Cannon

Cannon, like many other nocturnes, hatched without a clan to call his own. He was taken in quickly enough by a clan from the Highland Scrub, but never truly felt at home there. The clan was an ever-changing patchwork of homeless dragons passing through-- even the leaders didn’t stay for long. Raised in such an amorphous environment with so few constants did him little good, and one day he decided to leave, like so many others.

He has always been drawn to Dragonhome, finding earth dragons to be most connected with the physical, the solid. They are concrete and, he would hesitate to say unchanging, but they do not simply become wisps at the slightest breath as some wind or shadow clansfolk might, nor are they prone to erratic behavior and temper like fire dragons, or the domineering obsession of those from his own lightning homeland. They do not rot or bloom or pulse or melt; they offer the stability he has craved since hatchlinghood. His interest in them may border on fixation, but only as he wishes so dearly to be one of them. Finding such a clan to accept him was quite likely the greatest day of his life.

Cannon is intimately aware of how things work and how they are put together. He has a great interest in the general movements and gaits of dragons, and most are more than a little unsettled to find him staring so intently at their skin, focused more on minute muscle movements than any conversation that might be at play. He is a craftsman at heart, as can be expected of one of his flight. Being so enthused with such a topic, he was downright giddy when presented with the chance to create prosthetic legs for Pitaya.

His study of musculature and form has found him more than once dealing with remains; he delights in examining clanmates’ expired familiars or felled foes. He wishes dearly for the opportunity to take apart a dragon’s carcass, but he dare not desecrate an ally’s remains…or so he supposes. He hasn’t had the chance.