Mistletoe
(#67905270)
Level 1 Spiral
rawr
Garden Watcher
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Spiral
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.73 m
Wingspan
2.2 m
Weight
89.95 kg
Genetics
Vermilion
Petals
Petals
Vermilion
Butterfly
Butterfly
Fern
Glimmer
Glimmer
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
ROLE trait trait trait DETAILS NICKNAME; nickname GENDER; gender PRONOUNS; pronouns ORIENTATIONS; orientations ALIGNMENT; alignment AFFILIATION; affiliation LIKES; likes DISLIKES; dislikes RELATIONS NAME1; relation1 NAME2; relation2 NAME3; relation3 ART art1 by credit1 art2 by credit2 art3 by credit3 
mistle
 
|
The clan was anxious. They didn’t look it, gathered in small groups and talking in low, serious tones to another, deliberately quiet and unobtrusive, as if this all was no big deal. But this was politics. Everyone hated those—Mistletoe most of all, refusing to join any group and whisper and mutter about this and that, all far too boring. Over the past few days, ever since the . . . incident with the beastclan, everyone had moved about with grim expressions, not chatting between hunts and other work, except when evening drew near and the clan retreated to their cookfires to break up into groups and worry. And they were worried, no matter how they tried to reassure Mistletoe! They were scared. A small vole clutched in her mouth, Mistletoe walked past a few coatls clustered together. “I just don’t know,” one said to the others, their voice trimmed with near hysteria. They shook their feathered crest, eyes closed as if unable to bear it, and the dragon next to them leaned against them as comfort. “We’ve faced off their attacks in the past, but this latest threat . . .” “Have you heard the scout report?” a different coatl broke in, brown eyes round with alarm. “Nearly a hundred warriors in their so-called outpost alone!” He glanced up and caught Mistletoe staring, and forced a false cheer into his voice. “Not that our fighters would have any problem with that!” Confused, the coatls followed his gaze and their own eyes widened at the sight of her. Mistletoe scowled—not so impressively, sadly, with the vole in her mouth—and lifted her snout to stalk away, but they crowded closer together anyway, switching to their humming language to continue their conversation in private. As Mistletoe settled down to eat her dinner, surrounded by but not a part of the several small gatherings of her clanmates, she overheard a dozen other snippets of gossip and expressed concern. Their emotions affected Mistletoe too, the longer she sat there in the middle of them, though not for the same reason. The clan would be fine. The beastclan couldn’t stand up to them, no matter their postering and spitted threats. All bark, no bite. But before they got there, there was only this Shade-cursed anxiety. Fear, trepidation, uncertainty. Nerves strung tighter than instruments, fraying like an untarred rope rubbing against its holding. Casual laughter, easy camaraderie, had already faded amongst the adults, with even the hatchlings starting to feel the effects, no longer playing out in the open but ushered into dens by nervous, berating parents. How much longer until a poor hunt or division of supplies flamed a minor conflict into an argument, then fight, then claws and teeth? The beastclan didn’t need to twitch their tail, just make as if to do so. And the clan, forced to wait rather than address the threat, would tear itself apart. Mistletoe sprang to her feet, scattering the scraps of hide and bone from her meal across the ground. That only drew a few eyes of the neighboring dragons, before getting pulled back into their discussions, so Mistletoe threw her head back and yowled, high-pitched and loud. Half her clanmates within a thirty-foot radius startled to their feet, thinking an attack was underway—until they saw Mistletoe standing in a wide, cocky stance before the main fire, wings flared and teeth bared. “Come one, come all!” she crowed once she felt all their attention land squarely on her shoulders. “Gather near and hear me regale you with the latest prophecy of our great god!” “Mistletoe,” one dragon sighed, their weary voice disgustingly thick with patience. “Now really isn’t the time—” “Fool that you are!” she abashed them. “Woe, woe unto all who do not pay heed to my warnings! You will suffer!” They opened their mouth to speak. She pointed at them. “Greatly.” They reluctantly shut it again. Satisfied that, though barely tolerant of her silliness, the clan had assembled and were waiting for her performance with thinly veiled impatience, Mistletoe leaped into the air and backflipped into the massive bonfire behind her. She moved rapidly, darting so quick around each individual tongue of flame that none licked her scales, the heat a mere tickle as she let the warm currents of air buoy her up until she spun in the smoke writhing in long ribbons above the fire. Here, she danced, wreathing the smoke in the coils of her body and sculpting it into shapes of glyphs, runes, the old symbols of power. It was fierce, passionate, and graceful, compelling. Circled all around and beneath her, Mistletoe felt rather saw or heard her clanmates settle in more comfortably, the whispering dying down, the firelight reflecting in their eyes and making them gleam as they stared up, watching the spectacle. Mistletoe began crafting a scene. Reminiscent of last week’s incident, she shaped a sharp-edged incline in the smoke, with three jabs of smoke perched atop it. Whorls of smoke swept in and around the sides, curling up to slash through one of the three lines, whisking it away to nothingness. The surviving two bristled, growing in size and merging to swirl into one chaotic, angry storm. The clan echoed that disquiet, short growls and thumped tails alongside quick darting glances signaling not only their remembrance, but discomfort, of the event. Mistletoe arced behind the rioting knot of smoke and slammed her tail through it, dispelling it in a large puff that made the clan jerk back in surprise. She flew wide circles around the base of the smoke, drawing in tighter and tighter as she flew up to twist the column into a coiled horn around her body—then at the peak, flared open her wings, throwing out the smoke in a broad ring around her. At the edges she teased and pulled, gnashing her teeth there, slashing claws here, but no matter how she snarled and fought, could not defeat it. More smoke simply rose from the fire, twisting in lazy, indifferent wisps around her. At last Mistletoe sank down to where the smoke was thickest at the top of the flames, and used her wings and tail to gather the smoke up close around her. She closed her eyes, baring her teeth in discomfort as the smoke tried to sear her throat, blacken her scales, sting her eyes. But she persevered, guiding and sweeping the smoke around her so they flew in harmony—not touching, not crowding another, but respecting the space between, and moving in sync so one did not harm the other. Finally they found the sweet spot, the smoke free to move, Mistletoe joyful to weave in and around, completing her dance. With no dragon tending the fire, it burned down to coals, the smoke steaming off, and Mistletoe flew down to the ground, exhausted and exhilarated. She lifted her head, awaiting her clan’s response. They didn’t break up in small circles, but remained gathered around the remnants of the fire, talking openly about her performance. “A drawn-out conflict wouldn’t be ideal,” one imperial said reasonably. “It’s true we haven’t tried . . . talking to the beasts,” another noted. “How long can we continue to fight, at the expense of our own clanmates?” one said thoughtfully, his tail wrapped around a sleeping hatchling nestled at his side. “And don’t forget they know how to make cheese!” Mistletoe called out, her true desperation finally revealing itself. “If we don’t maintain trade relations with them, I don’t get it!” Chuckles—amused and self-conscious, somewhat embarrassed—rippled through the crowd, then purrs broke out and clanmates butted heads against shoulders, talking fondly about this memory and that story, do you remember the time when a shipment fell into the river— Mistletoe settled back, satisfied. She’d gotten them talking, not just worrying. They’d be alright, even with politics. And the cheese shipments would continue. -by foureclipse |
TEMPLATE "BLOOMING GROVE" BY XEMRISS #44020;
NATURE BANNER AND BOTTLE BY OSIEM #30450;
NATURE BANNER AND BOTTLE BY OSIEM #30450;
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Exalting Mistletoe to the service of the Flamecaller 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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