Art Sales

@Blueberrypodoboo I'd try to talk you out of payment but I have a feeling that'd be futile. [emoji=coatl tongue size=1]

@WolfGen
Hi! It's going to be open after my next couple of requests and a break, but you can still make a request and get it out of the way for when I officially re-open!

@Ozie

I am just going to ask to be put on the lore listing wait (or whatever it is, i dunno XD)
Hope you are having a great day!

@sheebal Of course, I'll add you now! [emoji=coatl tongue size=1]

@Blueberrypodoboo Hey, I thought I'd finish Broken's lore before I worked on anything else, and I think he turned out pretty okay. I did about 50% of the end this morning at 2 AM but I'm almost certain everything makes sense, so I hope you enjoy it! [quote=Broken Mirror]-1- He lay there, in the pitch black. No torch flickered, or lantern flared, anywhere in his cell. It terrified him. Anything could be lurking down here with him, though he’d seen nothing so far. Shackled to an iron table floating on a cold and filthy lake, anyone could kill him. The only thing to stop them would be a useless anchor keeping him from freedom. So, all in all, they could do as they wished. A harsh winter wind nipped at his skin. He trembled. The air sifted into his residence from somewhere—perhaps a crack or hole—accompanied by tiny snowflakes, if the cold spots on his skin at varying moments gave anything away. They landed on his nose, his arms, his wings. How could he tell? Growing pools of featherless skin dotted his wings; the malted feathers prodded him teasingly. Each time he felt one come away, he cried a little more. Forcing his breathing to stay steady, he stared into the darkness and prayed. Each word came out as a croak. His voice was hoarse from screaming and sobbing earlier. He still prayed. It was the only thing he [i]could[/i] do. Trapped in a dark room with not a soul to talk to, his sliver of hope kept him sane. “My Father,” he whispered shakily, “my deliverer, I come to you with a heavy heart. Renew my strength so I might—” “Oh, [i]dearie![/i]” As soon as clacking echoed somewhere in the darkness, he shut up. If such a thing was possible, his entire being went stone-cold. The footfalls were all too familiar to him, haunting his every waking moment and cornering every dream. His shaking worsened. Blinking away tears, he sucked in a quiet breath. He stayed still. Every time, he tried this. Every time, she still found him. The light blinded him. Pain from scars long since burnt away tingled along his arms, his back, and his neck. He forced himself to do something he was far too good at; exit. He could never physically exit. The next best thing was to leave his body and wander through the caverns of his mind. He felt untouchable there. “So, you’re still alive,” she crowed, her lantern like a second sun. “How fascinating.” He made himself think of poems and prayers, tales he remembered his mother telling him when he was but a hatchling. [i]Deities, where are they now?[/i] Wondering felt like a block of lead pressed down on his stomach. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he saw her. He couldn’t remember her face. It could be decades or a few days, and the lack of knowledge hurt him. [i]Renew my strength, my Father, so I might ache no longer. I plead this of you in your divine presence, o’ giver of life. Sustain me with your almighty kindness.[/i] Her lantern swung closer and closer still until it hung from a hook above him. He repeated his prayer. His skin tingled with fear, sweat beaded across his brow. Staying in the realm of his mind became difficult. The cologne she wore, the deep red eyes glistening against the grey of her face all felt too real to be a dream. “It’s been, what, a few months since I last saw you?” she cooed, running a digit over his cheek. He stifled a shudder. “And here you are, alive and kicking.” When he didn’t answer, she pulled away, pouting. “Come now, don’t be like that.” She pushed the bed down until cold ran along his spine, stabbing at his muscles. He gasped. “Let’s talk. It’s been a while.” Biting his lip to keep from crying out was all he could do. “Have it your way, then.” Much to his surprise, she let the bed float along the top, the cold lake water pooling at the small of his back. His claws scratched the metal beneath him. She turned and left, sauntering into the darkness. He would think she left, but he wasn’t stupid; the distant clacking of her claws against stone didn’t reassure him in the least sense. Each time she visited, they did the same routine. He’d learnt not to trust her movement. “How about a little test?” she called, glass clinking against claws. “It’s your favourite one!” He hated how his tiny, defenceless whimper echoed in the chasm. He knew exactly which test she meant. The padding came closer until her face shone in the lantern light. Lines lay sprawled across her face, crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes and bruised eye-bags hanging beneath them. She looked old and exhausted. That was what terrified him. “Please,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please don’t.” “Oh, so now you want to talk?” she said, a vial with black ooze inside hanging between her digits. She crouched beside him. He didn’t miss the wince that accompanied it. “Tough luck.” “Please—” Her digits hooked onto his bottom teeth and forced his jaw open during his protests. Without his tether—biting his lip—he sobbed, his pleading similar to the slurred speech of a sailor. She quickly popped the cork of the vial. With no softness, she shoved the potion down his throat and forced his mouth closed. She’d learned from her first mistake. Some time passed—perhaps only a mere minute—and nothing happened. For once, hope warmed in his heart. Her growl was oddly reassuring. “Why isn’t it—?” All at once, every inch of him burst into a flare of agony. He could only gasp. His mind began to melt, his muscles tensed until they felt they would burst. Then the screaming began. He clawed at the shackles. They burnt into his wrists and the blood which trickled down onto his bed. The potion reacted with them. It sizzled the skin around the slices. A blood-curdling scream split through the air, the smell of burnt flesh lingering in his nose. She merely grinned. “I must admit,” he heard through his screaming, “This is unfortunate. If you’d have just talked to me, we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?” He sobbed. Each one scratched the inside of his throat with a thousand knives. She wandered off, her hums echoing around his cell as he continued to cry and writhe, clawing every inch of his body to stop the pain. Sweat beaded. He rasped against the pain. It took a matter of seconds for thick, dribbling scratches to litter every inch of him. The pain sparked once more, sending blackness to corner his vision and white dots to dance in front of his eyes. He could hardly breathe. Every movement only made him cry out, and yet he couldn’t stop the jerking. He forced himself to focus on the lantern. It didn’t help much. Still, it was better than nothing. It settled after what felt like an eternity. It left him gasping, eyes slammed shut to stop tears from streaming. He didn’t know how long he’d been twisting and crying. He didn’t want to know. His throat felt like a desert; sandy and dry. His arms felt limp. Clogging his claws was sticky blood and knotted hair. Despite it all, he felt relieved. At least his blood wasn't on fire anymore. He cracked his eyes open and gasped. He winced. A light brought the room to life in a bright purple, highlighting every inch of his dark residence. Cracks lined the walls of mossy stone, shackles clinking together in the winter breeze. An alchemy set, bubbling away, sat in one corner. Torture instruments hung above it, strung up like trophies. Above him... He could barely look before nausea kicked in. “Interesting,” she hummed, coming closer. She dragged her claw across his bloodstained shackles, where the light came from a rune. Underneath it, on his wrist, sat a burnt mark that looked identical. “That’s never happened before, has it?” He whimpered. The softness in her voice was never a good sign. He’d learnt that the hard way. She sauntered off towards the alchemy sit and plucked an unnecessarily long syringe from the tabletop. Deep green ooze swam inside. He squirmed in his chains. Each flick of her claw against the glass sent shivers down his spine. “Please,” he croaked. “Please, don’t.” At the evil grin on her face, he began to sob, shaking his head. “This won’t hurt a bit, honey. It’s for a... guest.” It pierced his skin. He didn’t have time to scream. [center]*[/center] His eyes snapped open. He kicked away whatever lay thrown over him and tried not to scream. Blood trickled down his forearms. He panicked. A needle full of his blood hung above him. Something moved to his right. He swiped. His claws caught a mask and sent it flying. Blood flew, too. He didn’t care. Claws straining, he scratched at the silver shackles. They didn’t break, and his breathing quickened. His claws left deep ridges, but nothing more. Blood streamed down his arms. His eyes burned and a scream built in his throat like a bubble. It took only a few seconds for tears to spill down his face. “[i]Get them off me[/i]!” Someone moved their garment swishing. He jumped, claws ripping away silver, and hissed like a feral cat. He felt uncivilised but didn’t care. The Wildclaw in his sights clutched their cheek, drops of red spoiling the tiled floor. Black covered from head to toe. They looked like [i]her.[/i] His hissing and growling stopped when a purple Spiral appeared with a steel bird mask perched on his brow. Wide red eyes glistened with worry as he glanced between the pair of them before the Wildclaw gestured to him. “Go tend to him,” she growled. He growled back at her. “Hey,” the Spiral said, splaying his paws before him in surrender. “It’s alright.” As much as he hated it, his voice broke as he talked. “Get them off me.” “I will if I’m allowed to come closer.” “Get them off me!” The Spiral took that as a cue, however hesitantly, to come closer as he slowly withdrew a silver key from his breeches’ pocket. He stopped short of the bedside. Out of habit, he shrunk back, a growl rumbling low in his throat. Again, he wasn’t swayed. “I’m sorry we put you in shackles,” he said, frowning. Infinite apologies swirled in his gaze. “We’d hoped it’d stop you from clawing at yourself.” He smiled grimly. “Look how well that turned out, eh?” He thrust his paws before him and sobbed. “Get them off me.” The Spiral’s smile lit up. He slowly came closer and took his paw in a gentle touch that made his skin crawl. However, he didn’t pull away. He watched instead as he slipped the key into the keyhole and began to turn, yet the blood distracted him. The gasp echoed in his ears. “These are bad.” As soon as he touched his oozing wrists, he flinched and lashed out. He felt his claws tear through the skin. All the Spiral did was gasp and cover his cheek, turning his face away from him. Only now did he feel guilty. “[i]Oi[/i],” the female snapped, storming over to him. He hissed at her. “You can hurt me all you want, you monster, but you do [i]not[/i] get to hurt Chip! Do you understand?” “Nova, it’s fine,” Chip muttered. His paw shook against his cheek. “It’s just a scratch.” Nova ignored him. “Apologise!” “Nova, please, it’s okay. He’s just scared.” “I don’t care!” she cried, a snarl plastered along her mouth. “That gives him no right to—” Chip’s paw came away bloody, yet he smiled shakily at her. “It’s okay. I’ll clean it in a minute. If you can, I’d like you to find some bandages and ointment.” Growling, she threw her paws up into the air and stalked to the corner of the room, sifting through some drawers. Each thunk of something weighty against the wood made him jump. “Can I have the shackles?” Chip asked, holding his paw out as an offering. “Nova will look for the items I need so I can fix up your scratches.” He hesitantly obliged. Chip seemed to have learnt his lesson; he didn’t touch his wrists, despite his worried glances at how bloody his arms were. Soon, the shackles dropped to the floor. He held his arms to his chest. They felt sticky against him, but he didn’t care. He was free. Nova soon came back over to them with a few vials and wraps of white. Chip thanked her for them, gently placing them at the foot of the bed. She didn’t spare him a second glance, not even when she moved away to sit down, though he could feel the irritation emanating from her towards him. “Can I have a quick look at your wrists?” Chip’s voice was no more than a whisper. The bleeding of his cheek seemed to have slowed. He shook his head, shrinking away. “Please? I don’t want the scratches to get infected.” He would have called him a liar, cursed his name under the sun if it hadn’t been for his willingness to get him out of the chains. He let him, though with caution. Within moments of forcing his arms into Chip’s, he was planning his escape route; with one wrong move, he’d leap from his bed and crash through the window opposite him. The chamber flashed before his eyes; the cracked walls, the collapsing hole in the roof, and the[i] scream.[/i] Chip gently rubbed his arms with a digit. “It’s okay, just relax.” He hadn’t realised he was tensing, so he forced himself to relax, whatever that was. He eyed the vials and bandages at the end of the bed with a glare fit for slicing through steel. Though he couldn’t care less about the bandages, the vials scared him. He’d never had a good experience with potions. “If you want,” Chip said, “you can apply them yourself. I’ll show you how.” Shooting him a confused glance, he continued. “How about this; I’ll put the potion on the bandage and show you how it works. I can even put some on a cloth and give you a test run.” At his nod, Chip reached for the vial and bandages at the end of the bed and laid them to rest in his lap. Then, after tearing a small chunk of wrap off and dousing it in the potion, he dabbed the back of his paw. His skin tingled. He hissed, trying to wipe the potion away. It felt [i]wrong[/i]. Chip helped him, rubbing the skin until it stopped prickling with the weird effect of the potion. As he did so, he calmly explained that it was a numbing potion that speeds up the healing process and that the tingly skin was the worst that the potion would ever get. He promised it would never hurt him. Continuing to rub his paw, mostly for comfort if anything else, Chip finally spoke. “So, are you willing to give the potion a try once I’ve cleaned you up?” Numbly, he nodded. Something pounded against the front of his skull, pushing him to lie down. Chip noticed if the worry in his eyes told him anything. He coaxed him; he took advantage of his weary, sidetracked mind and made him fall back into the odd comfort of something. A pillow, he called it. He’d never had one before. “Nova,” Chip said, dabbing ointment on the bandages, “could you get me some water, please? I need to clean his arms.” “Sure.” She didn’t sound impressed to have to help him, but he was too tired to care. Moments later, Chip washed down his arms, careful of the fresh marks, and wrapped them in pure white. He told him he was lucky. He’d missed his artery and merely nicked his veins, resulting in less blood loss. As much as Chip must expect that to cheer him up, it did nothing except make him feel heavier. “There,” he said with a smile and a small wince, tucking the ends of the bandage away. “Your arms are going to feel weird, but now they’ll heal much faster.” He stared at him like a drunkard, confused and slightly dizzy. Only now did he begin to realise how kind Chip was to him. It felt strange. “Do you want a glass of water or something to eat?” “Don’t you need to clean your cheek?” Nova suggested dryly. “Don’t you need to clean [i]yours?[/i]” he shot back at her. With an angry grumble, Nova handed him a clean cloth and dipped another in some water. It swirled in a blue ceramic bowl. A slight pink tint came over the water with each time they cleaned their cheeks, the cloths becoming ever-so-slightly bloodier. By the end of it, Chip’s cheek stained with pink, the water was no longer clear. “Now that we’ve done that,” he sighed, taking Nova’s cloth, “let’s get you something to eat and drink.” Chip didn’t wait for an answer. He stood from his chair, bowl in paws, and rushed beyond a curtain which cut off his vision to the rest of the caravan. He left him with the tonic, spare bandages and a female Wildclaw that glared at him no matter what. She looked too much like [i]her[/i], but she couldn’t be. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, wilting under her furious stare. “You better be,” Nova said. “No one hurts my colleagues and gets away with it.” “That’s enough, Nova,” Chip called from beyond the curtain. Seconds later, he reappeared with a tray in his paws. On one side sat a steaming mug and a book. On the other was a plate piled high with salad. It still looked delicious. Even if it was a pile of green, red and white, it looked like the tastiest thing he could ever eat. He laid it to rest on the bedside table beside him. “I hope you don’t mind reading about the Deities,” he murmured, a shade of pink touching his purple cheeks. “I’m a shameless believer in them.” [i]So was I[/i], he wanted to say. [i]Once[/i]. At his lack of an answer, Chip smiled weakly. “It’s the only vaguely interesting book I have, unfortunately. The rest is about medicines, injuries and psychological trauma.” He chuckled. “I’m guessing you’re not interested in any of those.” He shook his head, a ghost of a smile at his lips. Chip gestured at the tray. “Help yourself. It’s yours to indulge in.” He didn’t have to be told twice. Grabbing the plate with one hand and the book with another, he dug in, not bothering to savour the taste. The salad had none. He left the book closed in his lap. His digits itched to open it and soak up prayers, myths and legends—to feel safer in their embrace—but those same Deities failed him before. They didn’t deserve his faith anymore. Just as he went to shovel more salad into his mouth, he stopped. His gaze fell upon the black staining his paws, running along his arms and disappearing over his shoulder blades. His paws curled into fists at the sight of his wings; oily-black, permanently stained with a discoloured black-green and beholding huge crystalline circles where his feathers malted over however long he was locked away. He let the salad drop back onto the plate and scratched at his arms, at his paws, at his wings and back, at every inch of him covered in that same marker. He felt dirty, unclean. No amount of warm water could clear this. No amount of kind words could make him forget the torment. “Hey,” Chip fussed, gently grabbing his paws, “don’t claw your skin off, okay?” Pulling his arms free, he dragged his claws over his antlers, through his ragged rat’s nest of mane, over his tail. Every inch of him felt owned by [i]her.[/i] There was nothing left to call his own; she’d tormented every bit of him, from his wings to his tail to his mind. Nothing was his anymore. [i]You’re broken[/i], she once told him after a successful siphoning session. [i]Just like my mirror. Broken and useless, I’d say.[/i] Something shattered. He froze with his claws on the verge of tearing through his abdomen. Chip’s gaze wasn’t on him, but on the vial, they used earlier. It lay in pieces on the windowsill, its liquid oozing into every crevice it could find. A deep tremor ran through him. [i]It followed me. It’s stuck with me.[/i] Shaking his head, Chip graced him with his full attention. “Do you have a name?” “I hope so,” Nova growled. “I’d like to have a proper chat with him.” “Nova let it drop, please.” He didn’t miss the tiniest hint of malice in Chip’s tone. “I’m willing to bet that he has his reasons—” “Stop being benevolent for a second and consider [i]what he just did.[/i]” “He attacked us and we were invading his personal space,” Chip shot at her. “That doesn’t mean he’s broken or attacking without—” “Broken.” He felt their eyes on him. He stared at his arms; the bandages wrapped around them already held bloodstains in them. “Sorry?” Chip said. “Broken,” he said, voice cracking. “Broken Mirror.” “Is that your name?” [i]No[/i]. “Yes.” [i]I don’t remember it.[/i] Chip hummed. Nova stayed silent, though she made her way towards them, her black gown swishing. “Well, Broken—” He winced. “—we’ll go see Walter later on and get him to come to meet you, okay?” “Who’s Walter?” “Walter is Shatterskull’s ringleader,” Nova said, her voice matter-of-fact. “He’ll decide whether you stay or go once you’re healthy.” “Until then,” Chip chimed in, smiling, “we’ll look after you!” He nodded numbly, continuing to stare at his arms. Blood slowly seeped along with his bandages. He grimaced, ears twitching and flattening against his mane. He wanted it to stop. He wanted the stains gone. “How about you read the book?” Chip suggested, tapping it with his digit. It still sat in his lap. “Or, if you want, I can go ask around for another one.” He chuckled, the tone warm. “I don’t want to force you to read it.” “No,” he mumbled. “No, I’ll read it.” “You sure? I don’t mind asking around for another.” “I’ll read it.” Humming, Chip bundled up his blanket and threw it over him as he picked up the book. Along the spine was the symbol of every clan, including Beast, and dog ears marked the corner of every other page. The most marked section was that of the Plaguebringer. He supposed that made sense, as Chip was a Plague male. “There’s a section on the Icewarden a few chapters down,” he told him. “I don’t know if you ever believed in him, but there are quite a few stories in there.” His heart panged as he flipped to the Icewarden’s chapter, his sign burning into his eye sockets. He desperately wanted to believe in him again, but how could he? He never helped him. It wasn’t him who caused the chamber to collapse. Chip soon left. His lip ached after biting it until he was certain he was alone before burying his face in his paws, whimpering. He wanted an escape, wanted his old life back. Now, he had to live with permanent markers to his past and suffer with them until he died.  -2- Broken Mirror stared at his food. His appetite dwindled low, despite how much his stomach growled. All his mind could focus on was the bulky envelope Walter pushed towards him moments before. “Open it now, if you want,” Walter said. “You don’t have to wait.” “Is it bad?” he asked, gaze landing on the envelope. “What do you think it is?” “Money to send me on my way.” Walter chuckled. “Well, you’re wrong. I promise.” Hesitantly, Broken ripped it open. He half expected something small, like a tiny plushie or a notepad. Instead, an onyx necklace adorned with pearls tumbled out, a black shard of stone hanging from its centre. The thwack of the metal against wood made him jump. A glance at Walter showed him a sympathetic frown. “Are you alright?” “Yeah, I just didn’t expect a necklace,” Broken muttered. He pointed at the stone. “What’s that?” “A tourmaline. Chip told me it was a healing stone, so I thought it’d be a nice sentiment.” Broken looked up at him, confused. Walter grinned. “Why don’t you try it on?” “I will do. I’m guessing you want something in return?” “Now, why on Sornieth would I want something back?” Broken shrugged. “It’s a lovely necklace. No one gives those away for free.” “Well,” Walter said, “it’s called a gift, and I’d like you to take it with no strings attached.” “What do you want in return, Walter?” “Nothing!” At his pout, Walter sighed and smiled. “Okay, there [i]is[/i] something I want.” Before he could inquire, he ploughed on, leaning on the table. “In return, I want you to take it and feel like you don’t have to give me anything in return.” His ears flattened against his matted mane and Walter chuckled. “What do you [i]really[/i] want?” “That’s all I want, Broken. I swear that on my life.” Broken stared at it again, unsure. The metal glinted in the lamplight hanging around the tent. Pearls of all different sizes stared at him, beckoned him to take them with him. The only part to leave him wondering was the tourmaline. It made him think of a chain link, hanging uselessly after it tore away from the rest of the chain. He suppressed a shudder. A weight began pressing against the confines of his skin, begging to leave. “If you don’t want it, Broken, I can always take it back,” Walter suggested. “No, no,” Broken said, a ghost of a smile at his lips. “It’s lovely.” “Are you sure? You look uncomfortable—” “I like it, Walter. I promise.” Walter, despite his worry, left it there, gesturing towards his food. “Do you want me to get you some more? It’s gotta be cold by now.” “It’s fine, I don’t want anything to be wasted.” “Broken...” “Hey,” a soft voice said behind him, a paw gently patting his shoulder. “You’re clawing at your skin again.” Starting, he glanced down at his arm. His claws dug into the skin, a tiny river of blood dripping onto the table. He wiped it away. He kept his paw clasped over the puncture and stared up at Chip. The poor thing had bags hanging under his eyes, his skin shallow and his posture slumped, but as always, his smile was warm. “Don’t you start worrying about me,” Chip scolded. “I just couldn’t sleep last night.” He nodded at Walter. “It’s lovely to see you again, Walter.” He grinned, a bright enthusiasm in his voice. “Hey, Chippie. How was your time away?” Chip sat down next to Broken. “Let’s just say I needed it.” “I can only imagine.” “What about you, bud?” Chip inquired, giving Broken his full attention. “How have you been?” “I’ve been okay.” “Are you sure?” Sighing, he stood. His food went untouched. “I’ve been okay, Chip. I’m just going to call it a—” “Before you do, sir, I’ve been hoping to speak to you.” Neither male at the table before him said that. He turned, eyebrow raised. His gaze landed on Ace; everyone called him his assistant, and yet all Broken could do was some basic acrobatics. For the most part, Ace was his closest friend, one he could entrust with everything, just like Chip. He trusted little beyond them. “I thought I told you it was Broken,” he mumbled, necklace hanging in his paw. “Force of habit,” Ace mused, raking a paw through his fiery mane. “Can I talk to you?” “With all due respect, I’d just like to go nap.” “May I at least talk to you before you do?” He felt tempted to say no but agreed anyway. Ace was hard to turn down. With his relaxed manner and soothing voice, everyone found it difficult to refuse whatever he requested of them. That included Broken. “Follow me,” he beamed. “It hopefully shouldn’t take long.” With a glance at Chip, he said, “Can you come too, Chip?” “Where are you going to be? I’ll meet you there.” “We’ll be near the woodland.” Chip nodded, giving them both a warm smile before he left. They followed him out, but that was as far as their paths mingled. Ace led him away from the tent and out towards the slightly rotten woodland that bordered Shatterskull. It didn’t look as beautiful as the teeming forests of the Viridian Labyrinth, but well enough to be mistaken for an Arcane woodland instead of Plague. Dragons chattered and laughed while he aimlessly followed his assistant. Some danced in the sun, others ate their food outside and watched. He knew but a few by name. One of those dancing around with her partner act, Dagger, was Lady Jack. She was infamous around Shatterskull for her insatiable appetite for danger. Luckily, Dagger provided and kept her at bay. Both of them were equally terrifying, despite huge height differences. “How are you feeling?” Ace inquired, falling into step beside him. A small plait bounced with his stroll, gleaming white beads laced into it with ease. He sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” “Well, you don’t exactly look happy, sir. You don’t smile anymore.” “I’m fine, Ace.” “Is fine good enough for you?” Broken opened his mouth to say something, yet Ace cut him off, stopping short of the forest. “Here we are.” He took the opportunity to look around him. He’d never gone anywhere near the woodland, let alone over its border. Trees of white with blood-red leaves towered over them, swaying with the breeze travelling from Wind. Birds chirped and familiars pranced. Among them was Ace’s familiar, Auburn, mewling at them from further in. “Take your anger out on one of the trees.” He frowned at his assistant. “I beg your pardon?” Ace indicated before him. “Take your anger out on one of the trees.” “I don’t know what you—” “If you don’t, sir, it could kill you.” He sighed and fiddled with his braid. “I don’t want that to happen.” “I can’t say I know what you mean, Ace.” Nodding his farewell, he made to leave. “I’ll see you this after—” Without warning, Ace grabbed his wrist and turned it over. A rune, with sheens of light purple glistening in the sunlight, burnt into his eyes. He yanked his arm away. Ace let only the tiniest flicker of shock enter his expression before settling into neutrality. “That rune makes you afraid, doesn’t it?” “Don’t start this, Ace,” he growled. He ignored his warning. “It’s a [i]Siphon[/i] rune, isn’t it?” Broken stayed silent. The pressure under his skin began to worsen. “Whoever used it must’ve drawn on whatever you have to use it for something else.” “Please stop, Ace.” He continued, coming closer. No hint of fear came from him. “They drew it from you, and now you’re afraid. Whatever it is, you never learnt how to live with it, and now you’re ashamed.” Broken backed away from him, his claws scratching his skin. “Stop it,” he mumbled. His heart fell into his stomach as Ace took it all one step further; he closed the distance, his voice no more than a whisper, his expression emotionless. “They tortured you, didn’t they?” Smoke wisped around his digits, curled around his ankles. An arm shot towards his assistant from nowhere, stopping just at his throat. More joined it. They yearned to grab at him, hoist him up into the air and throw him. It was only his will that stopped them. He didn’t know how long that would last as pain began to prickle his skin. He forced them to disappear and fell to his knees, choking against the pressure. Voices cried to be set free. He denied them that. Dread weighed his stomach down, and his blood turned to ice. Tremors he couldn’t stifle took hold of him. Before long, his missing appetite returned, demanding a full buffet table for that meagre show. “Do you see what I mean, now?” Broken stared up into the wide fire-lit eyes of his assistance. He didn’t miss how he trembled slightly, his wings tense and digits fiddling with his fur. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t want to scare you.” “It’s alright,” Ace said, crouching down before him. He plucked one of his paws from his lap and turned it over to gaze at the rune. “I know you’re scared, too.” He kept his eyes fixed on Auburn, who padded up to his master’s side. “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.” He squeezed Broken’s paw and smiled at him. “But this is why you can’t keep it locked up.” “I’ll just hurt everyone.” He couldn’t keep the crack from his voice. Ace sighed, turning his paw back over, hiding the rune. “I had a friend, once, who almost died because she was ashamed of what she had. I don’t want that to happen to you too, Broken. You’re still young.” “I’m over three-hundred years old,” he grumbled. “True, but you look about seventeen.” “Oh, the joys of looking young.” Chuckling softly, his shaking halting, Ace stood and offered him his paw. He accepted, still trembling. As soon as he was up, he yanked his paw away and kept it at his side. [i]Don’t hurt him again.[/i] “I’ll stay with you while you practice.” “I’d much rather it kill me.” “Broken—” “I don’t want to hurt you, Ace. That just makes me like…” He let his voice trail off before her name touched his tongue. “You won’t hurt me, Broken.” He grimaced at the confidence in him. “I know you won’t. Besides, I can get you some books so you can practice and I can offer whatever little pointers I can.” Snorting, Ace leant against a tree. “I might not have anything myself but that friend of mine loved to hear her voice.” “How is she now?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Alive,” Ace said. “Just like you will be once you’re not afraid anymore.” When he didn’t answer, his assistant gestured towards the trees around them. Auburn pranced off in a random direction, chasing a brightly coloured butterfly through shrub and bush. “Why don’t you try to break one of these trees?” Broken debated it. He felt tempted to say yes, mostly for the relief that he felt from those [i]things[/i] finally leaving him, but he couldn’t. Fear overcame him. No matter how much pressure those things caused, he wouldn’t let them free. They would hurt someone. He was sure about that. “No.”  -3- The entire Circus stood in the rain. It pattered down on the stones before them, iced their skin, weighed on their clothes. The same applied to Broken’s necklace. Everyone was soaked, but they couldn’t care less. They stood out here, in horrible weather, of their own free will, just like they did last year and will do every year coming. It was their final promise and their constant apology. The stone he stared at was barely a year old, and yet cracks already ran through the name, moss sprouting in the most cramped of spaces. Already, the grass over the mound looked up to his ankles, with a single begonia swaying before it. The grave looked both much older and simultaneously much fresher than he wanted it to be. His ringleader stood at his side. No fancy tailed waistcoat fluttered behind him, or clean top hat rested on his brow. It was unlike the year before. Then, he wore funeral attire fit for a lord. Now, all he wore was a simple cotton shirt and breeches, a pair of scuffed spats on his feet. He spotted nothing consistent except the ring he kept on his middle digit. “How are you feeling?” he asked Broken, his voice croaky. Somehow, it surprised him that Walter had cried at some point and he hadn’t noticed. He blamed the rain. “Horrible,” he admitted, sniffling. His tears ran dry an hour ago. “You don’t still blame yourself, do you?” “How could I not, Walter. I promised I’d protect him, and look at what good it did.” Walter sighed. “That’s not fair on you, though, is it?” “It doesn’t matter what’s fair on me.” He crossed his arms, his gaze still locked on the grave. It took all his effort to keep from clawing his skin. “He trusted me, and I failed him.” “He wouldn’t blame you.” “That’s why I’m doing it for him.” Walter pouted at him. “That’s not fair, Broken.” “How isn’t it?” he asked, peering at him. “It’s my fault that he didn’t survive.” Just as Walter opened his mouth to protest, a soft paw squeezed his shoulder. He knew who it was without having to turn. “Hey, Chippie.” “Do you want to come for a walk with me and Nova?” Chip inquired. “We’re going to go down to Shellshore Market. They have some ingredients I need.” “I don’t want to go,” he muttered. “Sorry.” “It’s fine—” “He’ll go with you, Chip.” Broken squinted at Walter. He shrugged. “I’m not about to stand by and let you pout.” “It’s called [i]mourning[/i].” “No, what you’re doing is called [i]feeling sorry for yourself[/i].” He nodded in Chip’s direction. “You’re going, just as a distraction, if anything.” Broken felt ready to burst, but Chip’s presence put a damper on that. As much as he loved Walter, he felt he invaded too much into what he did and ways he could help, even if it was only to help him feel better. “Fine,” he groaned. “I’ll go." Walter graced him with a small, almost invisible smile. “Good.” His smile widened for Chip. “Make sure he has a good time, yeah?” “I will do, Chief. I promise.” Nodding, he walked away. Other Circus members stood clustered in a clotted group, all of them trying to smile despite the misery that hung above their heads in clouds. Broken watched as he made his way to Vladimir. Only he could make Walter feel any better at a time like this. Even Lady Jack failed, and she was his ‘little big sister’, as he so fondly called her. You could say they were made for each other, but Broken wouldn’t. [i]Soulmates aren’t real.[/i] “Come on,” Chip fussed, gently taking his paw. Compared to Broken’s, his were the size of a hatchling’s. “Let’s go to Shellshore.” He didn’t argue. Following him aimlessly along the dirty path towards Shellshore Beach, he found little comfort in the animals chirping and calling in the woodlands that trailed them. Birds chirped and familiars pranced. He could see Auburn in the distance, playing with an Anomalous Skink. He could only tell it was him because half his ear was missing. Broken’s heart panged. He still hadn’t left his master’s side. Chip, on their travels, rambled on about everything under the thinning sky, from his practice to the Deities to different kinds of butterflies. The last one caught him off-guard, and for the first time in a week, he smiled. “Why do you know so much about Monarch butterflies?” he queried, peering at him. Chip shrugged. “I had a little girl come to see me, and she told me to study Monarchs, so I did.” He smiled proudly. “Did you know Monarchs fly over one-hundred miles a day during its three-[i]thousand[/i] mile migration south?” “Really?” “Mhm!” “That’s a lot of miles.” Chip snorted. “They also taste water and nectar from sensory hairs on their legs.” “I’d hate to be a butterfly having a bath, then.” “It would be horrible, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t be able to taste anything but soap.” Broken hummed. “I suppose you could always bathe in nectar.” “What a good idea!” “Got any other facts?” he asked, almost desperate to keep his smile from falling. [i]If it falls once, it won’t reappear for a while.[/i] “Sure, what would you like to know?” “Anything.” Asking no more questions, he hummed, gently squeezing his paw in acknowledgement. It comforted him. “Lightning bolts have enough energy to toast a-hundred-thousand slices of bread.” “That’s been calculated?” “I’m willing to bet money on the Stormcatcher doing it in his spare time.” “I wouldn’t put it past him, considering his tales. Got any more?” Chip laughed. “Need you have asked?” It took another twenty minutes of walking in slowly-disappearing rain to get to Shellshore Beach. Chip could have flown there, waited for him. However, Broken would have still had to walk thanks to water weighing his wings down. Despite his protests, he stayed to walk with him, indulging him in plenty of useless facts that they both deemed amusing. His favourite was about someone who accidentally created glow-in-the-dark cats. “I want one,” he groaned, pouting at no one in particular. “I do, too,” Chip said, no hint of hopelessness in his voice. Broken frowned at him. “I thought you were allergic.” “I’d still get one. Not even allergies can stop me!” “You love cats [i]that[/i] much, huh.” Chip nodded eagerly, a bright grin on his face. “I’d keep an entire circus’s worth of cats if I could!” “Forever the optimist,” Broken noted. Stealing a glance at the brightening sky, he sighed. “How far away are we?” “Not far. We’re about a minute or so away.” He hummed just as something occurred to him. “How come Nova’s at Shellshore? I thought she hated sand.” “Only when she’s alone. She hates it when she’s the only one suffering.” Rolling his eyes, he almost missed how the pathway dipped into a steep, rocky slide, steps carved hastily out of stone to accommodate for those who didn’t want to bruise their feet going down. Nova sat at the bottom, smoke suddenly appearing and disappearing just as quickly. “I never knew Nova had a pipe.” “She never used to,” Chip admitted sadly. “She only started using it recently. I wish she wouldn’t.” Broken frowned. He followed Chip down the steps. He stopped a few steps above her, letting Chip inform her of their arrival. He still didn’t trust her, despite knowing her for two years. He didn’t know [i]why[/i] he didn’t trust her, but no matter how hard he tried to block away his insecurities, they always came back to bite him. She quickly snuffed out her pipe and smiled up at him. For once, she wore something with colour; her funeral attire. A raven Sylvan dress pooled onto the step, matching bracelets and anklets throwing black-red onto the stone beneath her. Hugging her shoulders was a Bloodsong shawl. It still looked brand new. “How is everyone?” she asked, raising her eyebrow. He shrugged. “They’re trying to amuse themselves. When I left, it wasn’t working out too well.” Instead of waiting for her to acknowledge his answer, a question burst into the open before he could stop it. “How come you weren’t there? They were your colleagues too.” Nova’s shoulders drooped, her head turned away. “I don’t feel comfortable being surrounded by sadness.” “Still,” he muttered, trying to keep the spite from his tone, “it’s a day for remembering them. You weren’t there.” “I can remember them just fine without having to weep at their graves.” “Come on, guys,” Chip pleaded, arms crossed and frown pulling at his lips, “there’s no need to be bitter.” Broken ignored him. “Have you at least visited them?” “Yes, Broken,” Nova drawled, “now drop it.” “Hey, Broken?” Chip asked. “Yes?” He glanced nervously at Nova. “Can you give us a minute?” Broken shrugged. “Sure.” Wandering down to the edge of the water, allowing the ocean to chill his toes, he let the two medics talk amongst themselves about matters he wouldn’t understand. His mind drifted him. March 9th was the final day he saw him, spoke to him, laughed with him. He still remembered his dusty assistant’s cloak and his tiny gem-encrusted plait, yet... He came to a chilling realisation. [i]I don’t remember what he sounded like anymore.[/i] “Broken?” Chip called, shattering his thoughts. “Are you ready to walk down with us?” “Yeah,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he turned to join them. They set off with little hesitation and he fluttered his wings as he went to get rid of the excess water. “How are we getting to the market?” “We may as well walk,” Nova said. “There’s no point in risking you falling from the sky, is there? Then he’d have you [i]and[/i] the hatchling to worry about.” Broken’s ears twitched. “You don’t sound impressed by that.” “I don’t like hatchlings. They’re too loud and messy for me.” He felt inclined to agree. As he eyed Chip, who walked just a few paces ahead of them, he realised he was praying. He fiddled with an old Plague medallion he kept stashed away in his pocket. The chain rusted years ago from misuse, with the Plague Queen’s symbol swinging in the centre. He never wore it. [i]I’d be oppressing those who don’t believe if I did[/i], he’d mentioned once. [i]Like you, for instance.[/i] Even though he never told him, he appreciated it. Broken waited until his silent prayer was finished before inquiring, “How is the hatchling, Chip?” “He’s okay for now,” he said with a small smile. “If anything, he should still be asleep, but...” He sighed, stuffing the medallion away once more. “I’m worried about him. His immune system’s still pretty messy.” “Poor kid,” Nova muttered. Broken agreed with her. Chip merely shrugged. “It’s a wonder how he survived this long on his own, but it’s gotten to the point where he needs around-the-clock care and I can’t provide that. I have everyone else to worry about, too.” “Can’t Vladimir look after him?” he asked. “He found him, after all.” “Walter and I don’t think that’s the greatest option, but we’re going to talk to him about it tonight, see if he’s doing it out of inclination rather than genuine care or vice versa.” He chuckled sadly. “His mental health, unfortunately, will also play a part in the decision.” “And if you don’t see him as fit?” “He’ll go.” Chip peered at him. “Why the sudden interest in him?” Broken shrugged. “He’s a lovely kid. I’d hate for him to have his start in life get worse.” “We’ll make sure he either goes to Vlad or a good foster-carer. I promise.” Broken left it there, only partially satisfied with the answers provided. They walked in silence until the market popped up at the end of the beach, Water clan dragons flitting about with sacks full of shells and other tiny treasures they found beneath the waves. They offered all sorts of medicinal items, like seaweed and ground coral. For the time being, it was Chip’s favourite place to go for cheap, desperately-needed ingredients. While Nova took herself to one side to puff her pipe, Broken and Chip looked around for a new Sandglass Vial to replace the one he broke. The memory of it made him chuckle... and earned him a slap. “Stop giggling at my misfortune,” he growled despite the smile. “I can’t help it.” “Yes, you can!” Broken rolled his eyes and glanced at the stalls surrounding him. One in particular caught his eye, for glittering treasures littered the countertop. He smiled sadly. “That stall reminds me of Mia.” “Huh?” Chip nearly headbutted him looking up from his similar vials, spotting the stall he spoke of within seconds. His next words sounded too sad to be his. “No matter where we go everywhere has some kind of link.” “I haven’t seen one for Ace.” “What do you mean?” Broken shrugged. “I don’t see anything that reminds me of Ace. He was one-of-a-kind.” “You’re not wrong about that,” Chip whispered, dumping treasure on the countertop, gently cupping the vials as if they were eggs. “Come on, let’s get—” “Chip!” The pair of them started, turning to spot Walter barrelling the sand. When he landed, and sand flew in every direction. His pants could be heard from ten feet away, and with every step he took, they only got worse. Eventually, he doubled over, chuckling breathlessly. “I think... I flew a bit... too fast.” “Certainly looks it,” Chip sighed, shaking his head. Walter eyed them, a question lingering in his eyes. “Could you... come back... to the Circus? Vladimir wants to... see the little one.” “Why don’t you catch your breath first, lovebird?” Winking at them, Walter did as he was told, sighing as soon as the weight was off his feet. A flash of inquiry crossed his face. It was only sated when he spotted Nova, pipe back in her bag. “How’s our girl?” “Stressed,” Chip informed him. He frowned. “Still smoking?” “Of course she is,” he said, “We need someone to help her.” “I’m currently looking at some.” Walter smiled to himself, his pride radiant. “There’s a male called... Sylvius. He sounds lovely.” Chip cracked a smile. “Is he going to come to join us?” “We’re going to meet him first.” Walter glanced at Nova, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. “The poor girl can rest, then.” “Is it just me,” Broken began, eyeing the doctor carefully, “or does Nova look older?” Both of them nodded. “She’s got a weight around her, now,” Walter pointed out. “Poor girl. I’m going to try and meet Sylvius as soon as possible.” “How old is he?” Chip inquired. “About the same age as her; thirty-odd.” Broken suppressed his spark of uncertainty. For some reason, Nova’s soul felt too old to belong to a thirty-year-old, and yet that was the age she told everyone. Broken couldn’t quite understand it. He supposed it was possible to have an old soul, but not so old that it felt as old—if not [i]older[/i]—than a three-hundred-year-old male. Walter finally stood, his breathing more-or-less even now. “Are you alright to come back to the Circus, or do you need some other things?” “I need some more ingredients,” Chip said, “but I’m sure Broken or Nova can bring them back for me, right?” At his uncertain inquiry, Broken smiled and patted his shoulder. “Give me a list and I’ll bring them back for you.” The tension disappeared almost instantly, a small smile crossing his face. “Thanks, Broken.” With the hurried purchase of a notepad and the borrowing of a quill, he wrote him a list that mostly consisted of simple ingredients like Blue Parrot Tulips and Dryad’s Saddle, handing him a hefty amount of treasure, before he flew away, Walter trailing behind like a lost puppy. “It’s amazing,” Nova sighed as she came up to his side. His skin tingled at her presence. “What is?” “The lengths Walter is willing to go to for Vladimir.” “It’s true love,” Broken said, eyeing the list. He eventually handed it over to her. “Care to help me find these for Chip?” “Of course.” They got to work slinking around the inner workings of Shellshore Market, picking up item after item until Nova’s bag bulged with multiple ingredients ready to be made into Chip’s own set of potions. They had everything Chip needed, plus extras. Nova went one step further and picked up some lavender, rose and jasmine from a nearby florist’s, paying out of her pocket when Chip’s pouch began to dwindle. “What does he use all this for?” he asked, peering at the flowers she stuffed neatly into her bag. “Jasmine and rose are for insomnia treatments and nightmare relievers, especially for the hatchling,” she explained calmly. “The Dryad’s Saddle is used in painkillers, and the Algae are for sickness.” She hummed with content, sniffing her digits. “Lavender is for anxiety, but you already know that.” “I do,” Broken remembered Ace always smelling of lavender to help him with his anxiety. Vladimir often wears it, too. Nova caught him in his train of thought and asked, “Do you miss him?” He jumped. “Sorry?” “Do you miss Ace?” Sighing, he shrugged. “Of course I do, he was like a little brother to me.” He waited a few seconds, listening for an answer. None came. His suspicion rose. “Why do you ask?” “I just wanted to know. I miss him, too.” He nodded. It felt strange to hear Nova say she misses someone, especially Ace, and yet he supposed it couldn’t be helped. Ace, much like Mia, had been open-minded and warm even in the last moments of his life. Everyone missed those who lost their lives that day. He missed Ace most of all. “Did he ever know about what happened to you?” “Why do you want to know?” Broken snapped. He couldn’t stop his irritation from flaring. Nova didn’t back down. “I’m curious.” “He guessed it himself.” Huffing, he crossed his arms, forcing his claws not to puncture his skin. “He said he knew someone else subject to [i]Siphon[/i].” She hummed, though said nothing. No emotion crossed her face, nothing twitched or flicked. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was merely calm or if she didn’t care, and the thought that she might not care bothered him. “Well,” she said, stuffing their final ingredient into her bag, “shall we get back? Chip will be expecting us, I reckon.” “Sure.” Nova led the way through the numerous stalls, weaving between them as if she knew the place like the back of her paw. He supposed she did. Chip and Nova were almost regulars at Shellshore, with most of the stall owners nodding their acknowledgement and making small talk with them. At least, that’s what Broken saw when he joined them. They soon reached the edge of the market, clear of any stalls. Broken stretched his wings for the first time that day, relieved to have the space to do so. “Before we go back,” Nova said, her wings fluttering, “I have something I’d like to ask you.” He forced himself not to squint at her. “Sure, what is it?” “Was your abuser called Snow?” He refused to answer. “Was it?” Broken could have roared at her at that moment; he could have flown back to the circus and distracted himself with his familiar. He didn’t know why he stayed, in the end. Perhaps it was because she knew her name, causing all sorts of questions and suspicions long since locked away to break out of their confinement, flaring his fear anew. “How do you know that?” he asked shakily. Nova didn’t answer him, her arms crossed and head downcast. “How do you know her name, Nova?” “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “No.” The snap in his statement caught her attention; Nova raised her head and stared him in the eye. He didn’t back down. “You don’t get to claim ‘[i]It’s nothing[/i]’. You know something, so you’re telling me one way or another.” “Am I?” The confidence in her tone made him feel queasy. “You are.” Nova attempted to stare him down, but for once, he successfully made her feel uncomfortable and cave in first. He supposed it was the scowl, or maybe she truly did have a conscience. He couldn’t tell. “I knew because I recognised her, even under the rubble.” “How?” She almost didn’t answer - he could feel her hesitation like a weight tied to his ankle. He’d never know why she told him anyway. “She was my older sister.” Broken legs almost buckled beneath him. Only the gentle caress of a wispy paw kept him upright and focused. “You... you what?” “She was my older sister,” Nova repeated, scowling. “I hadn’t seen her for years. She always had an obsession with immortality, and...” She shook her head, her scowl falling into a frown. “I’m sorry, Broken. I should’ve guessed she was hurting someone.” Words failed to describe how he felt. Centuries worth of rage long since buried emerged, slashing and mixing with the overwhelming fear he felt towards Nova. His suspicions inflated until they felt ready to burst through his mind. “When did you see her last?” “Broken—” “When did you last see her, Nova?” “Ten years ago,” she stated, her confidence faltering. “I saw her in May.” Broken’s heart sank, his blood freezing. “You’re lying.” “How am I—?” “Because as soon as she found out she could use me to make her immortal, she didn’t leave.” His eyes began to burn, his vision began to blur. He hated it. “She was in the chamber for the entirety of May. Only one... visitor...” His strength gave way, the sand coming up to greet his knees. Nova crouched down beside him. Fear sparked in her eyes. “Broken?” “You,” he whimpered. He shrunk away from her. “You were the visitor.” “I’m sor—” “Y...you visited her every few y...years.” He hated the sobs, the tears; he hated all of it. “You helped her make her potion.” “I didn’t know.” Nova began to cry, too. He didn’t believe it—[i]couldn’t[/i] believe it. “She told me she was researching immortality with her blood. If I would have just [i]seen[/i] you, I—Oh, Broken, I’m ever so sorry.” She reached for him. He backed away from her, whacking her paw away with his tail. He could barely look at her. Luckily enough, he’d backed into a corner shrouded in shadow. “Stay away from me.” “Broken—” “Stay away!” “Excuse me? Is everything okay?” Broken peered behind Nova, nausea roiling in his stomach, and saw a young mother and hatchling standing there. The mother looked concerned, her hair braided and adorned with pearls. The hatchling, on the other hand, looked terrified. “Everything’s fine,” Nova said, her voice shaking. “I just—” Broken couldn’t bear to listen to her lies anymore. He wrapped himself in shadows as she spoke. The wispy paws he created stroked his hair, his wings, and kept his claws from scratching his arms. He thought of his home. Within seconds, he fell into his dark caravan, thudding against the floor. His wing caught the edge of the desk, his clock smashing upon impact. He could barely care. Memories invaded his personal space, pain sparking from potions he hadn’t seen for a mere fraction of how long he’d been alive. Sobbing, he curled into a ball on the floor, covering himself with his wing, and stayed there. He didn’t know how long it took for someone to notice he was back. When someone did come by to check on him, everything was still. No shadows fussed over him, his hyperventilated sobbing had long since ceased to be, and his shivers had calmed. All he did was lay there, numb. The door cracked open and Chip’s head appeared, his steel bird mask resting on his brow once more. He looked pained. “Can I come in?” Broken nodded. “Sure.” As quietly as he could, he came in and closed the door. He didn’t come to his side immediately. Instead, he removed his bird mask, put down his book, and did what he always did; he lit the lanterns in his room to stop him from disappearing and sprinkled lavender flakes into the flames to douse his room with its calming scent. Once he was finished, he came to his side, a pillow in his paws. “Lift your head,” he whispered. Broken did as he was told. Chip slid the pillow beneath his head, a blanket soon following, before he sat down. The scent of lavender reached his nose and, accompanied by the soft raking of Chip’s paw through his mane, he felt somewhat safer. At least it wasn’t Nova who’d tried to visit. He wasn’t sure how he’d take seeing her. He shuddered, tugging his blanket around him. “What time is it?” he croaked. “Almost eleven,” Chip said gently. “Can I check your tail?” “Why?” “It’s lying on top of broken glass. I want to make sure it’s not covered in cuts.” He couldn’t be bothered to complain. Chip picked up his tail and examined it, brushing away all the tiny shards of glass stuck on to it. Other than a few minor nicks, he couldn’t see or feel anything wrong. Chip confirmed it as he let go of his tail, though not before he picked up as much glass as he could. “Would you like me to distract you with something?” he asked, leaving only to dump glass into the wooden pail he used as his bin. “Maybe more facts?” “Don’t you need to look after the hatchling?” he asked flatly. [center]Didn't all fit, again, so it's below![/center]

[quote=Broken Mirror cont'd]“Not tonight. Walter and Vladimir agreed that Vlad should get a test run looking after the little dude for a week.” He chuckled. “Both hatchling and Vladimir looked over the moon to be given the opportunity.” “I suppose it’s something new, isn’t it?” “Yeah, plus they’re both pretty close to each other now.” Chip sat down next to him once more, resuming stroking his mane, his smile soft. “You should’ve seen their smiles; it was adorable.” Broken smiled to himself, the image of the little Coatl grinning at the forefront of his mind. It quickly fell. “What book did you bring?” “My prayer book, why?” “Can you... can you read some to me?” “Really? I thought you stopped believing.” Broken shrugged, sniffing. “They’re still nice to hear.” Chip eyed him, his gaze exhausted. He grabbed the prayer book from Broken’s desk and opened it on the Icewarden’s chapter. Broken, without thinking, picked up his pillow and placed it in Chip’s lap before continuing to lay on it. If the medic minded, he didn’t let on. Instead, he continued to stroke his mane, fiddling with his medallion now and then, and read prayers with him until the sun peeked under his curtains. [right][size=1][i]Made by Ozie in "[URL=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/art/2371542]Ozie's Lore Shop![/URL]"[/i][/size][/right] [/quote]

@Ozie OOOHHHH MY that was so dark, but incredible!! Showing the attacks impact and how they took it a little differently, just [i]wow[/i] I maintain you're incredible at writing dark stuff and character development, along with the individual relationships! You have such a talent for this, I'm blown away, as always [emoji=coatl love size=1] Jeez though poor Broken needs a hug haha. OH and I'm 1000% here for Sylvius x Nova, she deserves happiness. One final thing on that, I love how motherly Nova comes across, and how soft and sweet Chip is, you've nailed that feeling, just wanted to add that!

@nabal Gleeson's done! I hope it's okay and that you enjoy reading it! I'll admit, he was a bit difficult at first, but I think he turned out pretty well. I'll get to work on Vice's as soon as possible, too! If you want anything changing, just hmu and I'll do my best. [emoji=coatl tongue size=1] [quote=Gleeson's lore]-1- Late-afternoon sunlight warmed his skin. Grass stroked the aching soles of his feet. Bags weighed down on his arms, straps digging into his paws. They swung with each step in an attempt to take his mind off tonight. Sometimes, they caught the mask dangling at his side from a thin rope. He rarely took it off, even after a performance. He only had it off now so he could feel the breeze caress his cheeks and drag its sly digits through his curling mane. Hugo the Guardian strolled to his left, molten gold eyes piercing through the grey of his Birdskull mask. He kept his top-hat on despite the sun—no, because of the sun. He had his bags swaying in his grasp. Exhaustion from earlier performances weighed down on his shoulders, energy wearing thin after using his enchantments once again to protect the lair. “How did you find the performances today?” Hugo asked like he always did. For once, however, his voice was croaky. “They were fun,” he said like he always did. He meant it, too. “I’m beginning to think you say that just because you feel like you owe me.” Gleeson smiled at his ringleader. “I promise, sir. They’re so much fun. Sure, I never saw myself as a clown, but I can tell you with full confidence that I’d never want to leave.” “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Hugo cleared his throat, his white-gloved paw stroking his throat in an attempt to ease the strain. “How’s Vice finding things?” His cheeks flushed, eyes downcast, finding the field they trod through very interesting indeed. “She’s enjoying it, I think.” “You think?” “Well...” He sighed, tail kicking up dirt as it swished. “She [i]says[/i] she’s happy, but I know her like the back of my paw. She says it, but doesn’t look it.” “Did she not enjoy your little date to the cliff’s edge?” Hugo teased. Gleeson’s flush deepened and, before he could stop himself, he muttered, “It wasn’t a date.” Hugo chuckled. “Are you sure?” “Yes!” “The Lord doth protest too much, methinks,” he said, a sly glint in those golden eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He couldn’t stop the heat from spreading to his neck, warming his face. “It means I doubt the sincerity of your comment.” He growled and pouted but kept quiet. Hugo could no doubt hear the thumping of his heart against his ribcage, the rushing of blood through his veins and the pounding in his ears. There was no point in trying to defend yourself against a vampire’s hearing. It was almost like they could hear your emotion. “Did she enjoy it?” he repeated. “Your date, I mean.” “It wasn’t a date,” Gleeson reiterated with a sigh, “and besides, she didn’t.” “How come?” “I don’t know, Hugo. She just... [i]didn’t[/i].” Hugo peered at him. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” In an attempt to keep from seeming exasperated, he murmured, “I don’t know what [i]to[/i] tell you, Hugo. Vice hasn’t seemed like herself for a while, you know that.” “Have you tried talking to her about it?” “Of course I have. She doesn’t want to talk about it.” His ringleader, for someone full of inquiries about everything, fell silent at last, sadness hardening his eyes. He loved him, perhaps felt he owed him an explanation for all he has done for himself and Vice, but Gleeson also felt his ringleader was too curious about his daily life. [i]I suppose it’s better than ignorance.[/i] “I’m sorry,” Hugo said after a while. “I’m sorry she didn’t enjoy it.” “It's fine,” Gleeson told him. “It’s not like I expected her to. I just thought it might take her mind off things.” He shrugged, the bags tugging towards the ground, his wings fluttering. “It’s scaring me how quiet she’s been recently.” “I can second that.” Hugo hummed, stopping abruptly. Gleeson stopped as soon as he noticed. “Do you think there’s anything we can do to cheer her up?” Gleeson sighed, ears flattening against his tangled mane. “I don’t know.” “Shall we buy her some chocolate from a nearby vendor?” “Do you think that’ll work?” Hugo shrugged. “It might cheer her up a little bit. Or, perhaps, you could buy her a teddy bear and confess your [i]undying love[/i] for her.” At his frown, he laughed, walking once more. “I’m only joking, of course. You waste all of your Treasure on lollipops and cross your digits for courage.” “I have courage.” “Do you, now?” He swung his bags at the back of Hugo’s legs, hoping to tip his balance at the least. Much to his despair, he dodged it with ease. “Never underestimate a vampire,” he drawled, wagging his digit like a grandmother would. Gleeson huffed. “Please stop teasing me, Hugo.” “I will do once you finally ask her out for dinner. I’m getting bored watching the tension.” “I was going to, anyway.” Hugo gaped at him. His beard—dotted with tiny red beads—swayed with the breeze. “You [i]were?[/i]” “Yeah.” He elbowed him in the side, snorting. “Look at you, I’m so [i]proud![/i]” “Really?” “Of course, I am!” He snickered, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. “It takes a lot of bravery to ask one out for dinner.” “Well,” Gleeson began, “I haven’t exactly… [i]asked[/i] yet. I just want to.” “And I wish you all the best when you do, though I will admit, in all my years of life, I have never been so distraught over one’s lack of action.” He raised an eyebrow at Hugo, who merely gazed at him with pride sheening his eyes. “How old even are you?” “Over three-hundred.” “Deities be damned.” The shock winded him, leaving his slightly breathless. “Seriously?” “Yes. I’m about—” Hugo did some math on his digits, muttering to himself, before looking satisfied. “—three-hundred and twenty-six, if I remember correctly.” “You don’t look like it.” He winked at him. Gleeson could almost see the sly, twisted grin that crept across the Guardian’s face beneath his mask. “You’ve never seen underneath though, have you?” “I guess not, sir.” Sighing, he stared through the trees towering over him towards the sky. He could make out the faint silver outlines of tiny pink clouds, the orange washing through the sky with the sunset, the tiny black specks of dragons flying thousands of miles away, no doubt heading home. “How far away are we from the circus?” he asked, losing himself in the sky. “Not far,” Hugo said. “We’re about two minutes away.” “Okay.” “Why do you ask?” Gleeson frowned, offering Hugo a level gaze. “You know how I said I was going to ask Vice out for dinner?” “Yeah?” “I was planning on doing it today.” For once, Hugo had no retort. Or, at least, he didn’t voice it if one swam around in his brain. Instead, he offered him a reassuring nod. “I do wish you luck, Gleeson. I’m sure it’ll work out.” He smiled a smile that reached from one ear to the other, ears perked and tail swishing with delight. “Thank you, sir.” “Why don’t you fly on ahead, on that note? I need to go see someone and sort myself out.” Hugo chuckled, placing his bags down on the ground. “We can’t have me burning up in the sunlight, can we?” “No, that’s true.” Just as he splayed his wings, rolled his shoulders, he frowned down at his ringleader. “Are you going to be okay?” “I’ll be fine, Gleeson. I’m just going to get some food.” “Do you want me to—?” “The last time you offered to help me when it came to feeding,” he pointed out, amusement in his eyes, “you almost threw up. I’d much rather do it alone.” Still, he didn’t leave, eyeing both Hugo and his bags with uncertainty. Sure, he couldn’t help him with his vampire needs, but perhaps he could help him in other ways. He hated thinking—much less watching—others struggle and no one offers them their paw. “Do you want me to take your bags back for you?” Hugo chuckled and shook his head. “Go on, Gleeson, before I change my mind.” Without wanting to take him up on that, he shot through the canopy of swaying trees and stared around him, scanning for the circus. During the day, you could see it from miles around, with flashing lights to attract attention and a Big Top of unusual colours to pique curiosity. He found it within seconds, purple and black stripes stark against the orange-blue sky surrounding it. He kept a tight grip on his bags and flew towards it. The wind nipped his cheeks, flattened his feathers, and untangled his mane. It took a mere twenty seconds to get there, another few to land on the outskirts. Dust and dirt kicked up into his face. He had to force his coughs down his throat to keep from alerting Vice. Gleeson trailed towards Hugo’s caravan and dumped the bags beside his door. Only a few others stood with it. One was his own; a bright green and red one, painted in his spare time when he and Vice first arrived here. Vice’s, on the other hand, was the colour of spark-riddled smoke from a campfire, a tiny Plague symbol in one corner. His heartbeat spiked and breathing hitched. [i]What if she says no?[/i] He growled and smothered his anxiety before making his way towards Vice’s door. Soft music played inside. It was Vice’s favourite singer, her melodic voice echoing through the space inside, travelling through the wood to his ears. Her pitch rose and fell like the waves on a shoreline. Gleeson knocked three times. “Hey, Vicie, it’s me,” he called softly through the door. “Can I come in?” Nothing answered him except for the vinyl, the singer’s voice beginning to drone on. “Vicie? Are you there?” Gleeson pushed on the door when she still didn’t answer. It swung open beneath his touch. Not a single creak came from the hinges, nor floorboard groaned beneath his feet. Vice’s bed, left a mess from earlier that morning, lay in one corner, a desk and sofa in the other. Her notepad was nowhere to be seen. His anxiety shot up from his stomach, clenching a fist around his heart. A cry rose in his throat. “Okay,” he said to himself, his breathing quickening. “Okay, maybe she just... um... forgot to lock it.” Gleeson nodded to himself and rushed out of the caravan. “Yeah, that’s it.” He could feel his mind roll around in his skull at such a useless suggestion. Before he could stop himself, he slammed the door shut and stormed into his caravan, praying to the Deities that Vice was inside. She wasn’t. Her notebook, on the other hand, was. Brown in colour and stiff in texture, it sat on his desk, open on a page littered with scrawled writing and crossed-out words. A seemingly-infinite dread weighed down on his stomach as he neared. When he stood close, picked it up and weighed it, tears sprang to his eyes. It read: [i]I’ve gone to the train station. I can’t handle it here anymore. I’m sorry.[/i] Gleeson slammed the notebook shut. A small, almost unnoticeable flare of hope warmed him. [i]She’s gone to the station. That’s where I’m going.[/i] He raced out of his caravan and launched himself up into the darkening sky. Soaring amongst the stars under the prying eye of the moon, his hope began to dim. He didn’t stop until he spotted the train station. Lights flared against a veil of darkness from surrounding woodland. A train sat, dormant, waiting. He tucked his wings in and dived. Dust surrounded him when he landed, like a cloud plucked from the heavens. He coughed and wheezed, but continued to run. The train whistled once. Each step he took thundered around him, the empty station a blessing when he tripped up the steps, grazing his leg. He didn’t care. He had a friend to bring back. The train whistled another time, snagging his attention. The wheels began to churn. Panic seized him, numbing the pain in his leg, and he ran. He searched the windows and spotted Vice’s brick-red hair, her gnarled antlers and speckled fur. Gleeson screamed her name. She didn’t turn around. The train left the platform, and he flew once more. He kept up with the train for as long as he could, twisting and turning and flying as low to the tracks as he could. As soon as the train entered a thick forest, he flew over. His eyes burned. He couldn’t tell whether it was the wind or tears. The train rushed off ahead of him. “No,” Gleeson whispered, desperately flying after it, dipping below the canopy of trees. He clipped his wing and tumbled through the air, landing on the cold iron of the train tracks. As much as he tried to fly, pain split through his wing. It kept him grounded. He sprinted after the train until his wing knocked him to the earth below. A throat-cutting growl echoed into the night at his weakness. He perked his ears, listening for the chug of a train. There was none. Hopeful that the train stopped somewhere, he looked up. His heart sank. The train, with its shining beacon lighting the darkness, chugged off into the distance, disappearing from view. The image of Vice, with her cloak blanketing her, her mane obscuring her face, burnt itself into his mind. Desperation took over him. “[i]Vice![/i]” No one called back. Gleeson sat on the ground for what felt like hours, numb. Rage fixed that. He screamed into the night. Sobs followed close behind. Everything shook. Self-hatred boiled his blood. He cursed himself out, did all he could to make himself feel worse. He was certain that he would walk back to the circus; his wings could no longer carry him. Even if they could, however, he would force himself to. [i]It’s all my fault.[/i] He stayed in the forest, sobbing his best friend’s name into the soil he knelt on, wondering what on Sornieth he did to cause her to leave him behind.  -2- The lollipops he used to chew on had long since turned into cigarettes, slowly rising in their daily numbers. He began almost eleven months ago with one a week, the smoke choking him off. Now, he has at least three per day. The smoke that once threatened to kill him became the only thing able to calm his nerves after a long day. Days he, surprisingly, still enjoyed... sort of. The day Vice went away, never to be seen again, happened a week before he began smoking. He should know; he counted every hour they were apart. [i]Ten months, seventeen days, three hours.[/i] It became a habit. One that would destroy him in the end, but at least it kept him somewhat sane for now. Gleeson sighed, smoke tumbling from his open mouth. It mixed with the snow falling around him, ash from his cigarette landing on the mask sat beside him. “I miss you,” he muttered to no one in particular, his voice croaky. “I miss you so much.” As much as he tried to brave it, he longed for his best friend; longed for her jokes, no matter how terrible; yearned for the soft, ragged fur and unruly antlers. Vice had been the light of his life. A light now snuffed by something he did. Her caravan still sat behind Cirque de Distraction’s main tent, almost everything as she left it that day. The only thing Gleeson changed was her messy bed. He made it, changed the covers, and forced himself not to sob. He daren’t look anywhere else in her home. [i]You should clear it[/i], Hugo suggested every month. [i]She might still come back[/i], he argued every time. That same argument grew weaker every time he uttered it. Snow crunched behind him. “Gleeson?” “Hey, Hugo.” “What are you doing out here, in the cold no less?” Hugo inquired. “I don’t know.” He chuckled breathlessly. “I didn’t even realise it was cold.” Hugo sighed. “Come into the Big Top, I’ll get you something warm.” Gleeson merely watched the snow falling around him. It, thankfully, made him feel number. “I don’t want to. Thank you for the offer, though. I appreciate it.” “I’m not about to let you die of hypothermia, Gleeson. You’re coming inside.” “Can I finish my cigarette first?” “No.” He frowned at his ringleader. He had his coat buttoned up; the collar flicked up to cover his neck and gloved paws deep in his pockets. In winter, Hugo had to take extra precautions against sunlight. “Please?” “No, Gleeson. Come inside.” Biting his tongue to keep from arguing, he snuffed out his cigarette on the dirt, stuffed the butt into his pocket, slipped on his mask and followed Hugo into the Big Top. Snow continued to fall around him. Specks nestled onto his thin green coat and landed on every inch of exposed skin. At this point, he could barely feel it. The Big Top lay empty after their most recent performance just an hour ago. No lights flared, no runes flickered. Just quiet suffocated him when he walked in. On the centre stage sat a table and chairs with two steaming mugs on top. “Come,” Hugo said, gesturing towards a chair. “Sit down.” Gleeson did as he was told. Once sat down, the cushion a much better seat than frozen dirt, he waited for a scolding, a lecture, even a disappointed shake of the head. Hugo didn’t do that. Instead, he picked up one of the mugs and handed it to him. “It’s hot chocolate,” he informed him, his molten gold eyes tired and hard. “I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all, sir,” Gleeson reassured. He took the drink and inhaled the sweet scent curling before him. “Thank you for the drink.” Hugo sat down opposite him, a second mug before him. He tapped his gloved digits on the table. “What’s been upsetting you recently?” “Nothing.” “You’re not as enthusiastic anymore.” His sigh was drawn out and weighty, riddled with exasperation. “I want to know what’s going on.” “It’s nothing, Hugo, honestly.” “There must be [i]something[/i], Gleeson.” Gleeson shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.” [i]Liar.[/i] Hugo’s eyes softened, searching his face for any clue of his lies and asking, in a gentle voice, “Is it to do with Vice?” He tensed. His ringleader didn’t miss it. “Do you want me to keep looking for her?” “No, it’s okay.” He sniffed, forcing himself to feel nothing. “I just miss her. I just—” A sudden strangled sound tore through his throat, cutting off his sentence. He didn’t want to continue. Not if it was going to cause more tears to spill. “Gleeson,” Hugo sighed. He took a quick sip of his hot chocolate before patting his arm. “I know you miss her, I do. I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in. However, it’s been almost a year, and...” “She might come back.” Hugo shook his head. “I don’t think so, Gleeson. I know it’s hard, but I think it’s about time you moved on.” Another sob escaped his lips, his desperate attempt to stop it tearing his lip. He wanted answers. He wanted his best friend back, and yet his boss—the one friend he had left—had long since moved on. It hurt him. “Come now, Gleeson,” he murmured, patting his arm as he cried. “I want her to come back too, but I’m beginning to think it’s unlikely.” He didn’t know how to answer. Tears plopped into his drink, his breathing became ragged with stifled sobs. Eventually, he choked out, “I just want her back.” “I know.” Hugo sat with him until his tears dried, patting his arm and smothering him with crusty old jokes from when he was a hatchling. It worked in the end. By the time he’d calmed, Vice left ten months, seventeen days and four hours ago. The pain almost renewed his tears. “Why don’t you take a few days off?” Hugo suggested. His kindness was a complete contrast to his dark appearance. “You never took any time to mourn when she first left.” “I can’t do that.” Gleeson sniffled and wiped his eyes. His mask, proving an obstacle, glared at him from the table. “I love performing. Besides, I’ll just overthink.” “Gleeson, it’s not healthy to push yourself like this.” He chuckled darkly. “I know.” With a hum, his eyes shining with guilt, he stood up and came over to him. “Would you like a hug?” Gleeson shook his head, offering him a small smile. “I appreciate it, but no thanks.” “Then would you like to go back to your caravan for a while?” He shrugged. Going back to his caravan meant sleep and an opportunity to forget what just transpired through books or music, and yet he knew the temptation to enter Vice’s caravan would snag at his core like it always did when he went home. It was the same thought, over and over. [i]Has she come back yet? I should go check.[/i] “Go back and rest for a while,” Hugo said, patting his shoulder. “Catch up on some sleep, get warm. And leave the cigs with me.” “Hugo—” “Leave them with me, Gleeson. The last thing we need is a cigarette setting the caravans on fire.” With a sigh, he admitted defeat. “Fair point.” Gleeson tugged the packet of cigarettes from his pocket, leaving them on the table, and wandered back to his caravan, his mug of hot chocolate in one paw and mask in the other. He’d often leave it in the Big Top for his next performance, but he wanted it with him now. He tried to ignore Vice’s caravan, but the peeling smoke-coloured paint and lanterns long since devoid of light snagged his attention. He grimaced and gripped the biting cold brass handle to his caravan. An onslaught of memories washed over him, waves of hope slaughtered in one day pummelling down on his mind. Cursing, he made his way into his home. Surfaces shone in the sunlight, books organised in alphabetical order on shelves and food tucked away in corners. Vice’s Deities-damned notebook he’d kept on his desk. It served as a reminder of what he lost and what he did. Exhaustion quickly came over him. He yearned to wrap himself up in his blanket, sit at his desk, and nap, so that’s exactly what he did. Or he would have done if a knocking didn’t sound at his door. “Excuse me?” someone—a young female, he presumed—called through the door. “Gleeson?” Gleeson huffed. He made his way towards the door, dragged a blanket from his bed to wrap around him, and said, “How may I help you?” She snorted. “Can you open the door? I want to see you.” His brow furrowed, but he couldn’t deny her request, even if he felt like curling up on the floor and sleeping. Taking a quick sip of his hot chocolate, he put on his mask and opened the door. He almost spat all over her. Shrouded in a thin cloak to fend off snowflakes, her Plague eyes standing out against the shaggy, snowflake-riddled fur that kept her warm and her mane dotted with tiny plaits, stood Vice. Words melted on his tongue. Either that or it was the hot chocolate he forgot to swallow. “What?” Vice giggled, brushing her mane from her face. “Are you not happy to see me?” He sat his drink down and tackled her with a hug before she could say another word, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His tongue felt fat and flabby, almost paralyzed. Sorniethan became a foreign language. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, hearing, even feeling. Her silken fur and wide red eyes felt surreal. His lip trembled. [i]My best friend’s back.[/i] “Gleeson?” Vice sounded worried, returning his hug. “Are you okay?” “Am I okay?” he choked out, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re asking me if I’m okay.” “Gleeson—” Tears broke free, and he brought her in for another hug, burying his face into her fur. Vice, though hesitant, returned it. She dragged her digits through his mane as he sobbed. He didn’t know why, exactly, he was so upset. It could be anger, relief, or even loss. “Pinch me.” “Huh?” Sniffing, he croaked, “Pinch me. I’m afraid this is a dream.” She did as he asked, the jab of pain on his arm making him jump. He didn’t wake up. Vice ruffled his mane. She spoke softly. “Feel any better?” “Yeah,” he said. Shock stilled his tears before he stood upright, wiping his eyes. “Sorry.” “Did I cause that much pain?” she mumbled, her eyes downcast. “Why did you leave, Vice?” She still didn’t look up at him when he asked for her reason, her paws clasped before her. Her silence was deafening. “Was it my fault?” he continued, fear gripping him. “Did I do something—?” “No,” Vice asserted. Her gaze locked onto his with a sternness he’d missed for almost a year. “It was something else. I don’t want to worry you about it.” “Vice, it made you leave. I—” Gleeson rubbed his eyes with the heels of his paws, battling his exhaustion. “I’d like to know.” It took her a while to say something—anything—regarding his request. For a few seconds, he thought she wouldn’t say anything at all. Then, she spoke quietly. “You know how I was always embarrassed about my appearance?” “Yes.” “After a show, someone came to me and harassed me over how I looked.” She shrugged, almost like the reason wasn’t painful. Her eyes betrayed her. “I didn’t tell you because it’d ruin your time here.” “Vice—” “You loved it here, Gleeson. I hope I didn’t ruin that.” “Hey.” He raked a paw over her mane, its softness a pleasant surprise. “Living here without you was what ruined my time here. I spent [i]months[/i] trying to figure out where you went.” Letting his paw fall, he grabbed her paw and felt the fresh calluses she'd earned over the last eleven months. “If you would’ve told me, I could have done something.” “There was nothing you [i]could[/i] do,” Vice sighed as she offered him a warm smile that made his fear fade away. “Hugo couldn’t do anything either. Both of you were busy and exhausted, and I didn’t want to bother you.” “I’d rather I be bothered,” Gleeson began, “than have my best friend suffer alone.” For some time, she was silent, chewing on her lip. She began to giggle after a while and threw her arms around him, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek that sent his flame for her roaring. It was a wonder it hadn’t gone out. “I missed you.” Gleeson returned it, grinning from ear to ear. He hoisted her up into the air and spun her around, revelling in her shrieks of surprise. Hugo would no doubt want to see her, but for now, it was just them. He wanted to make the most of it. [right][size=1][i]Made by Ozie in "[URL=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/art/2371542]Ozie's Lore Shop![/URL]"[/i][/size][/right][/quote]

@Ozie this is so beautiful! I really love the character dynamic, like how Hugo is such a fatherly dragon and how Gleeson expresses emotion. Your writing flows so well and you have such wonderful attention to detail! Thank you so much, I can't wait to see what you do with Vice :)