Thaklantyrchyll

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Thaklantyrchyll, the Crest-Bound Serpent

He arrived coiled in silence, his long green body patterned like river ivy, his deep violet eyes unreadable beneath the drooping weight of a feathered crest too grand for a creature that moved like smoke and spoke like a whisper. The others at the coliseum—brutes, flame-bellies, scale-chipped thrill-seekers—watched him glide through the gates and smirked behind tusks and teeth. No one expected him to last the week.

They called him soft—gardener, they said, like it was a slur. Said he smelled of moss and old leaves. Said his wings were too thin, too delicate, too... pretty. Some joked he’d only flown down from Arbor to pluck herbs from the blood-soaked sand.

But none of them laughed for long.

Thaklantyrchyll didn't roar. He didn’t taunt or puff himself up like the others. He moved with quiet grace, twisted through the air with the kind of control that spoke of years spent navigating wind-tunnels beneath ancient boughs. His wing-crest—a streak of cyan fire—cut the sky with eerie elegance. His strikes were sudden and precise, a surgeon among brawlers, a storm disguised as fog.

And when the fighting was done—when the crowd howled for another round and his blood-slicked opponents groaned from the arena floor—he was already gone, vanishing into the tunnels below, where he kept a little den filled with herbs and root poultices. That’s where the others found him in the end—not crouched in victory, but wrapping a comrade’s dislocated shoulder, grinding thistle into salve, quiet and focused.

He didn’t seek glory, but it found him anyway. Not in the ring, but in the quiet moments after—the dragon who would fight beside you, then heal you with the same claws.

The team came to call him the Crest-Bound, not just for the feathered crown that dwarfed his face, but for the way he carried his burdens. He never bragged, never shouted, never claimed more than his place in the line. But when the coliseum bell rang and the sky opened above them, it was Thaklantyrchyll they watched, waiting to see where the serpent wind would strike next.

He never looked like a warrior. He looked like the forest made flesh. But something in him burned—slow, silent, steady. And when the great Huntmother herself whispered his name, it was with respect.

Because Thaklantyrchyll fought not to win, but to protect. And that made him dangerous in a way no one could quite name.

__________ ~Miscellaneous Information~ Coli trainee G2 Auraboa Admires his elder, Clawrake Lives in Arbor with the coli team Prefers staying home

First impressions ~ flamboyant | plant nerd | not afraid to get his hands dirty ~

Sparkling Stinger Familiar Also known as the poor dragon's Boolean. 2650

Black Capped Chickadee Meat This songbird has an excellent memory, so the survivors of its flock surely won't forget you. 15 2

Darktide Jellyfish Seafood Whenever these jellyfish wash ashore, they melt into a stinging, gelatinous puddle. Some prefer them that way. 35 4

Jewelfaced Dragonfly Insect The faceted heads of these dragonflies are a juicy treat. Pop-pop! 43 5

Star Moss Plant A dull gray by day, Star Moss sparkles vibrantly at night. Some say it even tastes better then. 25 3

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______________________________________ ~Genes~ Pending!

~Outfit~ Pending!

You famous?

What you look like?

What you called?

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G2 Auraboa, born in JamMystery's Lair


Flaunt / Flair


Boa or Rattlesnake / Paisley or Myrid


Falcon / Breakup

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Scene: Beneath the Boughs

The canopy filtered light in long green shafts, swaying in rhythm with the breeze like a slow, sleeping breath. Clawrake stood motionless beneath an ancient thornoak, her antlers brushing a branch heavy with silver moss. She rarely came this close to the central grove during daylight, but today the forest had summoned both of them, and she had learned long ago not to argue with the trees.

The underbrush rustled.

“I wasn’t late,” came the familiar, hissing lilt of Thaklantyrchyll’s voice—drawn out and lazy, as though time itself could be reasoned with.

Clawrake didn’t turn. “No. You weren’t.”

The younger dragon slithered forward, his serpentine body gliding over roots with practiced grace. Cyan flashed briefly as his wings adjusted to the uneven light. His crest, oversized and wind-fluffed, shimmered faintly when he tilted his head.

“I brought the rhindlewort,” he said, unslinging a pouch from his shoulder with one of his small, wing-framed forelimbs. “Enough to calm four cracked ribs or one berserker with a broken heart.”

Clawrake gave a dry exhale—half chuckle, half sigh. “You’ve been spending too much time with the arena poets.”

Thaklantyrchyll grinned, fangs just visible. “They like a dragon with scales and scars. I only have one of those.”

She finally turned to face him. Bark armor creaked, feathers shifting along her spine. “You have more scars than you think, gardener.”

He flinched—not at her words, but at the tone. There was no scolding in it. Just... knowing. Too knowing.

For a moment, they stood in silence. Birds chirped in the distance, and a clutch of insects buzzed close before veering off, deciding wisely against Clawrake’s presence.

“I’m not leaving the team,” Thaklantyrchyll said quietly.

Clawrake nodded. “I didn’t ask.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’m always here.”

He shifted, uneasy. “Even when I choose the wrong fight?”

“Especially then.”

Her antlers caught a beam of sun as she lowered her head. “You fight in the coliseum like it’s something you owe the world. But you come home to your roots, your herbs, your quiet corners—and that’s where you’re most dangerous. The others don’t see it. But I do.”

Thaklantyrchyll was still, save for the subtle flare of his crest. His deep purple eyes, bright against his forest-hued scales, searched hers.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be,” he admitted, the words slow, like bark peeled back from a tree.

“You’re not supposed to be anything,” Clawrake said. “You grow. That’s what trees do. That’s what you are.”

He blinked. “A tree with wings?”

She leaned closer, letting her crest brush his, a rare gesture of affection from one who rarely gave it. “No. A tree with fire. Just don’t forget where your roots run deepest.”

He let out a breath. “You’re terrible at metaphors.”

She gave a low rumble—this one unmistakably a laugh. “That’s why I lead the hunters. Let the grovewardens speak in riddles. I’ll bring back the meat.”

Thaklantyrchyll smiled, brushing a coil of his tail lightly against her taloned foot. “Then I’ll keep bringing the medicine.”

“Good,” she said, turning toward the deeper woods. “Just try not to crack your own ribs next time.”

“No promises.”

As she disappeared into the thicket, the woven branches on her wings rustled like a whisper through pine. Thaklantyrchyll watched her go, then settled beneath the thornoak, laying his crest against the cool moss. In the dappled shade, the fight felt far away, and the forest, like Clawrake, said nothing—but offered everything.