Robal

Stories were always a part of his life. Stories about dragons long dead, heroes, villains. He always wanted to have a story writ about him, one day. His parents were nothing if not good to him, but he still left as soon as he could to pursue his dream.

As he got older, he continued finding stories, and started writing his own. He ended up taking more interest in short-form literature, and decided to be a poet, isolating himself in one of the few nooks and crannies carved out in his temporary home in his new clan. Hayve took him in as a younger brother, and they wrote and read and theorized together.

He started submitting his works in papers, speaking at events, becoming a legend through the ballads and limericks that ran true to life. A story through stories.

But as soon as it arrived, it vanished once more. He'd let it get too far. He rode off of his success, let it slip away through his clawtips. He was upstaged, forgotten. Abandoned as his audience ran to the newest, brightest creators.

And he hadn't even hit his prime! There were hundreds more poems preserved in his pearl, an arcane orb of words, not including the ones his adoptive brother had painstakingly carved into it. "His best work," he called it.

Robal had lost all that in less than a week. He retreated into warm, dry corners, and wrote obsessively. Unknown to the artist, Hayve had continued sharing his work under a poorly thought-out pseudonym: "Poybel"