, he realized, having gone still and silent at the patrol’s approach. All but Quilt, who towered above Gibbous with their claws now at his throat. One of the moons had slipped past the clouds, and gentle white light shone on the Commandment, outlining their patches of purple and yellow in silver. Blood peppered their skin, and was smeared across all their lower jaw and neck. As the sounds of the patrol grew louder, mere seconds away from bursting through the brambles, Quilt leaned in close, eyes narrowed so that they only barely showed the thin horizontal slits of their pupils surrounded by white.

“Don’t be late again,” they hissed, claws clenching tight on Gibb’s bared throat.

Then they were gone, pack streaming behind them, the very last soldiers of the Legion disappearing into the trees as the first of the patrol—Magnetoreception—burst into the clearing, mane poofed out and braced for attack. At the sight of the pack running away, the obelisk threw his head back with an eager howl, and gave chase.

“Don’t,” Gibb croaked after them, but when he tried to sit up, got dizzy, his vision spinning, and lay back down with closed eyes.

“Gibb!” Bittersweet gasped, tearing her way through the thorny vines a second after Magnetoreception and rushing to his side. “Oh no, Gibb—”

“Still alive,” he whispered hoarsely, forcing himself to try and sit up again. This time went better, and he rolled onto his stomach—then let out a long hiss as the wound on his belly rubbed against the ground. Clumps of grass around him were already getting sticky with blood.

“Thank the Windsinger,” the banescale breathed, then growled. “Who did this to you?”

“A—a pack, o-of vermin,” he managed to wheeze, closing his eyes again as another wave of pain crashed over him. “L-looked like. Rats. Large, from the Scarred Wasteland, I think. Dangerous. Magnet—”

“I know,” Bittersweet interrupted, hissing in frustration. “I don’t want to leave you, but we’ll—”

“I’m here,” Juup said, loping up to them. The sound of her voice, and the sight of her, made Gibb sag with relief. She stood over her mate and nodded to Bittersweet. “You go. I’ll get him back safely.”

Bittersweet hesitated a moment longer, looking uncertain that Gibbous could do that in his state. But Juup showed her teeth. “Go!”

The banescale did, hurtling through the trees in just a couple beats of her wings.

“You’re a mess,” Juup growled, looking down at him. “I thought you said they were just a bunch of kids.”

“Mean, murderous little things,” Gibb spat, able to struggle to his feet with Juup’s help. He panted at the effort, leaning almost all of his weight on her while his stomach wound continued to lightly drip. “Why’re you out here with the patrol?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied tersely. “Come on.”

They limped through the holes the patrol had made in the brambles and wound their way through the forest towards the lair.

“Will you be able to make the cliff?” Juup asked, when they got close.

Gibb eyed the tattered remains of his wings. “Not sure the Windsinger could get me across that gap,” he said grimly.

“The bridge?”

He nodded wearily, and they turned their path to the east, walking along the edge of the cliff towards the rope-and-plank bridge that connected this level to the higher plateaus on which the lair was built. He disliked using it, and it was worse this time, the swaying of the ropes worsening his dizziness, but he made it across in one piece. He thought he might collapse on the other side, but Juup nudged him forward up the incline, and with one shambling step after the next, he made it to the tunnel entrance of the Bonelight Den.

“D-don’t tell anyone,” Gibb rasped, pausing outside the entrance, to Juup’s annoyance. “About the Legion. Commandant.”

He could hear the skepticism in her voice as she asked, “You want to keep doing this? They nearly—” She stopped herself, clearly irritated that she was stating the obvious, and said coolly, “I’ve never said anything before.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Juup, I got through to them tonight. Quilt actually, kinda, listened to me.”

She looked at him flatly. “This is listening.”

He shook his head. “No, I think they were planning on hurting me anyway. They were getting antsy, all wound up because winter is approaching. Quilt needed to reassert their authority over me. My challenge to them tonight just . . . accelerated it, I’d guess.”

“But you say you got through to them.”

“I think I can. I did. I think I can do it again. I think . . .” He paused, thinking back. “You know how I once was. I, well. I have a plan. Sort of.” He ducked inside the tunnel, mind awhirl, barely conscious of the sound of Juup’s step as she hurried after him.

“Sort of?”

“I know what we should give them next moon. A peace offering, of sorts. One to frustrate them.”

“Gibbous, love, you aren’t making sense.”

He went down the tunnel leading to his and Juup’s own nest and practically fell into it. Face pressed up against the weave of twigs and stalks, soft moss tickling his cheek, he mumbled, “I think I’m going to ruin our nest with blood.”

“To the Shade with that,” Juup growled, once again planting herself over him as he twisted his head around so he could see her. “Don’t move any more. I’m going to get Latch, or Tidal—”

“Already here,” the skydancer said calmly, poking his nose into the nest. “Magnetoreception arrived a minute ago and woke me.”

Sure enough, the obelisk squeezed his head in beside Tidal. “Hey, Gibb, Juup! Are you alright, friend?”

Gibb couldn’t muster the strength to reply, but thankfully Juup was there to snap, “No. Get the f*ck out of our nest.”

Gibb slid open an eye to watch the obelisk meekly withdraw, then closed it again as more pain washed over him. He kept them closed as he heard Tidal approach, the lithe skydancer’s step light as he stepped in closer, already muttering the beginnings of a healing spell. Juup sat grumpily at his head as the spell was finished, wreathing Gibb in smokey green as the magic worked its way through his injuries, healing the multitude of tiny bites and scratches one by one. The belly wound took the longest, and Gibb groaned softly as the skin reknitted itself, making Juup crouch protectively over him.

“Careful, mage,” she hissed at Tidal.

“Give it time,” he murmured.

When the spell finished, Gibb lay back in exhaustion, though his breathing eased and he could feel himself starting to slip into sleep.

“I could bring in my hound—” the skydancer mage began.

“Leave now,” Juup growled, opening her wings to herd him out.

“It helps ease the emotional duress—” he continued.

“Out!” the mirror roared, and Tidal all but sprang into the tunnel. She poked her head out into the passage after him. “If anyone disturbs us again, I’ll line the vault with their bones!”

“I think you’ve woken the whole clan, love,” Gibb mumbled as his mate returned, curling her body around him.

“Whatever.”

“Mean b*tch,” he murmured into her ear.

“If only you were the same,” she grumbled, laying her head on top of his. “Why care about those kids? I might eat them.”

“They’re like me,” he mumbled, burying his face against her chest and feeling her wings wrap around him. “Angry, alone. They need—”

“Sleep now,” Juup ordered, holding his jaws shut with firm claws. “Project your memories of your past self onto the little killers tomorrow. Or never! For now, sleep, you b*tch.”

Gibb obeyed, pulling free of her claws but taking them lightly in his teeth and biting at them absently as he felt himself drifting . . . drifting . . .

“Still can’t believe you got beat up by hatchlings,” she muttered.

He snorted softly, and she flicked his crest with her tail. “I told you to sleep.”

“I am.”

She might have retorted, but Gibbous didn’t hear it, as this time, he really did manage it, and fell into the soft embrace of unconsciousness.

I’m going to get those kids something nice.


for valentines 2022, made by yours truly



~
Sleep it off!
pov writing bits [ day ten ]