Creative Corner

[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/kk5kaag52acu28a/windtop.png[/img][/center] [center][size=7][font=Cambria]To Serve[/font][/size][/center] The servants of the deities did not emerge from the aether. They are created by the gods themselves, born of elemental magic, irrevocably tied to their makers. But magic is not loyal, nor inclined to serve. Magic is not enough. No one knows where dragons go after they die. But a rare few are chosen, for the traits they showed in life, to carry on, and serve eternal. These souls are imbued with divine magic, and something new is born. All who serve have a story to tell. [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/k1b4ynhewlhqjdz/windmidsmall.png[/img][/center] [b]Of the Flamecaller[/b] [emoji=fire rune size=1] [LIST] [*][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2882763#post_44066392]Thorin[/url], blazing goblin [/LIST] [b]Of the Plaguebringer[/b] [emoji=plague rune size=1] [LIST] [*][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2882763#post_44055806]Splinter[/url], spirit of plague [*][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2882763#post_44055837]Vengeance[/url], enduring goblin [/LIST] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/x70o1tgtwji443a/windbottom.png[/img][/center]

[reserved]

[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center] [center][font=Cambria][size=7]Splinter[/size][/font][/center] In her first life, Splinter was a plagueborn mirror, a battlefield medic during the height of the Scarred Wasteland’s conflict with the Viridian Labyrinth. It was a time when medicine had not yet progressed especially far, largely limited to sprinting fractures and stopping bleeding. She lived an unremarkable life of quiet diligence, and died on the battlefield, attacked while trying to treat one of plague’s warriors. She did not expect to wake again, yet she found herself opening her eyes once more. The battle raged on around her, but she watched as though through a veil, muffled and blurry. “I’m not done yet,” she said, quietly, and was somehow unsurprised when someone responded. “There is nothing more to be done here.” The presence at Splinter’s side shifted, and she found her gaze drawn to the tundra she had died tending to. Her breaths rasped, the light in her eyes fading. “This battle is lost.” “Not until the last dragon falls.” Out of the corner of her eyes, Splinter saw divinity, horrifying, soothing. “Where do I go next?” “Nowhere,” said the Plaguebringer disdainfully. “Oblivion awaits. Unless…” Splinter made to hold her breath, and realised she had none to cling to. “Serve me.” The goddess’ voice was gentle, even as her breath stank of rot. “Just as you have done before.” On the battlefield before them, nature’s forces pressed forward, nudging the line. Verdant roots began to creep over Splinter’s body, and that of the still-breathing tundra. “Yes,” she said. [center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/static/cms/familiar/art/24540.png[/img][/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/pcdper929atye3v/plaguebottom.png[/img][/center]

[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center] [center][font=Cambria][size=7]Vengeance[/size][/font][/center] Amrit was born deep in the Shrieking Wilds, back when the trees were young (though never small – the Gladekeeper saw to that). The war with the Scarred Wasteland was in full swing, and the wildclaw clans were the Gladekeeper’s most fervent warriors. For her first excursion to the home of the enemy, Amrit was just barely an adult, eager to see the vile land she was raised to destroy. But as they patrolled, she saw instead endless potential, a haven of scavengers and survivors. On the eve of her third trip to the Scarred Wasteland, she said farewell to the Viridian Labyrinth, and never looked back. Amrit was branded traitor, and welcomed into the Plaguebringer’s forces. She fought always with a feverish ferocity, never regretting her choices, even contributing to the growth of a new clan of wildclaws, right there in the Wandering Contagion. She died as she lived: on the battlefield, facing dragons she once called clan. It took time, the bleeding out; she resented it as the fight raged on above her, unable to lift a claw. And then – Green. “Stand, traitor.” Amrit complied, meeting the Gladekeeper’s gaze evenly, even as she had to crane her neck up. The goddess was impassive, waiting only for Amrit to find her feet before she turned and began to walk across the battlefield. Amrit followed silently, unnerved by the hazy quality of the warring dragons around them, the way she could not feel her heart beat in her chest. The Gladekeeper crested a ridge, and abruptly there was the Plaguebringer, resplendent and rotten. Amrit scarcely noticed the plagueborn tundra knelt at her feet, gazing in awe at the deity she had fought for. “This one died on my side of the line,” the Gladekeeper said crisply. “Fair?” “Inimitably.” The Plaguebringer nudged the tundra, and he scampered over to the Gladekeeper, her claws tugging him protectively beneath her bulk. Amrit was more comported, walking the distance to her goddess calmly and slowly. “Let’s not do this again,” the Gladekeeper said icily, turning her back on them with finality. “Sister,” said the Plaguebringer, and then she turned to Amrit, fanged grin widening. “Traitor.” “Mother of Ills,” Amrit returned, respectful but uncowed. “I have an offer for you.” Amrit blinked, and suddenly the deity was behind her, circling the wildclaw like a predator. “Should you choose to decline, I’ll send you on your way unharmed.” “On my way where?” “Good question.” Her chuckle came from everywhere and nowhere, suitably menacing, but at last she came to Amrit’s side, looking out over the battlefield with her, head turned to meet Amrit’s gaze. “My offer is simple, traitor: serve me.” Amrit looked into her goddess’ eyes, and saw the promise of an eternity of war and disease, endless bloodshed. “I will,” she said. “Good.” The battlefield began to fade away around them, the Plaguebringer melting into the shadows as darkness closed in on Amrit. “One last thing, little one: that natureborn name won’t do. I think I’ll call you my [i]vengeance[/i].” [center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/static/cms/familiar/art/20177.png[/img][/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/pcdper929atye3v/plaguebottom.png[/img][/center]

[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/1dgwdc3wz15yjps/firetop.png[/img][/center] [center][font=Cambria][size=7]Thorin[/size][/font][/center] Thorin lived and died serving. The war raged on, and Thorin played his part. He was not a warrior, but a secretary of sorts, keeping supply lines flowing smoothly to the front, coordinating messages between various generals so that they could fight united. As the gaolers of the Southern Icefield began gathering their defence, he helped to prepare for the final assault. As the snowstorm grew on the horizon, he sent messengers racing to the nurseries, and knew in his heart it would be futile: nothing would survive this. Somewhere in the distance, a voice rose in song. It was a declaration of loyalty to the Flamecaller, and Thorin joined in the chorus, closing his eyes as death approached. He wasn’t sure how long had passed before he opened his eyes. The world before him was dim and white, and it took some time to identify snow packed in around him. His limbs felt heavy and distant, almost separate from himself, but he pushed against the cold, aiming for the light above – at least he thought it was above; he wasn’t sure which way was up. The climb felt endless, but at last he reached the surface, dragging himself above the piled snow. His first gasp of air was not the relief he expected; it felt stale and chilled in his lungs, and he gave it up as a bad job. Stumbling to his feet proved impossible. He spread his wings, eerily still in the frigid cold, and looked. The world above the snow looked much the same as below it. White blanketed everything, blew on the fading wind, obscured the sky. He was not alone; others had struggled to the surface, but they were few, so few. The legions that had stood before the blizzard hit were no more. A mournful cry pierced the silence, and Thorin struggled to turn his head, squinting through the haze that seemed to have covered his vision. A shadow loomed, coal-dark but almost blazing in places. It moved as he watched, another low, heartbroken wail echoing over the snow. Somewhere, he found the strength to stand, moving slowly through the gloom to the source of the grief. The others who had emerged did the same, and he spared barely a thought for how no footprints followed them, no trails left by their dragging wings. [i]Fire-mother,[/i] he thought, [i]why do you cry?[/i] The shadow moved again, and suddenly she was there, colour and [i]warmth[/i] in a world lacking. She drew Thorin closer, let him collapse at her feet, brought the others to her. “Oh, my darling ones,” she whispered, and Thorin closed his eyes, exhaustion catching up to him. “Our flame has gone, hasn’t it,” said another banescale. Thorin thought he might have known her, though he was too tired to think. A growl rumbled in the Flamecaller’s chest, mournful and protective. “It has,” she said. “You are faced with a choice now. You may move on with your kin, or you may stay and serve me. Know that whatever you choose…” Thorin forced his eyes open. She was looking down on them all, something indescribable in her gaze. “Your songs will not die.” He thought of the music that had filled the sky in his last moments, and knew his answer. [center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/static/cms/familiar/art/19323.png[/img][/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/mf5adycppkhgcpr/firebottom.png[/img][/center]