Mottle

Used to be the edgiest member of the clan. Now he's soft.

Name: Mottle Gender: Genderfluid/All pronouns Sexuality: Graybisexual/romantic Mate: None

Role: Representative Length: ??? Wingspan: ??? Weight: ???

theme song



For all of the light that I shut out

For all of the innocent things that I doubt

. . .

I'll be good

Mottle doesn't remember how he got here.

He doesn't try to remember, or make an effort to forget. Memories seem to lurk in his mind that he ignores with the judgement of a new man. He doesn't know where he was born, or what he used to do. He knows he came out of an egg encased with ice. He knows that he had no mother, nor father. And he knows that he had a family, at some point, but he doesn't remember the names, nor does he want to.

The memories of his arrival are murky at best. Blurry images are at a standstill in it's place, and excruciating pain bobs to the surface from time to time. Time passed like it was lodged in a pool of molasses. His lungs hurt. When he looks in the mirror, He sees glimpses of rotting scales and exposed flesh, pink and vulnerable. Black scales. White eyes.

Aqua fades over his vision, then red fills his body, his head, his eyes. Red is spilling out from every crack in his skull, his bones, his teeth. It lightens to a painful white. Then, it stops.

He wakes up to a dragon with strange, lumpy claws and no maw. Later, he wakes up, but her claws are smooth and her mouth is flat with distaste, but not directed at him. The words 'surgery', 'coma', and 'trauma' bounce around in his head, but his skull doesn't feel like it's lodged with cotton anymore, so he just nods.

The next time he looks in the mirror, his pelt is spotted with great blobs of white and grey, like a young bird shedding it's dark feathers. He pokes and prods, but no scales fall off, and his patches are smooth and circular, like spots. His eyes are still white. He doesn't know what to do.

Next thing he knows, white and black fill his sight, but he isn't looking in a mirror. Somehow, it looks good. Very good . He thinks about it night and day, accompanied by silvery feathers and soft green eyes. He tries to convince himself it's about self love. It feels like obsession. When he tells Montreal this, he throws his head back and laughs; his giggles ringing like sweet chimes in his head. He feels a wing tossed across his back. It feels warm, so warm, almost hot to the touch, but he freezes anyway and tries to laugh as well.

He doesn't know what he's doing these days, but he spends most of his time around Montreal anyway, so he doesn't care about the specifics. He starts making an effort to remember, and for the first time, his memories sing like chimes.

For all of the sparks that I stomped out

For all of the perfect things that I doubt

. . .

I'll be good

And love the world like I should.

Smells like a clean dog stepping in a puddle. Smells like an old friend.