5th Gen Ignomi
Ignis (#666) > Marduk > Dismas > Zerah > Me
Naomi > Willow > Dismas > Zerah > Me



"And so the bird flew, far off to lands unknown, freer than ever before."

There's a moment's silence, then a sigh from within the cell. The deep pink Gaoler lets out his own sigh as he hears his current charge shift about in his cell, causing his chains to rattle. He'd been going on like this for hours now, the sun having set a long time ago. The Gaoler had thought his companions were merely making jest when it came to this Imperial never sleeping, but at this rate it might very well have been true. He didn't even know if there had been enough pause for him to breath in the whole story until now. He's starting to regret ever leaving a gap in the door to listen through. He's expecting more storytelling of some sort, perhaps about one of the classes he'd taught in the past. So many modern breeds are like that, from what he can tell. He doesn't expect to hear a question instead.

"You're one of those Seekers, aren't you? From that branch to the South, back in the Snowsquall Tundra?" The Gaoler shifts a bit at that, eyeing the cell through the deep pink bars he'd made himself. In the gaps, he can see the pale Imperial tucked away in the corner. His silks had collected quite a bit of dust from the floor, and his spectacles had a hairline crack down the left side, but what stood out to the Gaoler was something few could see. Well, more like few dared to acknowledge. The scars along his body, hardly hidden by his now tattered clothes, were dark as pitch, matching the tattered remnants of his inkwell feathers. The shadows were deep in the cell, and despite the light, the Gaoler can swear he sees it stretching towards the Imperial, like hands trying to pull him away from what little light was left about. And yet, despite that, those brilliant golden eyes remain locked on the Gaoler, like a winter wolf watching the movements of some unfortunate satin mouse in the snow. The Imperial cracks a smile at that side eye, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Yes, I believe I recall you making these bars as some of the others enchanted these chains. I think the head of your specific branch of the order called me a shade-ridden rotten-hearted silver-tongued abomination of the Light Mother's most precious design." The Gaoler can only nod slightly to that, trying his best not to show any sign of being nervous. The Imperial was right. He's actually a Seeker, selected for his strength and talent when it came to capturing dangerous shade-touched beasts using his own innate Arcaneflight magic. It had proven useful in the past, especially when facing things like terror toads or featherbacks. Even when the New Bifrost Watch had moved to the Arcaneflight, settling themselves in a frosty glade to the south of the Grand Archives, he set out with others to capture anything too-deeply rooted in the shade. This, however, was the first time the Gaoler had actually gone to capture a dragon. He is snapped out of his thoughts when he hears a faint chuckle from the Imperial.

"Right. You were afraid then, weren't you. When your lot had to cart me off here. Seeing the black, the wounds that Mirror caused me. So much easier to assume off of how one looks than their actions, but your Watch tend to see most things in matters of black and white. Best or worst, no in-between, no shades of grey to be found." The Gaoler blinks at that, turning fully to face the door now as the Imperial lifts his head. He feels his steps falter a bit, his wings tucking in tighter at his sides, as his charge takes a step forward. For a moment, he swears he sees something in those eyes; a glimmer of triumph, perhaps. But in a blink, its gone, replaced with the same calm look from before. The Gaoler finally speaks up.

"How do you know all this?" Is there a flaw in his watch? Perhaps the Gaoler was revealing more than he intended with each shift spent in front of the Imperial's cell. Maybe something came through with his words, his mannerisms, perhaps something in the tradeoff from dawn and dusk. Another step from the Imperial causes the guard to take another step back, talons scraping on the floor below. And then there's another. And a third. With each one, the Imperial answers.

"Many ways, Xevras. Your accent matches most clans who have lived some time in the Snowsquall. You treated me as if I were some mindless beast when trying to capture me, completely unprepared for one brought in to teach students to wield magic in ways both in and out of combat. You hesitated when you were met with that conflict; A dragon who seemed to only hold the shade on his hide because he taught so many to defend themselves from it bleeding ichor so dark it rivals the void around the stars above. You saw this, and you were afraid." The Gaoler is only vaguely aware of something being wrong at first, only faintly aware that something shouldn't be as it is. With his focus on those eyes, on the words spoken to him, his own name uttered from the mouth of the one who had attacked the poor Mirror beloved by the Grand Scholars, he didn't spot it until he was face to face with the Imperial at the door.

His shackles shouldn't have let him even reach the door.

"I think he still is, Zerah." Xevras hardly has the chance to turn around as a figure steps up from behind him, her smile a menacing sister to that of the imprisoned Imperial. The Gaoler spins, trying to call on his own magic to stop this newcomer, only to feel something he hadn't felt before. Emptiness. Where there had once been a well of power was now a void, an empty chamber holding mere echoes of the very strength he'd called upon to create the very cell Zerah was in. Even his ability to enfeeble opponents had escaped him, seemingly deciding to instead strike himself as the Wildclaw simply brushes past him. He tries to stop her still, only for those dark eyes to round on him, boring into his very soul. He had thought Zerah was bad, but this... this was what he'd thought featherbacks would be like when he was a youngling. He can hear the sound of something shifting, metal bending and warping. And then he hears it. A dreaded clicking sound, proceeded by the creak of a door opening. He watches as the Wildclaw walks back around, holding a crudely fashioned key in her hands. Perhaps it was magic she'd been taught by Zerah, or perhaps a magic all her own. It didn't matter to him.

All that mattered was that Zerah was out of his cell.

For the moment, Zerah was free.



"What do you mean that won't work?"

The Wildclaw cannot help but let out a frustrated sigh at her paler companion, his eyes locked on the cluster of carved shells in her rather short arms. For one who had learned swiftly according to his teachers, this Imperial could be more dense than a mountain. At least in her eyes. She may have encountered many a fool in her time, but this was a rather special kind of fool.

"I mean, Zerah, that a simple object or creature will not be enough to actually get you out of this place. Yes, you're out of your cell, but you have no real followers left to help you within these walls. Sans myself of course." She can see the Imperial's eyes narrow at that. She knows he wants to bring up his sons, the twins. She can see it in his eyes. And yet something holds his tongue. Perhaps it is what intelligence he happens to have telling him about their incompetence, or perhaps informing him that they do still have appearances to uphold if they don't want to also find themselves in a Gaoler's cell.

"I've still practiced it. Peering at my own soul. I've worked with the medium many times before. Tied it off to others, sparing their lives. Surely this isn't different enough to cause harm, not with what you've told me when the guards nodded off before." The Wildclaw turns her head back to glare at Zerah, rounding yet another corner left empty because of the strings she'd pulled earlier. It wouldn't be long before word of his escape got out. Not long at all before they were caught. If she had the time she'd have sat him down then and there to go over the complexities of creating one from a fragment of soul, specifically on purpose. But they didn't have time. She'd have to trust his own innate talent would pull through, would somehow recreate a better being than his first ever attempt Noya.

"We've not the time for this. Perhaps a more practical lesson is in order." She flicks her tail, causing the metal handle on a nearby door to turn. She practically has to shove Zerah inside before closing the door behind her, looking about the room she'd shut them in. She could see blankets used for bedding in the cells, spare wood and some tools to repair anything broken by more unruly prisoners. She can even see shackles much like what are currently stuck on Zerah's legs, though these don't hold the runes his do. She finds herself wishing the window above one of the crates was big enough for them to fit through, but she knew it could hardly fit her own figure. In either case, this room would be enough for now. She sets the shells down, motioning for Zerah to sit opposite her.

"Remember what I taught you, Zerah. Take the concept, the idea, the very thing you need this soul to be. Make it as tangible as you can, as if you can feel it in your talons. As if it is something attached to you, something that is a part of you." As she speaks, she watches as his breathing slows, his eyes closed. She's careful as she manages to place his talons on the first shell, walking him through the steps he had asked her about. She watches as a faint light, a glimmer of a thread, twists from him to the shell, weaving itself into the telltale rings around most arcane eggs. For a moment, she thinks he might have it. Then the color fades, the strand tightening around the shell until it shatters. She can't help but hiss softly as the last traces of pink fade from the first.

"Shouldn't that have worked? What went wrong with it, Zagan?" The Wildclaw meets those golden eyes with a disappointed scowl, carefully removing the shards from the makeshift nest. No use keeping the failure about to possibly break the others before they had a chance to even fail them in life. Or was it perhaps a pseudo-life? Zagan wasn't really one to dwell on such matters when bound to teach a student of her own.

"You went wrong, Zerah. There is still fear in you about this, uncertainty. You need to overcome it for this to even stand a chance of working when you actually plan to use this sort of magic yourself. Now, try again." She watches as he manages to create the rings again, and again, watches each time he seems to falter. She doesn't even give the shards a second glance whenever he breaks the stone shells she'd made for this very purpose. Soon enough, they were on the last one. Five shells, and there was only one left.

"Focus, Zerah. You have done this before, albeit by accident. You can do this. You need to do this. Remember to focus on that concept, that idea. Nothing else matters. Not here. Not now. It is just you, and the idea you're creating." She watches the rings form, watches his breathing steady itself, and feels it. A glimmer of hope. That little gleam of light she feels when her students finally manage to do something right. She watches as Zerah finally opens his eyes, seeing the thread twisting about the shell, still tied to himself. She'd told him what to expect, but that he would be the only one to know what to do. Every soul was different. Every one had some way of separating themselves into the vessel prepared for them. Only he would know what to do with his own fragment.

She didn't quite expect him to cut it with his claws.

They both watch as the thread settles around the egg, shifting from the pale silver it had been to the pink one would often expect from a regular Arcaneflight egg. If they didn't know any better, they'd have likely thought it was snatched from one of the nurseries. Zerah looked like he was going to ask how to sneak the egg into one of them when a small crack formed on the shell. The Imperial leapt to his feet, eyes wide as Zagan found herself unable to hold back a hearty laugh.

"What could possibly be so funny to you right now?! The shell is cracking! I must've failed again, just like the others!" Zagan takes a moment to calm herself, swiping a tear away with her wing as she shakes her head. She runs through another bout at the look on Zerah's face, which is only growing ever more frustrated with each passing second. Finally, she finds the words.

"This one isn't breaking, you gilded-eyed fool. They're hatching! I'd have thought you'd know what that looked like, seeing as you're a father many times over now!" Zerah pauses at that, then looks down at the shell. Sure enough, he spots a little claw sticking out of one of the holes as the hatchling within tries to free themselves from their rather flimsy prison. Before he can snap at Zagan, the shell falls apart, revealing a rather small hatchling. For a moment, it seems like all three are waiting for something extraordinary to happen.

Then the hatchling lets out a little chirp at her creator, flares out her wings, and bolts out the window.

As the other Gaolers of the Bifrost Watch find the shade-like sense of the two in the storage room, their footsteps ringing out for the pair to hear, Zagan simply sighs as she seems to melt into one of the deeper shadows in the room. Zerah can only watch, his own wings sagging as he looks out after the fragment of his soul he'd just created, fading to a faint pinprick in the distance.

"What concept did you hold onto for this one, then? So you know to be a bit more specific on who actually gets to escape this place." Zagan can only try her best to keep that I-told-you-so tone out of her voice as she watches the Imperial, growing ever smaller with each passing second. Its so very easy to shroud a drake when they can change their own form, and Zagan was a master of both shrouding magic and the spellwork used in breed change scrolls. Together, it made it perfect for her to escape, at least this time. If only she could use it on the one about to be caught, but at least this would give her more time to teach him. All thoughts of that come to a halt when she hears his answer.

"Free as a bird. I wanted to be free as a bird, free from that Mirror's tricks on the others." She's quiet as she watches him turn away from the window, his wings drawing in a bit.

"... I wanted them all to be free of him."

As the Gaolers escort him out, confounded by the fact the Imperial seemed more than willing to be returned to captivity, Zagan can only come to one conclusion. Zerah may have actually thought of a concept much deeper than she had thought of. Something that seemed so very simple on the surface, but had turned out to have meanings that echoed like a fly in a spider's web.

The fact she hadn't thought of what he'd meant frightened her. She had seen many things like this before, but never had she seen one manage to turn something so seemingly simple into something so very deep to the soul itself. Freedom, all in the guise of a bird... The fact that very notion was now out in the world, living as the embodiment of her father's desire for freedom both for himself and all affected not just by Baruch, but also his father Ricar, gave her hope.

Perhaps this little bird would be able to bring in more allies for Zerah, if not at least share his plight.

Perhaps there was hope for this somewhat foolish Imperial after all.



The hatchling lands, little wings flaring out a bit as some parchment falls to the ground. The parchment is faded, worn, and swiftly tucked away in the talons of the hatchling as she settles nearby. It seems almost to be something made last-minute. The message is decently clear, if not hastily written. While the parchment itself has the embossing stereotypical of Zerah's parchment used for official matters, the signature is clearly not his own. At least not in this case.

In a hasty scribble that could hardly be called handwriting, the following is written in dark golden ink.

The hatchling simply lets out soft coos, as if she's trying to mimic the birds around her. Whoever she is, or wherever she's from, she seems to enjoy their song more than the scroll in her little talons. Whoever is meant to receive this letter entrusted to her doesn't seem to matter to her.

All that matters is the wind in her mane, the birdsong in her ears, and the exhilarating thrill of freedom running through her veins.

Dividers by Serpy/Natron
Lore by ClockworkEclipse (#125046)