Lamorai

Lamorai

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Art by Silverins

Adopted from another clan with too many hatchlings, Lamorai gets along amazingly well with his foster father Thomas. Though he shares caster skills with the Tundra male, his high-energy means that often he plays and hunts with his foster mother before lessons. Shirubake has mostly taken leadership of the hatchlings, but Lamorai and Senta have become a sort of splinter faction, often running off to play on Sundial Terrace. Lamorai has become increasingly distant from the clan as he grows older, spending more time in the Hewn City. Senta is often with him, and occasionally plays runner between her friend and the rest of the clan. When she mentioned that he had become interested in burial rites, Betelgeuse and Goldfoo shivered and turned away. One morning a Stormseeker circled over head. Lamorai stared a moment before his eyes widened. He roused Senta, who scampered off to Euryale to let them know they'd be traveling soon. When she asked where, the shimmering mirror replied "Back to Lamorai's parents. His mother is calling." SENTA KNOWS. But it's okay now. She's gone and no one else in the clan is wiser. He is restless. He needs more but the territory has been quiet. He fumes quietly in the lair and when he can't take it anymore, he flies to the Hewn city. There are places there even the residents don't know about or won't go and his workshop has become one of them. He sees the shadow dragons fly overhead and realizes what has been done. He is momentarily furious, for though his clan does not know his actions, it is still his clan. Then he realizes what the Imperial is carrying and a grin splits his face. THAT is exactly what he is looking for. If he's careful, he can have more than he has ever been able to work with before.

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The mere longevity of his latest experiment is a success unto itself. Despite the fact that he had to set fire to portions of it early on and fly the ashes out to the waterfall to the Sea of a Thousand Currents. He was loath to leave the rest alone for even the day that trip took, lest it try to escape, but his lab is hidden, and the walls reinforced with magic-hardened thorns. He took a gamble that it would be enough to keep it in and won. Deities know he's taking enough risks simply performing this project; he may be reckless but he doesn't have a death wish. (Ha. A joke.)

He's writing notes on its progress to the sound of it hissing impotently when it dawns on him that his scales have darkened under his wraps. Off comes his black lab coat and bloodied hand wraps, showing black feathered markings and, as he goes to remove the plagueling chimes, swirling shadows across his wings. He stand naked in his lab grinning with languid amusement at his transformation into a nature mimicry. He wonders what could have caused it. If only he had some skin left from his experiment to work on...

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Nowhere in the Sunbeam Ruins could you have avoided hearing the scream of the newborn emperor, not even the Hewn City, and instinctually, Lamorai cowered at the noise. Not even his experiment could have prepared him for the sound of the real thing. At least it wasn't his fault. He'd stuck to his precautions more firmly than lichen on rock but now, glancing at the hardened thorn cage, exterior thorns gleaming with toxins, he wondered if it was enough.

No, he couldn't stop. Knowing what caused Imperials to carry on after death without the help of necromancy was too important to sacrifice his little sample for. Sunstealer's head could not become the same level of problem as whoever that was. But maybe he should try taking a closer look at that infected Guardian in the clanguard. Perhaps it would help keeping the dangerous thing affixed.