Arwel
(#67028002)
I get by and make no excuses, waste of precious breath
Familiar
Centaur Bodyguard
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Skydancer
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.82 m
Wingspan
6.93 m
Weight
572.86 kg
Genetics
Slate
Python
Python
Taupe
Constellation
Constellation
Grapefruit
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Skydancer
Max Level
STR
110
AGI
23
DEF
10
QCK
50
INT
8
VIT
25
MND
10
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
| __._ |
 The Blue Maiden’s name is misleading. Whenever he speaks of her, his love, his mistress, his home, people think of something delicate, something sleek and slender, fast and agile. And when they are faced with this beast, this towering behemoth of blue painted wood and stark white sails, they cower, they recoil as their eyes grow rounder, larger with each covered cannon slot they count. Usually around this spot, he is left cackling, just as the crew from their towering position on board the massive ship. And around this point, he usually kindly asks for all their treasure and their jewelry, dagger nicely hidden against their backs as sparkling, flashing bounty piles up in his open palm. This is how one robs in broad daylight and a crowded haven. Not too different to how he used to weave in and out of bustling crowds, in with empty pockets, out with too many coins chiming, all of them stolen from slit purses. There was only one way to get out, out of rooms reeking of cheap booze and the stuffy pressure of being cast out. An outsider to society, the foul aftertaste after a night of bought fun and left behind in worn down silk sheets. He saw too much of the flesh at too young an age, but in the end his father’s legacy left him with a blessed curse of oversight. One moment, a bear of a man entered, two hours later, Arwel found himself on a ship, blue and towering, a beast with the face of a fair maiden. Underneath the ropes of the stowaway room, he had his bed. Old bags stuffed to the brim with cotton scraps, they made for ill bedding, yet never had hard bread and watered down ale tasted sweeter. The sea offered freedom, the captain of the ship was open, and was willing to teach if he was willing to endure. Face the storms, he said. Up the mast, into the crow’s nest with you. Storms and fights, conflict and victory robbed him of the last, lingering chub on his body, loss and hunger, pain and doldrums steeled the muscle he had. Sharp mind and sharper tongue, he no longer slept underneath the rolled up ropes in the dark belly of the Maiden, up the rank and higher even, he fought and he talked, trickery and cunning where brute strength would be too much or too little. Who needed Suns and bought glory when the wind itself carried freedom, carried all he needed in it, over waves and from port to port, circling the territory like a stalking predator hungry for the next fat prey. And there were many. Merchants, caravans, other crews sailing underneath the flag of crossed bones. From cowering at the first roaring thunder of the Maiden’s cannons he went to hang from the ropes, first to jump and enter, last to leave behind smoke and splintered wood. This was good, this needed more refinement, and yet, never forget one’s roots. A decade passed, a second one broke halfway as they readied the byboard, with plundered herbs - myrrh and dried silk - gold coins covering a broken gaze, chip of silver on a stiff tongue, they sent off in smoke and fire who enabled them to exist. Ne’er to forget the first, the captain was dead, long live the captain. And suddenly, he had to proof himself over again, his bed of silk and plush, the softest on the whole ship, but softness brought him nowhere now, so he sharpened his daggers and he sharpened his tongue. The first and last attempt to break his reign cost him an eye and the perpetrator his life, nailed to the crow’s nest until rotten bones could no longer hold the weight. The old captain had won them over before, he had done so when he was first brought here, he could do it again. And then they would turn their eyes on the rivalling crews. His branch of the ocean was plagued by an old myth and a grinning hawk, but did that mean he was supposed to show mercy? He was no fool and the Maiden’s belly was hungering for more plunder to fill it with. It was nothing personal, he told the Hawk’s little mage as he cried, prayed on his knees while the other sunk to the ocean’s bottom, together with his cackling and his smiling eyes, he was so sure the surviving crew would eat the little runaway mage alive now, that he was no longer hiding underneath the hawk’s wings. Merely putting to rest some territory squabbling. And then he got his hands on clumps of Black, from the splintered remnants of cracked open merchant vessels, he saw them on their skin, held together by gold and silver and he saw them in their drinks, their food as a fine powder. And when he tried them, he felt better than ever before, liquid encouragement rushing through his veins, feeding his confidence when he was confronted by soft faced beauty and too many knowing eyes, with dual tongues they whispered of joining their ranks, of a little favor in exchange for a safe haven, for supplies and food, all for free. All you need to do is to bring us the unbloodied., too many eyes said, steely and impatient. Should be within your capabilities. Let them pay you for passage, bring them over the sea to us. That’s all., soft faced beauty added, gentler, sweeter. We will do the rest ourselves. Tis all I wanna know., he agreed. And what was the first thing he did, when his crew dragged forth a stowaway? He took away his status as unbloodied, gave him drink and food and safety in exchange for something he never claimed. The boy was a simple soul with marks of a hard life, didn't talk, didn't even fought back but he could work. Like an ox and to absolute exhaustion. Adorable in its sadness, Arwel told him of the story, that the Maiden’s galleon figurine granted wishes and Jack believed him. He offered and the boy was hesitant before accepting, it was all Arwel needed to know, he was not the strongest around, so he had to make up in smartness. And piecing together the parts of the puzzle called Jack, was insultingly easy. A runaway worker, most likely of the unwilling kind too, abuse piled upon abuse and from underneath shaggy bangs, wounded eyes looked up at him as he chopped off strand upon strand until nothing but cropped short braids remained. Sad, but he could not change the past and Arwel would not even do it if he had the power for it. In between forgetting and rediscovering, Jack reminded him more and more of a dog, big, friendly, messy yet skittish of anything and everyone. Patience was of the essence and slowness reaped the rewards far more reliably than haste ever could. And when he thinks back to it, at night in his too wide, too small bed, he agrees with his own decision, his past self. All the while Jack sleeps with his head bedded on Arwel’s chest, his hand in short, maroon hair. 
| ___ |
code & assets by archaic #19153
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