Moros

Moros

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Moros was. . . a gift, to Hunting Alpha clan. Gift being a loose word. Their parents "gave" them to Euryale, but their family had prophecy in their blood, though it was an uncommon ability. Moros had apparently gone into a trance and spoken of her, but so far, they haven't told anyone what they said, if they even remember it. They mostly hang out with Gerard, Nemoin and Xinashumii.

Moros serves as the hoardkeeper and clan scribe. A clan full of dragons after all need a lot of food and bring home a lot of useless but shiny things. His memory is excellent and his organization skills as sharply honed as a wildclaw's talon, and the hive-like storage rooms are his domain. His scribing efforts are kept in a separate room off the hoard, holding records of the honored exalted and genealogical lines, as well as anything else Euryale needs documented. They know much more than they write down, however. Not all prophecies must be spoken, after all. Not all of them they understand, however. Somethings aren't clearly relevant until events fall into order.

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Art by Akanechaan

Xinashumii is startled into wakefulness by being thrown from her mate's back. 100 ft of twisting Imperial writhes beneath her and it is with difficulty that she reaches their head, caressing their snout and murmuring reassuringly. Finally their green eyes snap open but they are unseeing; she knows this look. "It comes." Moros hisses urgently, voice deeper and more resonant than usual. "Warn the wardens and arm them with her gift. We will be the first to suffer but not the last." Their eyelids drift down but they are not asleep, merely waking. She strokes their face once more and one of their whiskers twitches in response. Euryale must be told. It has arrived. They hoped it wouldn't, even knowing their own infallibility. Moros watches the warband leave for the depths of the Tangled Wood to search for their missing. They stay behind with a sickly acid in their mouth, knowing that the lost will not return.

Their job as clan scribe has expanded to archivist. They keep a new tome of their clan's history and the stories of their lost clan members. Solstice has been decorating the hoard walls with scenes that Moros has dictated to him, which brings them a little more peace at their inability to change it. Their prophecies have been fewer of late, portending joy more often than fear, and their family lies with them at night in a bundle of black scales and it is peace.

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"Are you sure you both are set?"
"We're fine, cenn." Arete assures, ghostly motes calmly swirling over their son's body as his mate sings quietly. "The Beacon is expecting us and it is only a few days journey. The most difficult part will be keeping everyone together."
"I will miss you, son. And I'm so proud of you." Moros murmurs, brushing their face against the other imperial's. Arete gives a basso rumbling sigh and the elder Imperial looks down at the nocturne perched on their son's back.
"It was wonderful to have you as part of my family, Xenia."
"You as well, Moros. Be well." The dragoness warbles amidst her song. The imperial spreads his wings, light gathering beneath them like glow worms in the twilight dusk. Even if they can't hear them, they can see Arete's attention darting among the ghosts. Then together, with an arcing note to send them off, the two gleaming black dragons launch off into the growing dark, swallowed by the night to become almost-stars. Just like they told Arete that exalted warriors sometimes do.

They stand, watching, until the two are no longer distinguishable. The ache in their feet is a physical mimic to the one they feel in their heart because Moros is alone, for the first time in a long time. Their mates are long gone and now their son has left as well.
....Why didn't their prophecies speak of this?