Gula

Dunewind Manticore

Familiar

The venom from a Dunewind Manticore sting is potent enough to knock out an imperial dragon for several hours. (Colored by Asmo.)

1250

She arrived on the breeze one autumn afternoon, the scent of carrion was in the air that day. She came not as many dragons do; led by Petrushka and Alaman from the auction houses, or herded single-file into the ranks after being gathered up by our Nocturne sniper ally and passing Excidium's calculating inspection. No one was entirely certain when the guardian arrived in the rank and file, but there she was, black as the night sky. She wove slowly and purposefully through the Clan, her gaze fixed on the center pavilion. Her body was slim and her limbs long. Smoke the color of platinum rippled along her obsidian sides as she walked and seemed to move just slightly out of sync with her strides. Her eyes were the deepest spring-grass green.


She made her way to the Patriarch's perch. His legs were folded sphinx-like beneath him, his head was thrown back in his habitual contemplation, his eyes were half closed as he listened to the whisper of the Singer's voice in the breeze, in the ruffle and movement of his Clan. In the manner of guardians, she bowed at his feet and waited. After a time he slowly craned his head down and touched his chin to her brow, his eyes never opening as he did so. The Guide reached down from its place on his brow and pressed an ethereal paw onto the top of the black guardian's head. The dragon looked up at that touch, nodded slowly once and moved to take her place at the Patriarch's side.



But the Clan saw the hunger in her eyes.





The others noticed something else, once she grew to her adulthood and took charge of the rites at Centhwevir's request.


And then they tried to watch for it. In the morning. In the evening. On the move. They watched and all of them saw the same thing.


Gula had grown into a guardian broad in breadth and wingspan. Her footsteps made the ground vibrate with her mass. She should eat like others of breed. Even if it was only a bite of fish, of meat, of greens, or even of insects if they were large or numerous enough. But Gula ate nothing that anyone saw.

The Retinue had never seen her eat, unlike her brother Skagway, who was in every way normal, if disturbingly savage over his meals.

When asked she only replied with a phrase singular and always the same.

"Please! Come, sit! Enjoy with us!" They would say to her.

And she would come over and fold her neat legs in, tuck her wings across her back, wrap her tail around her length. Her bands of Smoke and shiny hide making her appear less a dragon that something more ethereal during the evenings. And she would be polite and sip her water, far less than a guardian of her breadth and wingspan should drink, and roll the drops around her mouth until they disappeared.

"Guardian, do you not eat?" One very brave fae asked, his wings a blur, a beetle in his claws.





She serves alongside her brother in the light and dark domes of the exalting chamber, and the Clan calls her Gula, though not to her face. As her brother patiently waits wraith-like, she leads the final steps, in all meanings of the word, with patient calm.


Berghexe has said she glitters in the smoke and incense of the ritual,
in a way no true dragon should….

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