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Mica had never liked the dirt and dust – it was an unfortunate side effect of wandering across Sornieth, however, so he tolerated it… usually. He drifted from place to place, never staying anywhere too long… usually. He cared very little for most things – the exception being his few but prized possessions. Attachments to anything he couldn’t carry on his own back were not conducive to his way of life, and when he started to get too comfortable somewhere, well that’s when he knew it was time to move on… usually.

Unusually, he had found himself living amongst a medium-sized clan in Dragonhome, one of the places he loved the least on Sornieth. Oh, how he longed for the days spent in the clean libraries of The Starfall Isles, or the sprawling heights of the Windswept Plateau. He even missed the Tangled Wood compared to the constant feeling of dirt and mud clinging to his scales. At least deep in the Shadowbinder’s realm, he could perch amongst the trees and keep away from the muck of the forest floor. Though he did suppose he preferred this place where dirt was celebrated to the smoke and ash of the Flamecaller’s domain.

The inhabitants of Dragonhome had welcomed him heartily – more so than any other region. His skills with music and healing had been revered by the dragons there, being more used to the strengths of stone and muscle than magic. And music was a sort of magic, Mica was certain of it. For how else could his lyre enchant his audiences the way it did? How else could one explain the way it transcended breed and language, speaking directly to the hearts of dragon and beastclan alike?

His other skills weren’t nearly so glamorous, nor had he learned them intentionally; but they were quite useful all the same. He had roamed Sornieth throughout the ages, never staying in one place for too long, but instead just long enough to learn what needed to be learned. Surviving the deities’ various realms was no small feat, and his abilities had earned him more than his fair share of curious fans and followers over the years. He would weave the tales of his adventures, his tiny lyre sounding complementary notes alongside his voice. While he wasn’t particularly fond of other dragons, his performances brought him joy, and, well, one couldn’t exactly perform without an audience, could he?

Yet another side effect of Mica’s lifestyle was the odd requests – he must’ve had the aura of a likeable fellow, or maybe it was just that his small stature wasn’t intimidating. Whatever the reason, dragons were not shy about approaching him for help, either with healing or to utilize some of his… less legal skills. His tales often had him boasting of his smuggling successes, both of dragons and some rare objects, or his prowess at being undetectable when he chose, and of course, simply being able to travel anywhere without special or time-consuming preparations. Sometimes, even the beastclans would come from their homes in search of him – the mysterious Fae who would heal just about anyone if you brought him a pretty bauble or uniquely patterned cloth. He couldn’t complain about his reputation; it kept him well dressed and able to requisition repairs on his lyre. One day, Mica would surely leave the Colonnades… probably.