Snootington

Oh, Snootington, you classiest and most classist of fellows, you golden prince, you uptight dork.

Snootington rules the lair alongside his mate Marchioness, or at least functions as the clan's ceremonial figurehead.

His Most Snooterriffic is quite ridiculous, and he's both aware and yet not of how most of his clan views his foibles and obsession with numbers with a mix of affection and arch amusement. His combination of fund-related nitpicking and permissiveness is unique and sometimes maddening, such as when, at feasts, he will praise the rich and expensive Llama-stuffed Sugarmelons and Spotted Stingray Fritters with a Green Jelly Reduction and eat his fill, but then launch into a diatribe about how they all spend far too much treasure on frivolous things like fancy new accents and should seriously consider tightening their belts. Marchioness, who enjoys spending the money she works her charges to generate, nods, smiles, and ignores him. She knows he loves his playful fairy friends and shiny new sylvan accessories.

Lord Snooty and the clan's other shining purple elder statesman, Earl Harrumph, are great frenemies. Just last week they were found scuffling in the library, yelling and snorting at each other loudly about the comparative worth of various forms of eyewear and Who Wore it Best. Still, they would both be lost without the other to antagonize and snark about the younglings with, and during wars can be found fighting side-by-side, tallying up kills and proclaiming their comparative superiority in battle and the other's definitive wussiness.

Only the older lair members remember he was once a mirror of white, leaf, and some disgusting third color he prefers not to speak of and does his best to forget. While still a young derg, Snoots decided his basic genes, his wretched colors and his distressingly common breed were so far below him as to be unbearable, and thus set about changing them with both determination and vigor.

The magic that adjusted his color was but a slight annoyance and he barely felt a thing (it only took three tries until he was pleased! A worthy expense.) The genes that made him shiny and pointy were a wee prickling, and the expensive adjustment to a noble yet mysterious skydancer - that profile! That proud chest and uncompromising gaze! - was worth every excruciating moment as his physiology adjusted itself.

His Most Grand Snootness Presiding has lately been considering a new change to a Wildclaw, as a little birdy told him they were a most rare breed. Mama Marchioness has been doing her damnedest to talk him out of it, even going so far as to threaten stripping his name from the lair if he does so. It's not that she isn't fully enamored of Wildclaws - have you seen her army and half her staff?! - but her mate's taste for physical transformation worries more than a little, and really, does he understand how much work it would take to re-brand almost everything lair-related with his brand new scrolled-up mug? Does he even think about the consequences of his vain and ridiculous actions?

She knows he doesn't really, but loves her little Snooty Toes anyhow.


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