Crystalsong

Long ago, a clan of priestesses for the Lightweaver gathered excitedly around an egg. The egg—a Light one, glistening gold and warm to the tough—was thought to contain their future High Priestess.
For months the clan gathered around it every night, adorning it with petals and scraps of shiny cloth.
On this ancient spring evening, the egg was beginning to stir on its diamond-encrusted platform. The priestesses leaned forward excitedly, whispering. One by one, cracks appeared on the eggshell, and golden light spilled free.
It finally shattered, and the priestesses gasped.
The dragon who emerged looked like no priestess of Light. Instead, she was the cool, dark gray of an autumn dusk, graced with bright blue feathers and strong features. All at once, a great clamor grew among the priestesses. Some believed the hatchling was Shade-touched, while others knew she was simply blue.
The arguing grew so forceful that the ancient High Priestess called a stop to it. She looked on the sleepy hatchling dozing peacefully on the remainders of her shell. With one gentle claw, she reached out and brushed the hatchling’s forehead, leaving a shining white half-moon in her wake.
Before anyone could speak more, the High Priestess vanished in a puff of silvery dust.
Crystalsong, being so young, knew none of this.
Instead of the life of grace that had awaited her, she was treated badly. She grew up never knowing her true place, but tending to gardens and cleaning up refuse. Her clan crowned a different High Priestess instead—a proud, cruel golden dragon—and then they fell on hard times of starvation and disease.
The whispers began, blaming Crystalsong. Some even hinted that she was cursed.
One night, they drove her out into the wild.
It was winter: a cold, shiny glaze coated the ground, and sere clouds lingered close to the moon. In despair, she looked up at the moon. She craved its warm, golden light, like a welcoming embrace in the chill. She knew not where to go next.
She was still looking up when a golden dragon appeared before her. Though the dragon was small, her scales sparkled in rainbow hues. She could be none other than the Lightweaver.
“Follow me to your true home,” she said softly. Joyfully, Crystalsong did.
The journey was long, arduous, lasting weeks, but she scarcely noticed. Her paws cracked on harsh terrain, her scales dimming more with long exposure to the sun.
But at last she was there. On a high, windy mountaintop above the Hewn City—wreathed by mist—sat several glorious dragons. A simple glance told Crystalsong that they were more than dragons—but spirits.
The Lightweaver smiled on her child, placed a talon on her forehead, and whispered, “You belong here now. You are the ambassador to the earthly dragons, and the Highest Priestess I can imagine. “
Since then, Crystalsong has lived among the spirits, learning their way of connecting to nature. Some day she will return to the world of mortal dragons to pass on what she’s learned.
But she’s not sure when.

But though most other dragons would have tried to forget their painful origins, Crystalsong was still haunted by them. She never forgot the cruelty of her first clan, nor how helpless and useless she felt.
One night, she heard the Arcanist and the Stormcatcher talking. After all, Clan Skyseeker was very near to the deities, and sometimes it was possible to overhear their conversations.
The two were discussing the importance of alchemy to the world of Sornieth—how it encouraged exploration, meditation and patience, and how there was a mentally healing component to it.
With that, Crystalsong commissioned a cauldron from Brightbelle and Rosie—one of heavy iron, but inlaid with semi-precious stones.
Now Crystalsong toils away at her brew. It has been good for her nerves, and the knowledge that she’s helping the clan with healing concoctions makes her happy.