Creative Corner

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It’s difficult sometimes. Difficult not to hiss and snap at any dragon who ventures to close or speaks too loudly. Seivere normally hides it well, but today is not that kind of day. It’s been a bad week. News was received three days ago that negotiations between Blackmistral, the allied Talonok clan and a newer Wind clan went sour, and tensions are running high while Cocoa tries to ascertain the position the clan will take. Seivere likes some of the Talonok. Turning on them to support their flight leaves a bad taste in his mouth. To make matter worse, Saze is laid up with a broken hindleg after a bad training round last week and has been climbing the walls and growling at everyone while Shadow has her benched until she’s healed. With one of their top combatants grounded, the situation has been in limbo while the clan waits it out and hopes to need not get involved.

The horrible uncertainty drags his mind back to when he still ran solo, when he was a vagabond of a mercenary swearing fealty to no deity but the ones made of gold and blood. When each day was a roulette of mortal danger or crushing boredom, ignoring the screams of trafficked dragons and passing by carts of smuggled dragon eggs without a blink of an eye. When the best bit of gold was made by hiring oneself out to the highest bidder, generally being the more desperate side to a Dominance battle. He remembers staring apathetically at a field of dragons streaked bloody and red, the sunlight choked or shining bright depending on which deity had the most influence at the time; the times when he and his like-minded fellows would gather around the nearest tavern sporting their clawed flanks and shattered bones and drink and growl and bellow until up is down and the world blurs-

A paw suddenly appears in his field of view and Seivere is halfway through rearing away and flaring his wings menacingly, face twisted in a snarl, before he recognizes the pale green goggles peering up at him under a feathered hat. “Seivere.” Shadow sounds calm and relaxed, wings partially folded, even as he notes the tension in her hindquarters, ready to leap aside at the slightest hint of him striking. “Are you alright? You’ve been…staring off for a while.” Seivere lowers and tucks his wings back with a sigh. He shakes his head minutely; Shadow, with her antennae, wouldn’t be fooled by his lies anyways.

He ducks his head slightly to show his embarrassment. His gaze wanders to her binder, with the blue case bulging with paperwork and clasp appearing just about to burst. It looks like all manner of important missives and sensitive infographics are about to fly off, but Seivere knows from experience just how powerful the binding and reinforcing runes tooled into the leather strap by Rakhi are. It distracts him long enough that he misses her next words. “--What?” he says, feeling foolish.

“I said,” Shadow repeats with a hint of concern, “that there’ll be a shipment of supplies that Aonani ordered arriving in a few hours. Can you run escort for her incase there’s more than she expected, or something is heavier than she can handle?” Her lips curl cautiously into a smile and she adds, “Sweetfin Bakery, the one you like, is open. If you both go early, you can swing by and grab a snack.”

Seivere recognizes the distraction for what it is but appreciates the offer. Perhaps the fresh air will be good; he has been cooped up for a while. A trip sounds nice, and Aonani is just cut and dry enough that talking with her isn’t draining. He turns and jumps away, already flapping towards the higher alcove where the pearlcatcher’s workshop is tucked away.

---

Flying is getting more and more difficult. It starts with aches in the morning, and only grows harsher as days go by. Within three weeks, Seivere is ordered by Starburst to cease carrying around his armor, just to give his straining wings a rest. It helps, just a little; Seivere’s old enough to know by now that there’s not really much to be done.

His hide still prickles when he leaves the metal plates behind. It feels odd, not having their reassuring weight shielding his flanks, but climbing to the higher peaks becomes easier. He wonders why his heart still feels like stone as he watches the newly fledged hatchlings crow to the sky and whiz by his perch.

Three days of watching later, Seivere travels away. It’s been a long time since the clan left the peaceful slopes of the Zephyr Steppes, but he still knows the way back. He’s always known the way back. It’s a skill honed from those painful days before, and it has yet to fail him now. He wonders when it will. His wings already have.

Said wings are still faithful enough to carry him most of the way, though he still has to pause for a few hours when the ache becomes to terrible for him to bear. A merchant skyship passes far, far overhead, flanked by escorts, and he feels a faint pang in his heart.

Shadow would have given him tickets to take one, he thinks offhandedly. Starburst, had she known he was going to take this journey on his own, would have done the same after trying to kill him for even thinking of flying the distance on his own. It rankles, just a little. He had once been a fearsome mercenary, proud and beholden to no one, but, even so, he doesn’t think he’d trade the security that the Breezen Clan have given him for all the world. Being feared is lonely, and knowing there will always be a warm meal, a bed, and someone friendly to chat with is a great reminder whenever he grows a little melancholy for his rouge days.

He’s forcibly reminded of that when he takes out a strip of cold, salted meat for the night and gnaws on it heartlessly, wishing faintly for the warm, flavorful broth that Oakheart would cook every night. He wonders if she’s started adding spring onions yet. He knows the time for harvest is soon, but he can’t remember if it has come yet no matter how much he racks his brain.

Another thing to fail him, it seems.

Making it back to the Steppes is only a single wingbeat on the journey, though, and by the time he arrives, night has already fallen for the second time. He finds an inn nearby that will accept him. It’s not nearly as good as Meyer’s, even though the service is no different. He glances over the unfamiliar menu for a minute before tossing it aside and going to bed. His wings ache, and he should rest.

The next day finds him looking over where the Breezen Clan used to make its home. He pokes through the half-decayed remains of the entryway, and carefully looks through some of the more intact structures. There’s nothing interesting, but he’s not surprised. Scavengers would have picked off what had not been taken away long ago.

It’s clear that there’s nothing for him here, so he moves on towards his true destination. He’ll have to pass through the slides first though. The slides are a massive, noncontinuous slope that stretches for leagues across the Steppes. They’re made of a strange, slick crystal that Arcane made during a fierce territory battle in a flanking attempt. Fire hadn’t taken lightly to its ports being invaded and moved to Wind’s assistance, but the resulting clear coating of crystal has been smoothed out over centuries to provide both a fun attraction for the rich and a great place for the very young to frolic while their parents chatter elsewhere.

Legion watches the fledglings with something tight in his chest. It doesn’t hurt, precisely, but he doesn’t like it. He moves on.

The destination he finally arrives at is a familiar one. It’s a long, ridged area, with a high mound that stretched into the sky and a series of tiers downward. Each tier is a steep drop down from one another, and occasionally there are Arcane crystals, too big to be removed by scavengers and not important enough to be stripped away by the Exalted, poking like massive daggers out of the rock.

Seivere, tall and old as he is, jumps up the steps that would give even a fully grown fae a few wing flaps to scale and perches high one top of the ridge. He spreads his wings as wide as they can go, and his lips curl bitterly at the ache of holding them open.

The wind, fast and fierce this high on the ridge, catches on his unfolded wings and buffers them, easing the ache just a little. Seivere takes a deep breath and jumps up a little. Instantly, the wind grabs him and tries to pull him into the sky, but Seivere, experienced as he is, only slows his fall back onto the ridge before trying again, a little higher this time.

It’s a soothing process. He’d seen it once, long ago, with hundreds of hatchlings lined up on the ridge a wingspan away from each other, crowing in joy at their first Jumping. When Jumping, they would spread their little wings with the intent to fly for the first time and do their best to land back where they jumped. In practice, most hatchlings tumbled forward or backwards or lost control and shot high into the air, where a waiting parent would catch them and set them right again. They would do it again and again for weeks, until they could control the wind under their wings and direct it to help them land safely where they wanted to.

They no longer Jump on the ridge. The Arcane crystals, rising high and sharp, are dangerous to the little ones, and the ceremony has moved elsewhere. Seivere is alone in his efforts, besides the chirping birds who watch the strange dragon and tweet furiously at him.

----

Half a day later, Pinesoul is the one to find him. She watches for nearly a minute before impatience overcomes her and she floats down to him, weaving around his clumsy gliding and tapping his left wing. “You’re moving this one all wrong. Move it a little farther forward when you’re descending,” she says, looking over him with concern. “There’s, uh, a rip through the membrane, so you can’t expect both wings to have the same drag.”

Seivere pauses and looks over at the scar, and after a moment of struggle, a memory of that same wing cloaked in blood and radiating pain comes to mind. He sighs and pushes it away before turning to Pinesoul, who watches him a respectable distance away. She had been shuffling on her feet, clearly dying to say something, but waited until he looked at her to speak.

“You can’t just disappear like that!” she spits out, before continuing passionately, “Do you have any idea how badly Starburst was freaking out? I think Legion was going to rip apart the dock master when he said that there weren’t any records of you passing through. Saze looked about ready to go C’thulu-ify somebody if there wasn’t any news soon. You’re in the Shadowbinder’s favor that one of the dragons in the port saw you pass by.

Seivere watches her for a moment, before folding his wings in when he sees that she isn’t stopping anytime soon. He can’t quite conceal the wince when his overused appendages complain about the excessive use, and Pinesoul, despite being so many years younger, picks up on his expression with the accuracy of a Shatterbone Vulture spotting a wounded Phytocat. She blanches and switches off her tangent to cry, “How long have you been jumping here? You know your wings are damaged! Starburst banned you from wearing armor because your wings can’t handle the strain!”

She jumps forward, grabbing a wing with strong yet gentle paws and stretches it out gently, pulling a small flask from one of her satchels and uncorking it swiftly. She feels the wing out and spreads ointment onto the sore spots, muttering under her breath while she does. She mimics her actions on the other wing, and then steps back.

Seivere, who had tensed up the moment she had stepped within claw range, gently tucks his wings in and thanks her even as he subtly sidles away. He’s grateful for the ointment, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how easily tactile some Wind dragons are. He knows she sees it, but she chooses not to comment, instead saying, “Cocoa’s given me some treasure for transport back. Give me a minute to send off a scroll saying you’re still alive and not lying in a ditch somewhere slowly incorporating into an emperor, and we can head to the nearest port. It’s not too far from here, I think.”

From another compartment within her satchels she withdraws a scrap of paper; she scrawls a few symbols on it whip quick and throws it into the air, with the sigils inlaid within the paper activating automatically and whisking away the message to its target. “There,” she says, turning back towards him.

Seivere sighs and turns towards the northeast. “We should head this way; the port's about half a day away.” He springs into the air and takes guilty delight in the indignant squawk that Pinesoul lets out as she’s nearly blown off the ridge.

She’s younger and a born Windy, however, and she quickly catches up and soon overtakes him. He pretends not to notice when she glances over every few minutes, checking his wings, making sure he’s not flagging from fatigue. Long ago, he would have snarled and beaten her out of the sky for acting like he’s weak. Now, he can’t feel anything but grateful, even as he’s careful not to show just how sore his wings are, even after the medicine had been applied.

They reach the port right as night falls. There’s a skyship leaving for larger port overnight; Pinesoul and Seivere agree to take it and then try and catch another one back to the port closest to home. It’s easier to catch a skyship between larger and smaller ports than it is between smaller ports. Overnight they ride in the cabin, bracketed by crates, and by morning the pair awakens to a scroll repeatedly bashing itself onto Seivere in a manor that makes him suspect that the spellcaster has something of a bone to pick with him.

His fear turns out to be justified when he unrolls the unruly scroll and the first thing he sees is the harsh strokes of Shadow’s You Have Done WRONG calligraphy, and he scans quickly through the increasingly passive aggressive words to glean that Starburst is planning to skin him alive when he returns, and that they are saving a bowl of spring onion soup for him when he gets back. It makes something in him warm and he smiles without thinking, soft and happy.

Pinesoul, of course, smirks knowingly and lurches to her feet, loudly proclaiming that she’s starving and that when Seivere is done feeling like an old dragon he is welcome to join her. He watches her go, and thinks, I would have killed her for that. When I could fly without limit, when my strength was unmatched by any on the battle field—or when I had the wit and speed to evade those who could—he would have roared in outrage and proven his strength in a single bloody blow.

But. But he can’t. And he won’t. Not anymore. He’s wiser now, he thinks. Seivere lets go of the scroll which shreds itself after delivery and joins Pinesoul out on the deck of the skyship, munching on Cliff Lions and looking down on the bustling shipyard below.

They’ll need to find a skyship or seaship that will bring them back to their home port. Starburst will yell at him, Cocoa will shadow him for a few days in an inconspicuous manor, and Oakheart will cook her spring onion stews. Seivere and Pinesoul have the whole day ahead of them, and he looks forward breathing fresh air after spending so long in the belly of the skyship.

Before they hop off, Seivere takes one more look at the ship. He feels like he left something behind in there, something that he’s had for a long time. He can’t say he misses it. There are better days ahead of him, and he turns to follow Pinesoul who’s already jumped off. She crows back that an old dragon like him should have stayed and napped instead of taking such an exhausting maneuver such as hopping off a skyship, if it took him such a long time to jump. I’m an old dragon, Seivere thinks. That’s fine.



A/N: Kicking things off with a pair of older drabbles, when I was fleshing out Seivere's personality and backstory. The first one is definitely a little rough, and then second one I get the feeling didn't come off as good as it could have, but hey. Practice.