Branwen
(#64349530)
Level 1 Spiral
Felinus
Irregular Nekomata
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Spiral
This dragon is benefiting from the effects of eternal youth.
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Personal Style
Hatchling dragons cannot wear apparel.
Scene
Measurements
Length
0.89 m
Wingspan
0.14 m
Weight
0.92 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Leopard
Leopard
Obsidian
Clouded
Clouded
Cherry
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Spiral
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
Branwyn
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STR
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INT
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AGI
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MAG
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CHA
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VIT
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Brother
 Friend 
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"Such innocent eyes, for a demon in disguise." ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ It's the tales of ice and magic from the clan merchant that lead her to this place. Maxy and Teef and their other clan welcome her with open talons. The bone pyres were smoldering. The whole clan was dozing. It was time, at the tail end of Bledout's biweekly revelry, for Branwen to part ways with everything she knew. The little spiral tugged herself out of her tear-streaked coils. She’d been tying herself in knots again, as she tended to do when the world made her feel small. She struggled upright. There wasn't much to pack; a runt like her couldn't carry more than half her weight, and in any case, her dearest possessions weren’t things. A string of near-empty saddlebags lined her length as she slithered silently from her scab-encrusted cubbyhole. Clan members sprawled across the cavern floor, blackout drunk. The gatekeeper, the ever-watching skeleton, Hecate, might have been the only creature awake aside from Branwen. Draped over her solitary stone, half-moon glasses askew, the sleepy sorceress nodded to her fellow spiral. The nod seemed routine. Maybe Hecate didn’t know Branwen’s intentions—or worse, maybe she knew and approved. Had Branwen been arriving at Bledout for the first time, Hecate might have asked her to recite her crimes against Sornieth. This was, after all, a haven for outcasts. But Branwen had been born here, she was leaving for the first time, and she couldn't think of a single crime she'd committed in her few weeks alive—unless, of course, not measuring up was considered an offense. Maybe that was why she was leaving. She'd committed no crime against anyone but herself. It was the crime of being the weakest of all Vision and Niuno's half-demon offspring. As such, Branwen had permission to leave, but she couldn't bear the thought of goodbyes. She passed without a word. Niuno, in one of her few attempts at motherly kindness, had called Branwen wise for her youth. Wisdom didn't go far in the Scarred Wasteland. Weaving through a narrow cleft, Branwen emerged from the cavern. Even at night, the Plaguebringer's domain was dismally hot. The sheer cliff housing her home was covered in festive flora—well, ‘festive’ by Plague standards. The horizon was too vast. Where would Branwen go? Maybe someplace adventurous, like the Sea of a Thousand Currents. Maybe someplace whimsical, like the Windswept Plateau. Maybe someplace secure, like Dragonhome. Maybe someplace perplexing, like Starfall Isles. All were on the border. All were in reach. It was just a matter of crossing the Abiding Boneyard—before sunrise—alone. Or maybe she'd go to Tangled Wood, also on the border, where her brother, Mouturan, often foraged for his favorite fix. The magic mushrooms of Wispwillow Grove kept him entertained when nothing else could. He wasn't supposed to fly outside Bledout territory, being the one child of Niuno forbidden from leaving, but on nights like these, when even the hardest of the clan's keepers turned a blind eye, one could get away with almost anything. Branwen guessed her brother wouldn't be back until dawn, when the watchers were waking up. Maybe she'd go to see Mouturan one last time. Then again, she could count the times they'd talked on one wing. Gazing over the desolate flatlands, the spiral remembered her most important cargo. Darting back into the lair, she unchained Felinus, the irregular nekomata who had been the best of all her company. The beast's blood-red eye fixed with worry on the spiral. Branwen squinted her assurance and the pair set out. The Bledout clan knew a shortcut through the Wasteland, a speedway to each of the five neighboring realms. Branwen had learned it by shadowing her father. She navigated the sweeping mists and crumbling ruts of the Boneyard without notice from the predators that lurked in every nook of the land. She wove through the tangles and snags of the Wandering Contagion without incident. She was small – so was Felinus – and that was their advantage. The nekomata captured prey for them to eat. The moon had rounded three quarters of the sky by the time Branwen spied the prickled treeline of Foxfire Bramble. Where the Contagion met the Bramble, the land was mercilessly twisted, as though Shadow and Plague couldn't bear to meet. This last ribbon of the Wasteland proved the greatest obstacle yet, especially for Felinus, who couldn't fly. Branwen, at her age, could flap in bursts of a few hundred meters before resting. As they passed into the Bramble, darkness consumed them utterly. Thorn-laced vines bit their backs as they crawled flat-bellied through the undergrowth. But Branwen knew the light would come. Soon the crepuscule snarls gave way to the gentle glow of Wispwillow Grove. She’d never been here, but from her brother’s tales she knew it all by heart. Shining mushrooms, some the size of herd beasts, others no larger than pebbles, lit a winding path between boughs of blue-toned spruce. Branwen nabbed a fist-sized morel and a firebug for her saddlebags. In a shadowed clearing, a cluster of what appeared to be dying campfires stood out. This was Branwen's goal. As she approached, the fires shifted. What had looked like fading beds of embers were, in fact, red bones glowing under a great black imperial's skin. He dragged up his heavy frame to stand, the tips of his horns breaking the treeline. The ground rumbled as he arched his back, flared his wings, and clenched his muscles in a shuddering stretch. Mouturan was the spitting image of his father and nearly the same colors as Branwen, but as far as the spiral knew, they had nothing else in common. “What's up, little sis?” The imperial belched up a cloud of twinkling spores. If Mouturan's voice was thunder, Branwen's voice was the squeak of a shrew. She tried to deepen her pitch. “We made it, brother. We got here all by ourselves.” “Oh, yeah? That's great.” He yawned, cracked his neck, and then bugged his eyes with a gasp. “Hold up. You came all the way out here with the cat?” “Yes.” Branwen smirked. Mouturan widened his stance and snarled across the clearing, a guttural growl cutting the air. “Someone's here with you. I can smell them. You led them to me?” The spiral squirmed. “No! Don't worry. You don't have to worry about me telling on you. I'm leaving the clan.” The imperial blinked. “Why?” As Felinus curled himself around Mouturan's front paw, Branwen wished for the confidence to take the other paw for herself. Her lip trembled. Tears budded. Like a pouncing lion, Mouturan leapt forward and scooped Branwen up in both palms. He cradled her and the nekomata together, pulling them tight to his chest as he lay down softly in the grass. “No, sis,” he said. “I get it. Dad's impossible. Mom's not much better. You don't have to tell me a damn thing.” Branwen took the opening, pressed herself deep into her brother's warmth, and sobbed. She lay like that for a few minutes. At first Mouturan was purring, then he was growling, and then he was heaving. The spiral's comfort came to a sudden end. A bark like a thunderclap shocked her ears. “Leave,” Mouturan roared, flinging his sister into the grass. “Leave and grow beyond them. Good. You're doing what I couldn't. I have to beat him. I have to—I'm bound to it. Understand? You can go. You can go anywhere, do anything. Do you understand what that means? Look.” The young male dragon bore his claws and teeth, spread his wings into a savage banner, and spewed out the virulent red-green smog of infection. His eyes swirled with traces of the Plaguebringer's power. His bones pulsed with the beating of his heart. Stirring his wings, he whipped up a whirlwind of pestilence. “Does this impress you?” he bellowed. “Is this what you want?” Branwen covered her nose and lowered her face. The tip of her tail was creeping into a section of coil, an early knot beginning to form. “Why do you do that?” Mouturan spat. “Are you afraid?” “Because I'm nothing compared to you,” the spiral blurted. The imperial rattled his head. “But am I what you want to be?” Branwen's answer came after a long silence. “No.” Mouturan blew away the smog with a few decisive flaps, then deflated back to his clean, dark silhouette. “I didn’t think so. Look at me. It's safe.” Branwen emerged from her cowering with tear-stained cheeks. “Stand straight,” the imperial ordered. The spiral uncurled her tail and stiffened her front legs. This was familiar etiquette. “Don't change your voice unless you want to,” Mouturan said. “Don't compare yourself to me, to your father, to your other siblings, or even to your mother. Yours is a different kind of magic. Take Felinus, go far, and find your purpose. Next we meet, I trust we’ll both have something to flaunt. I don't hold a candle to Vision yet, but I plan to outmatch him in every respect. I vow to earn my freedom from him. What about you? Who's your example? What will your powers be?” The crack of dawn split the trees, glinting in the imperial's sanguine eyes. “I have to go. Naahlhir, wake up.” Foliage parted on the clearing's far side. A female bogsneak with nearly the same colors and genes as Mouturan shuffled, yawning, from the undergrowth and scooped two eggs from a makeshift nest. It was Naalhir, Mouturan's mate. The two were almost always together. Now was no exception. Before placing the eggs in a sling that hung from her belly, Naalhir threw a fond wink to Branwen, who reciprocated. Mouturan wrapped his forelegs around the bogsneak, coiled his hind legs, and leapt straight up, shattering branches with his wingbeats. He called down with a break in his voice. “Farewell, little sister.” Branwen cried a stream of goodbyes after him. The spiral and her cat pushed through the rest of Tangled Wood, coming out at the Driftwood Dragon the east border. The vivid swath of the Viridian Labyrinth lay ahead. Branwen suspected she would see many more horizons before she found her purpose. That would do just fine. With two of Sornieth's cruelest realms behind her, she could handle the journey. Eyes dry and clear, the spiral set her nekomata running on a marshy prairie and surged into the sky above him. Of all the painful memories she carried from Bledout, maybe, in the far future, there would be one worth returning for. “Thank you, Mouturan.” Written by Chimalus #396548 |
I N V E N T O R Y
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 "Kamira" ID# - 64349530  Innocent Eyes XXY Obsidian | Leopard Obsidian | Clouded Cherry | Veined |
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Exalting Branwen to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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