Farallon » Hibernal Den » Absaroka

Absaroka

(#71033642)

Where the mountains call you home | he/she/they

Energy: 50 50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

28.42 m

Wingspan

14.2 m

Weight

5940.78 kg

Genetics

Coal
Metallic

Lead
Bee

Antique
Stained

Hatchday

Jul 20, 2021
(3 years)

Breed

Adult
Imperial

Eye Type

Light
Common

Level 10 Imperial

EXP: 261 / 27676

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

Biography

╭~~- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -~~ ╮

⚔
A B S A R O K A
of the mountain

╰~~- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -~~ ╯
bio template by squidragon
code mods by shanncrafter

“Toward the end of all
I happened upon a peaceful valley,
Ringed with white peaks, and I knew
I was approaching those gates to
My ultimate destination.
To know there is such peace
For me and my family is such a comfort.
So be it for all the planet.”

After years of traveling far and wide, old age had forced the Ridgeback finally to put down roots. She’d found a home in a descendant’s clan, but here, she had to mind the clan’s squalling children. She had agreed to do so peaceably enough—that didn’t mean she enjoyed it.

“Children, settle down! Set—”

Thunder crashed outside, and the hatchlings shrieked in mock terror, hopping about like popcorn in a pan. Most of them were already streaming past Marrow, on the way to the kitchen for some warm snacks.

But Petra, one of her many descendants—and the biggest and bossiest of the hatchlings—tugged on her toes. She looked up with a sharklike grin and glittering eyes.

“Gramma, I can’t go outside anymore, it’s raining!”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

“I want a story, Gramma.”

“I’m not in the mood for stories.” Marrow looked longingly at the table where she’d set her knitting. This was such perfect knitting weather! Dark and gloomy with thunder rolling outside...

Petra jumped onto the table. Her claws tangled up in the knitting, but she bounced excitedly, heedless of the yarn unraveling. Over Marrow’s strangled protests, she demanded, “Come on! Story! Story! Sto—”

“Enough!” Marrow snapped. The young one wanted a story, did she? Well, she would certainly get one that suited her brash behavior. “Perhaps this dismal weather will be good for something else, after all,” the old Ridgeback thought with a wry smile.

~ ~ ~
Have you been to the mountains of Dragonhome? You can see them for miles on a clear day. One might think they could map the entirety of these ranges simply by looking at them.

And long ago, when these mountains were young, there was a mapmaker who swore he could do just that. Indeed, his maps were beautifully drawn and carefully notated. But wiser travelers shook their heads at his work. How could he truly know the mountain paths—he, who had never set foot upon them?

The mapmaker grew angry. How dare these haggard, dust-stained nobodies say that his work was useless! He held up a map, one that traced a winding path through one of the highest mountain ranges.

“I’ll start from here,” he said, “and make it through, on foot, to the other side!”

The travelers furrowed their brows. “These peaks are perilous,” they told him. “They are haunted by powerful spirits. You shouldn’t tread them alone. You shouldn’t tread them at all.”

But the mapmaker didn’t care. He’d spied on the mountains for so long, from the ground and from the air, and was convinced that his route would see him through.

The travelers agreed to wait for him at the end of the trail. They set out on their long and winding journey around the mountain range. And the mapmaker laughed and plunged onward. He would make it to the other side long before they did!

He followed the trail he’d plotted. Soon he reached a stone spire, which he recognized from his map. “As expected!” he chuckled triumphantly. With his claws, he carved his name into the stone to show that he’d been here.

And he went on.

He came across the next landmark, a petrified tree. But as he raised his claws to mark it, stinging insects swarmed out of the bark, jabbing at his scales. He swatted them away with his tail.

“I ought to warn the others,” he said. But the thought of placing more notes upon his map irked him. To make further changes would be to admit that he’d been wrong to begin with!

“Besides,” he muttered, “those fools could certainly stand to be taken down a peg.”

And he went on.

Earlier, when he’d set out, the weather had been fine. But now, as he moved deeper into the mountain, mist gathered around him. It pressed close, clinging to him like cobwebs.

The mapmaker remembered the travelers shaking their heads at him. “Those hooligans are playing tricks on me!” With a snarl, he lit his lantern, holding it high above his head.

And he went on.

The deeper into the mist he strode, the more uncertain the world became. Shapes that loomed in the distance turned out to be tricks of the fog. What looked to be solid gray ground dissolved into pitfalls and ditches.

And there were sounds just on the edge of hearing: Animals crawling through the undergrowth? Or somebody muttering, whispering?

The mapmaker was convinced that the travelers were conspiring against him. Perhaps they were hiding in the mist! And when he saw a bird watching him from the trees, he assumed that they’d sent a familiar to spy on him.

Angrily, he hurled a stone. It found its mark, and the raven shrieked, vanishing into puffs of dark smoke.

“You wretched thing! Go back to your master. How dare you try to trick me!”

And he went on.

But the light from the lantern grew dimmer as the mist grew thicker. Impatiently, the mapmaker raised his map, hoping that some sunlight would shine upon it through the mist.

Instead, another raven swooped down and snatched it from his claws.

The mapmaker hurried after the raven, cursing angrily all the while. But as he did, he heard the great grinding of rock from deep within the fog, felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. When he came around the bend, he found his path barred by a rockslide.

And he could not go on.

Perhaps he could have flown. But perhaps even that would not have saved him.

Earlier, when the mapmaker had screamed, the echoes had been swallowed up by the mist. But now the mist parted, and the echoes rippled forth. The mapmaker recognized his own words, his own voice.

“You wretch...Go back to your master. How dare...How dare...”

The mapmaker, peering back through the mist, thought he was looking at the summit of the mountain. But as the last bit of lantern light died...

It moved.

It filled the world, as titanic as the mountain upon which he’d tried to carve his name. Eyes as dark and hard as stones bored into his soul.

And those words, twisted against him: “Wretched thing...Go back...Go back. How dare you...How dare you!”

The mapmaker’s scream resounded from the crags, so loud that the other travelers heard it from the other side. Bravely, they banded together, hoping to rescue their rival from the perils of the mist.

They did find his map, torn to many pieces and scattered over the earth. But no other trace of him was found.

After that, on dark and foggy nights, the travelers would see a lantern bobbing upon the higher slopes. “It’s him,” they said, but did not attempt to rescue him again.

For always the light would twist and turn, as if searching for a path out of a maze. It would eventually vanish, swallowed up by the gloom—

—and they would hear the mapmaker’s screams, again and again, echoing down the mountainside.

~ ~ ~
The tale came to a close, and Petra blinked as she processed those final sentences. “That’s it?” she asked incredulously. “What happened to the mapmaker? Did he...die?”

“Who knows?” Marrow said with a shrug. She picked up the tangled-up mess of yarn.

“But that monster was...I don’t like it! Stories should have happy endings!”

“What sort of stories have they been telling this child?” Marrow resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Sugary sweetness about animal friends and dragons finding great piles of treasure?”

“Not all stories have happy endings, my girl,” the old Ridgeback drawled. “That’s just the way things are.”

Petra was silent for a moment longer, digesting this revelation. And then, very quietly, she walked out of the room.

Marrow should have felt better about that; after all, she had some peace and quiet now. She could go on knitting, and furthermore...

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Not all stories have happy endings.” But the thought didn’t sit as comfortably as she’d hoped, and now she grudgingly admitted that perhaps that wasn’t something Petra needed to learn at such a young age. Especially since, to be honest about it, Marrow had chosen that unsettling tale purely out of spite.

“Bother that,” she grunted as she began untangling the yarn. Perhaps she would have to rethink her entire approach to interacting with the young ones. Even one as old and stubborn as herself could see that this wasn’t the way.

~ ~ ~
It was a few days later, and Marrow was knitting again. She looked up as Petra approached, dragging her feet on the floor.

“I’m sorry for a few days ago,” the hatchling mumbled. “I wrecked your...uh...the strings you’ve got. I saw you picking it up after storytime.”

“Not a problem,” Marrow said with a shrug. She held up the scarf. “It didn’t take me long to fix it.”

“Oh! Um, I’m glad.”

“So am I. Well...” The Ridgeback yawned. “I’ve been working for hours, and now I need to rest these old eyes of mine. Is dinner ready yet?”

“Not yet, Momma says.”

“How about another story while we’re waiting, then?”

Petra’s eyes narrowed. “Is it another creepy one?”

“I should hope not.” Marrow set her knitting aside. Her granddaughter crept cautiously closer, and she cleared her throat and began.

~ ~ ~
This story starts, as the last one did, up in the mountains of Dragonhome. Perhaps not that long ago...Not as far back as the last tale, I should think.

In the daytime, many farmers let their animals graze on the higher slopes—but only while the sun is shining. For when the light grows dim or when night approaches, these slopes belong to another—and he does not like it when intruders enter his gardens.

Now, it happened that one afternoon, a goatherd was leading his animals home. He counted his goats and was shocked to realize that one of them was missing. “It must have wandered off into the mountains.”

His neighbors told him to let it go, for those mist-covered crags keep what they take. The goatherd nodded morosely to this.

But that night, he couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about the little goat, lost upon the dark mountain slopes. “It must be scared,” he thought. “It must be missing its family and home.”

And so the next day, as soon as it was light enough to see, he went up into the mountains in search of it. He called out, hoping it would hear—

“Goat, where are you? Let’s go home.”

The goatherd heard something thrashing in the bushes. Thinking his search was over, he hurried towards the sound.

But it wasn’t his goat. It was instead a blackbird, a snare still clinging to its leg. The trailing end was tangled in a thorn bush, and it flapped frantically, trying to free itself.

“Oh,” sighed the goatherd, “you’re not whom I was looking for.” But still he bent and cut the snare away. The blackbird cawed and flew off, vanishing among the crags.

That made the goatherd feel a little better. He marched onward, calling out once more: “Goat, where are you? Let’s go home.”

He heard a bleating noise and followed it down a dry riverbed. “That’s my goat. I’m so glad I’ve found it!”

But it was instead a sickly wood ear deer sprawled upon the ground. Its skin and legs were shriveled from lack of water, and it bleated piteously as the goatherd approached.

“Oh...you’re not whom I was looking for,” the goatherd sighed again. But he uncorked his waterskin and sloshed water over the beast. Its hide bloomed dark and glossy, and now it stood up on four strong legs. With a final bleat of triumph, it bounded up the mountainside.

The goatherd felt triumphant, too. He straightened up and walked away. And once again, he called out, “Goat, where are you? Let’s go home.”

A crashing sound resounded out of the nearby trees. Expectantly, the goatherd turned towards them. But to his shock, they parted to reveal a bear fully twice as large as he was.

“You’re definitely not whom I was looking for,” he croaked, his throat suddenly dry. He bowed his head, avoiding the bear’s gaze as it sniffed his brow.

“Welcome, dragon,” it rumbled, and the goatherd blinked in surprise. As he stared, dumbfounded, the bear continued, “You are the first traveler in many moons to ascend these slopes. My master saw you from his perch upon the peak, and he wishes to speak with you. Come, we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

The stunned goatherd could only follow the bear up the mountainside. He thought they would be walking for some time. But between one eye-blink and the next, the dry brush that surrounded them disappeared, replaced by dewy gardens. Birds sang just out of sight, and the mist faded away to reveal the shining sun.

Up ahead, there was a fortress of silvery-gray stone. As the goatherd approached it, the doors creaked open, showing him a long stone corridor lined with many doorways. Still softly bemused, as though in a dream, he walked slowly on.

A vast voice resounded through the corridor: “Welcome, traveler. I thank you for the aid you gave my servants. Not many would respond the same way, with compassion instead of fear.

“But I’m sure you did not come here solely to help the wild beasts. Therefore, let me offer you rewards. What pleases you, traveler? Do you delight in treasures of metal and of stone?”

As the goatherd passed an open doorway, he turned to look inside. The mists ebbed to show piles of gold and gemstones, a galaxy of wealth.

“No, thank you,” he sighed, and he walked on.

“I see. Do you desire more practical rewards, sundries for your hearth and home?”

The goatherd passed another doorway. The mists here faded to reveal bolts of cloth, sturdy furniture, and food and drink sealed in casks of preservation. More goods lined the shelves: tools and spices and medicines, all of the highest quality.

“No, thank you,” he repeated, shaking his head, and he walked slowly on.

“Then perhaps you are here for knowledge that will grant you power and prestige?”

The mists at the next doorway parted like curtains, revealing a vast atelier. Arcane instruments gleamed atop the desks, alongside potions in glimmering jars. And beyond, stretching into the shadowy distance, were battalions of bookshelves, each one holding thousands of tomes on spells and sorcery and power.

“No, thank you,” said the goatherd, turning away again. “I am looking for my lost goat.”

“Oh? Is this perhaps the one you seek?”

A little blue bell goat bounded out of another doorway. It galloped up to its master and pranced around him, bleating cheerily all the while.

“Yes, that’s it!” The goatherd let the animal climb onto his back. “This is who I’ve been looking for!

“Thank you, whoever you are. I was so worried something might have eaten him. We’ll be heading home now.”

The goatherd continued walking down the corridor. The end of it was also thickly shrouded in mist, but light now pierced through, forming the shape of an open doorway.

At the same moment, the voice resounded, a little puzzled this time: “I have met many travelers before you. Most of them were glad to leave with at least a few trinkets, but you have rejected all of them. Why is that so?”

“I’ve learned that wealth,” sighed the goatherd, “even given away freely, has a price. The envy of others, or perhaps their greed...There is always a price.”

“That’s true,” the voice admitted. It spoke quietly now, but the walls briefly shuddered, as though swept by a chill.

“Besides, there were a lot of things in those rooms. I don’t think I’d be able to carry them down the mountainside.”

The goatherd paused by the open doorway. He frowned in puzzlement. “We’ve been talking all this time, but I haven’t seen you...If you don’t mind my asking, who are you?”

“I am the mountain,” declared the voice. The words faded into a distant rumble of thunder—just as the walls around the goatherd, too, faded into rocky crags and shreds of afternoon fog.

The goatherd returned home and lived out the rest of his days quietly, selling his goats’ wool and letting them graze upon the plains. He told few people of his adventure upon the mountain. As he’d said, sometimes a thing that’s given freely—even something as simple as a story—will arouse the envy of others. He didn’t want to consider what might happen to those who climbed the mountains in the name of greed.

From time to time, he did think about the rewards he’d been offered. But he never wished he’d taken them, for peace and good fortune filled the rest of his days.

And, for the gentle goatherd, that reward was more than enough.

~ ~ ~
Petra bobbed her head eagerly once the tale was done. “I like that story better. There’s a happy ending!”

“There certainly was,” Marrow gravely agreed.

“It wasn’t scary...Well, maybe the bear was, a teeny bit. But the Mountain King was so nice! I like him lots better than that other monster.”

“The other monster?”

“From the other story. The one that ate that mapmaker.”

The dinner bell rang, and the hatchling was off without another word, her claws tapping rapidly on the floor. Marrow was left alone beside the crackling fire.

“Perhaps I should’ve told her that the monster and the Mountain King are one and the same,” she thought. “But then again, why ruin a good story?”

To her, it seemed like another lesson Petra was too young for right now. But someday...

“We all learn...someday,” she thought with a sigh. The room remained empty, but from the mountains in the north, she heard a rumble of thunder—almost like a distant, roaring reply.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
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