Preachan

Preachan's birth clan was combat-oriented. A dragon's most prized assets were their strength and bodily fortitude. So when a runty hatchling emerged with wings so malformed and weak it took effort to unfurl them, much less fly, the struggling clan made a simple decision.

Send it to the Boneyard. It will grow strong, or die. Either way, it won't be using resources better served going to stronger hatchlings that showed greater promise of survival.

A cold decision, perhaps, but a practical one. It became the second memory layered onto her pearl; the fiery eyes of her parents gazing after her as she was exiled.

While blessed with a keen mind and needle-sharp talons, Preachan's weak body conspired against her. She pressed on, living on scavenged scraps, determined not to die. If only to spite those who cast her out.

Luckily for her, after a day or two in the wastelands, a small group of dragons approached. They didn't smell like Plague. Preachan hid and observed them.... a Guardian female. A Tundra male. Three hatchlings crawling all over the Guardian's back. She thought to approach, but then saw the adult dragons' eyes -- Nature flight!

She hissed, withdrawing, spreading her wings as wide as she could as they approached -- even if they were so much bigger than her, and there were so many, she wouldn't go down easily. She would rip their ankles, bite and claw and spew pestilence into the wounds -- even if they killed her, she would make them suffer.

Even so resolved, she trembled as the red male Tundra padded closer, without fear. He lowered his head to the ground... depositing some slightly-chewed plants in front of her.

"It's all right," he said, softly, gently. "I won't hurt you, small one. Are you hurt?"

---

Preachan, to this day, feels she owes Earraedhris her life. It is this debt that has led her back to the Bramblewood Grove, to serve as the clan's Plague representative. Feeling like something of an outsider in the lush Labyrinth, she and the Spiral Drochspruis claimed a swath of trees for their own, weaving magics to make it more comfortable. Their territory is dark, with many insects, thistles, and fungi calling fallen trees and decaying foliage their homes. Glowing fungi light secret paths in the twisted trees and mossy fens, which could lead the unwise and unwary to a sticky end. Still, life teems here, and it's home.

Over time, Preachan's grove began to attract more dragons of a darker disposition, and she became the de facto ruler of this sub-territory within the Bramblewood Grove; the Witches' Garden. She and Drochspruis watch over this area, deferring to Ceotha and Earraedhris, but none other. (Particularly Earraedhris; Preachan nurses a grudge against Ceotha for her marked reluctance and initial distaste at allowing a child of Plague into their clan.)

Sly and vindictive, Preachan carries herself like a dark queen, looking down her nose even at dragons ten times her size as she evaluates them. She remains flightless, but holds her tattered wings high, symbols of the trials she has overcome to reach this point. She never forgets a grudge, and is fond of serving revenge gradually, coldly, and completely, like a creeping necrosis.

Still, she's not without her warmer spots. She loves her children deeply, and would utterly destroy anything that dared harm them or her mate, Drochspruis. She tempers Drochspruis' enthusiasm with patience, just as he tempers her spite with mischief. They truly love each other, and rule their territory fairly... if a tad disconcertingly to the outside viewer. (Think of them like Gomez and Morticia Addams.)

When she's not monitoring political machinations or stalking through her territory, Preachan enjoys alchemy, and is fond of brewing potions and poisons in the depths of the Witches' Garden. The clan often goes to her if they need a mysterious vial or foreign fungus analyzed.