Atzera

It all began with a touch. One little spark

She did not recall a life of ice. She had been taken from it when she was very small, and could not set out for it until into early adulthood. But life on the main continent had not taught her well of her true home, so in visiting, two things became very certain: One, she was alone and without direction, truly lost in an unfamiliar world. And two: She had always wondered about her true home and tried to learn as much as she could about it, but in reality she was not entirely sure what 'home' was. So she wondered, cold, alone, and lost, a stranger from her homeland.

She held one talent that she had cultivated in Dragonhome, and that was to create and mend jewelry and trinkets. She did favors of these in exchange for food and necessities. She drew the attention of a great imperial, a member of a nomadic group passing through. He came for her help, as he carried a load of trinkets, jewels, and goods, many of which were in need of mending. He did not pay her in money nor goods. Instead, he invited her to travel as one of them, to give her company and security. Among them were performers and merchants, and even a magician for show. A jeweler made an excellent addition to their company.

---

He was a great grey snapper, in need of repairs to a wedding band that once belonged to a long-lost love. On the road, among the traveling troupe, she does nothing to make her own money, and so the old man does not pay her for her practice or patience. Instead, nimble fingers work away, shining, polishing, heating to seal the crack in metal.

"Do you take her hand?"

"Hm?" She asks, looking up from her work, only to find that her patron had not spoken. She refocuses, working the tiny thing. Behind the blinks of her eyelids, she sees shades of grey and black and white. There's a screech in her ears, something that, once again, draws her attention. A prickle of a headache as she tosses her head- she sees a frail, old mirror taking her last blink, breaths shallow before all air leaves her.

It is a startling revelation, she thinks, gripping the ring too hard. Her brows furrow as she looks it over.

"Daddy, no."

It sounds like a child, smaller than the mirror in her head, tugging desperately at the tail of a much younger grey snapper. The man pushes the child away in a fit of anger. Hesitantly, she returns the finished product with quiet thanks and farewell.


Later that night, gathered around the fire as they do, she speaks to their great, long-necked leader. For all of the tales that Trinket tells on their travels, she never expected him to lend such an attentive ear. For all of the times she bit her tongue, thinking that he loved to hear his own voice so much, it is surprisingly absent as they converse.

"-and there was a child but he.... He slapped it. Pushed it away. He was so.... He was so angry."

It is not a word that Trinket answers with, but instead he tugs an old, thin dress, folded into thirds and hands it to her. "Who owned this?" Asks he.

"How.... How would I know that?" Her claws hesitate to take anything after such a question- the better question, she thinks, is how did he come about this?

"Just trust me." He urges with a light nudge of fabric. Hesitantly, she takes it.

She sees green- abundantly, she sees green. A pond where young fae play. these are not her eyes she sees through, but someone else- someone long forgotten. The owner's shadow is dark and bulky, cast over the startled children even as it rests in the grass to drink. A voice comes out, hollow from years of pain but warm so that others do not have to suffer. "Now, let us begin."
She sees the years pass by like a road. the children age, grow up, leave home, and she is isolated again. There is a love of music and stories. There is care for young animals, who always leave. There is a great fire, and murky shadows. Then, all is black. The world comes back into view, and the forest is gone, littered with dust and stone and ash. The shade of a hat. The hat that Trinket wears.

Atzera discards the item with difficulty, not realizing she'd begun to sweat. "Odette." She pants out, knowing the name as it leaves her tongue but not knowing who it belonged to, like when remembering an old childhood friend whose face you cannot recall. "Her name was Odette."