Malva

Birth Clan - An unknown Plague clan Element - Plague Gender - Female Pronouns - She / Her Orientation - Straight Goes by - Malva

Bio Dye-maker Cursed by a witch so everything is named Malv - her mate, herself, her children Malva's Malvalous Marbled Muslin

"What do you want?" Dye Master Imbuer of Colors on Fibers and Fabrics STATS STR ██████████ DEX ██████████ CON ██████████ INT ██████████ WIS ██████████ CHA ██████████

PLACEHOLDER

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Poppy grew up in the Scarred Wasteland, her clan often on the move from one hunting ground to another. She was raised from an early age to know the ways of the blade, though she never much fancied herself a fighter.

It wasn't the best decision on her part. Most days, her sharp tongue ran roughshod over her better sense. She started many more fights than she could finish, and she often spat in the eye of those who would do her kindness. She wasn't the gentlest or most genteel of her siblings for certain, and whether by nature or nurture, she'd learned to try her best to be independent of others. Pity no one taught her that independent is not another word for strong.

In her youth, she loved to go exploring, taking the fishing nets and the lines to get food for the clan while she went. The quiet did her good, as did the silence and time to cool her hot head.

When she went out, she snatched flowers, those few bright blooms that made their way among the charnal of the wastes, marveling at their soft petals and their burred stems, wondering at all the intricacies of their shapes and being. Once or twice she tasted them, and though sweet, she could tell they would not sustain her. So she simply adorned herself with their blooms, tucking them into her feathers and fluff, fancying herself a great lady, Queen of Bones, and made pretend that all around her was her court.

'Lonely' was not a word Poppy would use for herself, but others in her clan viewed her with pity. She'd pushed away her peers and siblings, and though her bright laughter echoed across the wastes, few truly believed that she found joy in life.

Once, when she was old enough to venture quite far and be away for a number of days, she followed the kills far from her clan, knowing she had time before the clan moved on, always in search of good hunting. She took her nets and her rations, and she headed upstream in search of both good fishing and bright flowers.

The kill rambled between sloughy shores, and it was hard to find a spot clear of rapids to set her nets that would be safe for camping. As she searched for a spot, Poppy spied something far more enticing: a patch of bright color between the mildewed debris and biofilm of her home. Telling herself she would be but a moment, she set down her fishing gear and walked towards the flowers, the steady drone of insects filling her ears, each bloom more delicate and enticingly than the last.

Poppy wandered the fields, her green fingers stained with the stolen gold of pollen, until she came upon a circular structure surrounded by pungent, boiling vats, at which hunched a dragon - or at least Poppy presumed it was a dragon, for what else could it be as big as it was? - that turned one clear, bright eye towards her and fixed her with a stare before letting out an unholy screech, slamming its paddle down, and storming down upon her like a rockslide.

Poppy turned to run, but the field was longer and bigger than she recalled. She beat her wings furiously, but the stranger caught her sharply about the tail and threw her to the ground, her wings crumpling as much as the crimson flowers beneath her.

"You!" the stranger howled. "You did this!"

"I didn't!" Poppy yelped, but the stranger snatched up her hands stained gold with pollen and howled. "You pulled me down, you great oaf!"

"Wasted! Wasted!" it screamed, its voice echoing more through Poppy's own head than the fields.

As the stranger howled, its hood fell back and Poppy realized it was like no dragon she had ever seen. Bright, pale, bulbous eyes, tattered and shattered wings, too many joints in its legs, too not enough scales... Its face denied description, just a mess of features smeared across like a hand through grease paint on a hot day. Teeth that were at once too many and too few, the wrong shape - too flat, too sharp - just molten and shifting the longer that Poppy stared at it.

And stare she had to, for it loomed over her howling, but still held her sharply by the wrist.

Then, its greasepaint face folded into a mask of cold, brittle wrath as it stared down at her again. "You did this," it hissed again, a breath of putrid frost settling against her flesh. Its gnarled hand yanked her gold-stained one. "You did this, then you will fix it."

Poppy screamed in protest as the stranger dragged her towards the building. She fought and bit, scratched and swung, but the stranger didn't relent, its grip like a vise on her thin wrist. Her big wings swung open as she was dragged through the door, knocking over bottles, jars, and a myriad jumble of their contents.

The stranger slammed her onto a stool. "Sit," the stranger hissed.

"I don't need to do anything you tell me, you foul, unwieldly--"

"SIT!!" the thing howled, its throat gurgling on the word.

Poppy's ears rang as she collapsed against the stool. The stranger shoved a bowl of writhing creatures towards her, something like caterpillars and beanpods, and a shucking knife.

"Work."

"I'm not staying here. My parents--"

"WORK!" and it left with a slam of the door, its footprints through the spilled tinctures more like a slug's trail than any dragon's step Poppy had ever seen.

She stared down at the basket of ... whatever these were. They writhed unpleasantly, but then so did so much else in the Scarred Wasteland. She picked one up, then drew her hand back with a hiss as the fur singed away across her fingertips. In the dim light, it was hard to tell the extent of the wound, but outside, the stranger bustled and grumbled, slamming pots and lighting fires until the inside of the little structure was filled with acrid smoke that seared at Poppy's eyes.

She slipped the knife into the strange little caterpillar, her hands blistering as she held it, and as it squeaked and squirmed, she pulled out a nugget of a golden resinous substance as the thing dissolved in her hand.

She worked all day. Then all night. For weeks, the caterpillars seemed to have no end. The smoke did not cease. The stranger did not come in, and Poppy squinted by the light of a thin lamp far above her head, regardless of what time it was. Her fingers grew calloused against the poison of the weird little bugs, and she slowly forgot the names the faces of those she once held dear.

She realized once in the midst of a sniffling fit that she said the words "Mama" and "Dad" with longing but couldn't remember who they were or why she cared. It was like someone had run their hands through the greasepaint of her own memory, much like the stranger's face.

Then one day, the weird caterpillars were finished. Her hands were raw and blistered, but stained with the golden pollen she had touched the first day here, so long ago. Maybe it was time, maybe it was the smoke, but she couldn't remember much of that first encounter with the stranger.

When she ventured out of the structure, the sky was too blue, the flowers too bright, and there, hovering over the simmering cauldrons, a shapeless mass of cloaks and hood. Poppy approached slowly, only to see a face like her own, but uncanny in a way Poppy couldn't articulate. The face smiled at her.

"Come little blossom," she said. "Come close. I'll teach you."

Poppy crept forward enough to see the stranger's paddle fish out a glittering, colorful skin much like her own and hang it to dry on a line. Poppy marveled at its intricate colors, the way each fold of color glistened wet in the too-bright sun, the way it looked as if it had been degloved from her own flesh.

"You ruined my blossoms long ago," the stranger said, her voice gentle and sweet now. "And just the same I'll ruin you. They'll forget you, a petal on the wind in a place too mean for such a thing to survive. And they'll move on without you."

As the stranger spoke, the wondrous fabric dried. She plucked one of Poppy's pinion feathers out with a sharp yank and affixed it as a final touch to her false pelt, then she whisked it onto another shape, which rose up blankly and shambled down the way, soon out of sight.

"You'll be my poppy as long as you remain here," the stranger said in a nectar voice, "and not your own. Now, come close, and learn."

And the little blossom leaned close for her first lesson.

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Bio (except as credited), oak leaves, acorns, & layout by ixris / 26035 - all edits by later users
Horizontal dividers by Mibella / 47497