Yamanu

He was nothing like his parents. Whereas they were content with the life they lived, from the second he hatched, he held a passion; an ambition. He was young blood and he would not let the world forget he existed.

His petulance and spirit was appreciated only by his parents. Annoyed by his rancorous antics, the other dragons around him deemed him a delinquent. No matter his scheme, they ignored him. Deemed him unworthy of their precious time, only expending energy to complain to his parents. It was the first insult to his pride that spurred his future forward. How dare they ignore him.

The wasteland called to him in a way nothing else had. Hugging the border of thorns, he peered out at the untamed wilds whenever he slipped out of the village. That sickly green horizon beckoned him, alluring in its promises of freedom. What youthful mind didn't want to be something great?

His father looked upon him with worry, attempting to coax him from his newfound dream. "It isn't safe out there. Not everyone makes it, and overconfidence is the bane of survival."

His mother had stopped looking at him the same, some sad twist to her eyes. He'd interpreted it as disappointment, at the time. Disappointment stung less than her avoidance of the topic.

They were the only people he told where he was going, when he came of age. It wasn't as if the village would care, they still looked at him like the same rambunctious hatchling they had snubbed their noses at. Weren't they in for a surprise when he came home.

At the time, he'd known nothing about necromancers. His only goal was to wander into that endless land, and come home changed. But the closer he got to the Wyrmwound, the more he heard whispers of glory. It was still the same search for respect, but now he had a very clear destination. It was the first time he was happy to be unnoticed, as he listened to the slightest gossip.

Surprisingly, it wasn't hard to slip in among other glory hounds. None of the overseers batted an eye, treating the trial goers like a long-term experiment. They only observed, and even that was a stretch. It mattered little to him if they paid attention. He was not here for their praise.

---

He'd never felt sicker in his life. His only solace is that he was not the only one suffering. Rolling his head, he could see other writhing bodies, quiet groans and wheezes all around him. He hadn't really listened that well to the speech given before the trial began, but he was certain there was a chance of failure. Death, probably. The chorus of suffering around him only strengthened his resolve. He wasn't dying here. He was something more than a loud, annoying hatchling.

He didn't bother keeping track of the days. Evidently, nobody else did either. He didn't know how long he was thrashing at the rim of the bubbling cauldron, but it was longer than he was supposed to. The strangest thing, was he had seen others be collected. Failures who became gnarled, screeching animals, others that remained sickly and frail. Others who had already recovered. Why had no one come for him yet?

In an angry, blood boiling moment of fury, he dragged himself away from the trial site. Not a single person stopped him, and it only made him angrier. Fine. He would determine his own success, per usual.

The eleven must have had pity on him, because he happened upon a rotting tree after another day of illness. Overtaken by pustules, the center had decomposed, leaving an empty cavity. He crawled into it without hesitation, relieved to find a place to hole up. Somewhere safe, where he could beat back infection in peace.

---

He lost track of time again. Maybe it was hours, maybe it was weeks. He hardly cared, when it was the first time in ages he could breathe clearly. Wrenching himself from his tomb, he fell back to the earth with a grotesque plop. His body was covered in a sheen of fluid. He guessed it came from whatever ailed the tree.

Dragging himself up, he tried wiping off the offending liquid. No matter how hard he rubbed, nothing came off. With an annoyed growl, he set off in a random direction, hoping to find a stream to rinse himself.

Again his luck bore fruit, a trickle of water carving into the flatlands. If it was safe, he intended to drink himself sick. Definitely was dehydrated.

He barked at his reflection once he was before the bubbling water. Rather, his lack of one. But how could that be? Was he still sick, hallucinating nonsense? In a mild panic, he quickly dove into the water, brushing against rocks to clean off the ooze. It only made matters worse, his scales practically polished with the friction.

He pulled himself from the water, willing his pulse to slow. There had to be a reasonable explanation. He looked into the stream again, a sigh of relief leaving him. There he was. His hide was stitched with illness, and his skin was pulled taut around his bones, but it was still him.

In a moment of morbid curiosity, he calmed himself as he sat near the water. Perhaps this was something leftover from his trial? He rubbed at his scales again, an almost translucent quality arising. Looking once more, wherever he rubbed was seemingly missing from his reflection. Almost like he was.. invisible.

Possessed by a chaotic sort of glee, he made sure to massage every inch of his body, reveling in this discovery. How strange! He'd heard nothing of invisibility coming from the trials. Had it been from them? Or was it the tree? A combination of both? He frolicked across the stream despite his sore body, cackling like mad. He didn't care, not at all! He'd become something new, something marvelous!

He took off yet again, intent on finding a gathering of people. This needed extensive testing, to know what he really could do. He'd never been happier at the prospect of being unseen and ignored.

spotlight feature:

Chimes and string are the chorus of the fairground. He is no stranger to this setting, where he can disappear at a moment's notice. He isn't the only one in jester attire, after all.

It is part of why Yamanu seeks to melt into the clamoring anarchy. No rules. No identity. All of dragon kind is split in two; the performer, and the spectator. He excels at entertaining fools. Had been entertaining them all his life, but at least here, it is expected. Still, it is no injury to his pride if no one stops to watch him.

Today, someone does. After completing a slight of hand- a simple feathers into card trick- Yamanu finds an adolescent stood before his podium of rocks. Comically, the child has one foot raised ever so slightly, as if unaware they were heading somewhere before this.

"Do I have your attention?" he asks with mirth, taking a short bow. The pearlcatcher bristles before righting themselves again.

"You aren't a part of a troupe," she speaks up, jerking her chin towards him.

"I am not," he agrees. "Not a performer either. Just like the atmosphere."

"Mm." She looks him over once more, holding her pearl to her chest. "What do you do, then?"

"Anything. Everything. Life was made to experience all that it is, unbarred and unashamed."

"You sound like a rogue," she grouses.

"Oh? Do I not sound free?" Yamanu leers closer, a twisting shadow obscuring the summer's sun, "wouldn't you want to be wholly yourself?"

The girl says nothing. She doesn't have to, when he can tell she's avoiding his eyes.

"If you take any advice of mine," he twists the card into a flower, and presents it to her with a flourish, "you are the king of your destiny, little lion. Nothing and no one can take that from you."

Slowly, as if suspecting touching it will shock her fingers, the girl retrieves the flower from his grasp. Her exit is lazy, mechanical; the walk of a distracted mind. It matters not if she heeds his words, at the end of the day. With a snap of his tail, he has already vanished into the crowd.