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[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ohuopl6m6idq40o/shadowfull.png[/img][font=Georgia][size=3]
Hello! This thread will serve as a repository for all of my Flight Rising-related writing. [b]I ask that you do not make any posts in this thread; if you're interested in my writing, feel free to DM me to ask about commissions* or make a request in my [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3059546]free lore thread[/url].[/b]
This post (and this entire thread) will receive some visual updates as time goes on, but I'm just getting the basics down for now. Thank you for stopping by![/center]
[LIST]
[*][font=Georgia]I will be opening this thread up for posting/feedback once thirty posts are reserved. Once I fill up all of the reserved posts, I will archive older entries in a separate thread.[/font]
[*][font=Georgia]I'll probably update these periodically to fix typos and other errors.[/font]
[/LIST]
[center][size=3][font=Georgia]I do not have a formal commission thread, but I will take commissions on a case-by-case basis depending upon how much free time I have. Do inquire! Visual assets used created by [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/2177898]osiem[/url].[/font][/size][/font]
[/center]
Hello! This thread will serve as a repository for all of my Flight Rising-related writing. I ask that you do not make any posts in this thread; if you're interested in my writing, feel free to DM me to ask about commissions* or make a request in my free lore thread.
This post (and this entire thread) will receive some visual updates as time goes on, but I'm just getting the basics down for now. Thank you for stopping by!
- I will be opening this thread up for posting/feedback once thirty posts are reserved. Once I fill up all of the reserved posts, I will archive older entries in a separate thread.
- I'll probably update these periodically to fix typos and other errors.
I do not have a formal commission thread, but I will take commissions on a case-by-case basis depending upon how much free time I have. Do inquire! Visual assets used created by osiem.
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[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ohuopl6m6idq40o/shadowfull.png[/img][font=Georgia][size=3]
Reserved for [b]post directory[/b]![/font]
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Reserved for post directory!
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ohuopl6m6idq40o/shadowfull.png[/img][/center]-----[font=georgia][size=4][b]The Keepers[/b][/size]
The Keepers of the Black Box are the celebrated archivists and antiquarians of the Shadowbinder's domain. They observe the Tangled Wood from their towers on the outskirts of the shadowy forest. The black obelisks jut up out of huge square shafts in the earth, their stone surfaces chiseled and marked with rich violet runes. Gears turn in the guts of these fell machines, all organs to flesh of stone and steel.
[size=4][b]The Vault[/b][/size]
The Vault - the black box itself - is a massive obsidian structure, twenty-five meters across in all directions and almost perfectly cubical. It is pitched and rolled at about forty-five degrees, and sits halfway submerged in a lake of magma. Adjunct guardians from the Deep Hearth are issued clearance by the Keepers of the Black Box to perform maintenance on the monolith. Whatever it contains is closed off to the public - the dragons that guard it would give their lives to protect its contents from outsiders.
[size=4][b]Soul Vessels[/b][/size]
The willing bearers of ancient magic and fading memories, all empowered and enlightened by the passing of powerful Keepers within the order. These dragons have proven themselves to be among the shrewdest and most steadfast under the Keepers' banner, and are imbued with power and knowledge befitting their individual skills and experiences. Some say that the faintest, furthest memories they safeguard were passed down by the Shadowbinder herself, but that is probably just an old legend. Maybe.
[size=4][b]Secret Keepers[/b][/size]
[To be added.][/font]
-----
[center][font=Georgia]This is a work in progress! It will be changed and updated as my clan grows and evolves.[/font][/center]
The Keepers
The Keepers of the Black Box are the celebrated archivists and antiquarians of the Shadowbinder's domain. They observe the Tangled Wood from their towers on the outskirts of the shadowy forest. The black obelisks jut up out of huge square shafts in the earth, their stone surfaces chiseled and marked with rich violet runes. Gears turn in the guts of these fell machines, all organs to flesh of stone and steel.
The Vault
The Vault - the black box itself - is a massive obsidian structure, twenty-five meters across in all directions and almost perfectly cubical. It is pitched and rolled at about forty-five degrees, and sits halfway submerged in a lake of magma. Adjunct guardians from the Deep Hearth are issued clearance by the Keepers of the Black Box to perform maintenance on the monolith. Whatever it contains is closed off to the public - the dragons that guard it would give their lives to protect its contents from outsiders.
Soul Vessels
The willing bearers of ancient magic and fading memories, all empowered and enlightened by the passing of powerful Keepers within the order. These dragons have proven themselves to be among the shrewdest and most steadfast under the Keepers' banner, and are imbued with power and knowledge befitting their individual skills and experiences. Some say that the faintest, furthest memories they safeguard were passed down by the Shadowbinder herself, but that is probably just an old legend. Maybe.
Secret Keepers
[To be added.]
This is a work in progress! It will be changed and updated as my clan grows and evolves.
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/86qbkt5wl1j2sqs/lightfull.png[/img][/center]
-----
[center]
[font=Georgia]The sun-parched lowlands of Elderen Glade stretch for countless miles along the sandy shoreline, bathing the rolling forest hills in swaths of warm honey-gold. Shallow stone hills overgrown with blankets of waxy crimson ivy peter off into combed dunes of powdery, beige-white sand. The road running alongside the beach is marked sparsely by old signs in an ancient tongue and wound through all the hills and trees above. At a fork in the road where one path continued north and the other turned west, the ruins of Yat-avel can be looked upon in the east.
By all accounts, the beachfront structure is quite unremarkable - unremarkable enough in its disrepair, at least, to have escaped the interest of scholars for many years. Several expeditions over the past half-decade have yielded naught but a paltry assortment of mismatched pottery for all the effort of the excavators - curious to the specialists and enthusiasts of the Lightweaver's devotees, no doubt, but otherwise more troublesome to sort than their worth. A research team assessed the artifacts under enchanted lenses, waved their claws, and dismissed them as the refuse of destroyed Beastclan offerings.
Seirina was not impressed with their findings. The fastidious imperial dragon held one fourth of the stakes in what was then the most recent research venture into the ruins, and she was paying closer attention to the evidence than her contemporaries. She spent her nights on the trip curled up in a cliffside cavern, writing and drawing and theorizing with eerie enthusiasm despite the doubt or disinterest of most of the other scholars. Her outrageous ideas about the purpose of the temple were spurned by the survey's other stakeholders to such a degree that they did everything they could to block her from studying it. In defiance of her detractors, Seirina continued disseminating her observations and ideas all throughout the camp in hopes that someone might eventually see things the same way she did.
In time, three dragons came to her. First was the Ridgeback Veneer, impetuous and vain, to bask in the drama of the contention between Seirina and her associates. Warrior followed closely behind her, a Spiral with unquenchable curiosity hindered only by a wandering mind, and for a long time it was only those three. After a few weeks, the third, the debaucherous Cabasi, joined the group, and for weeks after the four deliberated at the cliffside cave. In time, the group formed a plan to settle the debate of Seirina's theories once and for all.
When the last of the lamps were extinguished at midnight, Seirina and her sympathizers gathered beneath the crumbling pillars and blast-scorched bronze doors of the oceanside shrine. While Veneer, Warrior and Cabasi breached the ruins, the grand Imperial stood watch outside, her gold and white body half-buried in the powdery sand. An hour passed before she received word from her allies, but it did not come from them - it was delivered, instead, on the waves of earthquakes.
The three dragons emerged from the gate immediately afterward. As the lamps at the base camp on the hilltop flickered on one by one, they urged Seirina to flee with them back to the Sundial Terrace. They took to the skies with haste and disappeared beyond the glade long before the survey team realized they were gone.
The four arrived home far ahead of the dragons sent to follow them. News of their discovery spread fast through certain circles: a complex of tunnels and caverns that sprawled for kilometers in all directions had been found beneath the sand. They humbled themselves with impassioned pleas for support to various research commissioners, drawing their ears with stories about a mysterious underground stronghold, a dead city with neither body nor bone to its halls and an armored gate ten Imperials tall.
Things did not go over well with the more established organizations in the region. Representatives of the Antiquarian Society and Songblade Reliquary turned them away, each too embroiled in its own operations to afford diverting resources to an uncertainty. A dozen other middling groups turned them away for a dozen other reasons. Only after all other options seemed to be exhausted did the enigmatic Circle of the Vault call on them to meet.
By the time Seirina's associates finally caught up to the group to accuse her of sabotage, she had already won. The curiosity of several dragons embroiled in the Circle had been piqued, and their influence opened the way for the group to file a formal claim of discovery of the underground ruin.
Upon the quartet's return to the ruins and the commissioners' confirmation of their discovery, her former contemporaries were ousted from their positions by the cruel hand of ridicule and shunned by many of their former peers and colleagues. Seirina took pity on some and invited them to join her newly formed expedition team to mend their fractured reputations, but few accepted her offer. These new additions to her ragtag team became the beginning of the Goldenspire Company.
Over the next couple of years, the survey unearthed a trove of artifacts and information from the uppermost caverns of the complex, and Seirina returned to the Lightweaver's dominion to present their findings and humble herself in service to her deity. She left her leader's mantle to the three dragons whose faith in her ramblings created bonds of friendship unbreakable by neither death nor exaltation.
The Goldenspire Company has made leaps and bounds in their research. Under the de facto leadership of Cabasi, the company has invested extra time and resources into decrypting the dead language of the Echnamin who once roamed the complex in droves. The phonology of the language has been almost entirely reconstructed by the combined efforts of mind and magic, and, perhaps most importantly, the city has rediscovered its name: Yat-avel, the Underkingdom.
-----
[url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/56545609][font=Georgia]Location[/font][/url][/font][/center]
The sun-parched lowlands of Elderen Glade stretch for countless miles along the sandy shoreline, bathing the rolling forest hills in swaths of warm honey-gold. Shallow stone hills overgrown with blankets of waxy crimson ivy peter off into combed dunes of powdery, beige-white sand. The road running alongside the beach is marked sparsely by old signs in an ancient tongue and wound through all the hills and trees above. At a fork in the road where one path continued north and the other turned west, the ruins of Yat-avel can be looked upon in the east.
By all accounts, the beachfront structure is quite unremarkable - unremarkable enough in its disrepair, at least, to have escaped the interest of scholars for many years. Several expeditions over the past half-decade have yielded naught but a paltry assortment of mismatched pottery for all the effort of the excavators - curious to the specialists and enthusiasts of the Lightweaver's devotees, no doubt, but otherwise more troublesome to sort than their worth. A research team assessed the artifacts under enchanted lenses, waved their claws, and dismissed them as the refuse of destroyed Beastclan offerings.
Seirina was not impressed with their findings. The fastidious imperial dragon held one fourth of the stakes in what was then the most recent research venture into the ruins, and she was paying closer attention to the evidence than her contemporaries. She spent her nights on the trip curled up in a cliffside cavern, writing and drawing and theorizing with eerie enthusiasm despite the doubt or disinterest of most of the other scholars. Her outrageous ideas about the purpose of the temple were spurned by the survey's other stakeholders to such a degree that they did everything they could to block her from studying it. In defiance of her detractors, Seirina continued disseminating her observations and ideas all throughout the camp in hopes that someone might eventually see things the same way she did.
In time, three dragons came to her. First was the Ridgeback Veneer, impetuous and vain, to bask in the drama of the contention between Seirina and her associates. Warrior followed closely behind her, a Spiral with unquenchable curiosity hindered only by a wandering mind, and for a long time it was only those three. After a few weeks, the third, the debaucherous Cabasi, joined the group, and for weeks after the four deliberated at the cliffside cave. In time, the group formed a plan to settle the debate of Seirina's theories once and for all.
When the last of the lamps were extinguished at midnight, Seirina and her sympathizers gathered beneath the crumbling pillars and blast-scorched bronze doors of the oceanside shrine. While Veneer, Warrior and Cabasi breached the ruins, the grand Imperial stood watch outside, her gold and white body half-buried in the powdery sand. An hour passed before she received word from her allies, but it did not come from them - it was delivered, instead, on the waves of earthquakes.
The three dragons emerged from the gate immediately afterward. As the lamps at the base camp on the hilltop flickered on one by one, they urged Seirina to flee with them back to the Sundial Terrace. They took to the skies with haste and disappeared beyond the glade long before the survey team realized they were gone.
The four arrived home far ahead of the dragons sent to follow them. News of their discovery spread fast through certain circles: a complex of tunnels and caverns that sprawled for kilometers in all directions had been found beneath the sand. They humbled themselves with impassioned pleas for support to various research commissioners, drawing their ears with stories about a mysterious underground stronghold, a dead city with neither body nor bone to its halls and an armored gate ten Imperials tall.
Things did not go over well with the more established organizations in the region. Representatives of the Antiquarian Society and Songblade Reliquary turned them away, each too embroiled in its own operations to afford diverting resources to an uncertainty. A dozen other middling groups turned them away for a dozen other reasons. Only after all other options seemed to be exhausted did the enigmatic Circle of the Vault call on them to meet.
By the time Seirina's associates finally caught up to the group to accuse her of sabotage, she had already won. The curiosity of several dragons embroiled in the Circle had been piqued, and their influence opened the way for the group to file a formal claim of discovery of the underground ruin.
Upon the quartet's return to the ruins and the commissioners' confirmation of their discovery, her former contemporaries were ousted from their positions by the cruel hand of ridicule and shunned by many of their former peers and colleagues. Seirina took pity on some and invited them to join her newly formed expedition team to mend their fractured reputations, but few accepted her offer. These new additions to her ragtag team became the beginning of the Goldenspire Company.
Over the next couple of years, the survey unearthed a trove of artifacts and information from the uppermost caverns of the complex, and Seirina returned to the Lightweaver's dominion to present their findings and humble herself in service to her deity. She left her leader's mantle to the three dragons whose faith in her ramblings created bonds of friendship unbreakable by neither death nor exaltation.
The Goldenspire Company has made leaps and bounds in their research. Under the de facto leadership of Cabasi, the company has invested extra time and resources into decrypting the dead language of the Echnamin who once roamed the complex in droves. The phonology of the language has been almost entirely reconstructed by the combined efforts of mind and magic, and, perhaps most importantly, the city has rediscovered its name: Yat-avel, the Underkingdom.
Location
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/86qbkt5wl1j2sqs/lightfull.png[/img]-----
[font=Georgia]With a scrutinous eye and a shrewd tongue, Commissar Cabasi presides over the research expedition at Yat-avel. He is a lively but meticulous linguist with an intense love for his work that is eclipsed only by his legendary hedonism.
Though the whole of his cliffside dwelling is draped in swaths of perfume-soaked silks and downy pillows, Cabasi shirks away from keeping impractical clothing and sentimental items when he can; the items for which he makes exceptions to this rule are sparse, but all incredibly important to him.
From his plush throne in the outcropping over the mountain cove, Cabasi pores fervently through the scores of scrolls and field reports sent to him every week by his research team. He often starves himself of sleep in favor of working when fresh mysteries come up in their research, but rewards himself in his own way by dozing and eating in his pillow palace for hours on end.
Cabasi is devoted to his companions and colleagues to such an extent that many have overlooked his abrupt departures from meetings in favor of swimming or retreating to his chambers to languish on the cushioned floor.
[b]10/1/2021[/b] - Number one Light flight turncoat NA. He walks with the shadows now - maybe it should have always been this way.-----[/font][font=Georgia][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/51519478]Location[/url][/font][/center]
With a scrutinous eye and a shrewd tongue, Commissar Cabasi presides over the research expedition at Yat-avel. He is a lively but meticulous linguist with an intense love for his work that is eclipsed only by his legendary hedonism.
Though the whole of his cliffside dwelling is draped in swaths of perfume-soaked silks and downy pillows, Cabasi shirks away from keeping impractical clothing and sentimental items when he can; the items for which he makes exceptions to this rule are sparse, but all incredibly important to him.
From his plush throne in the outcropping over the mountain cove, Cabasi pores fervently through the scores of scrolls and field reports sent to him every week by his research team. He often starves himself of sleep in favor of working when fresh mysteries come up in their research, but rewards himself in his own way by dozing and eating in his pillow palace for hours on end.
Cabasi is devoted to his companions and colleagues to such an extent that many have overlooked his abrupt departures from meetings in favor of swimming or retreating to his chambers to languish on the cushioned floor.
10/1/2021 - Number one Light flight turncoat NA. He walks with the shadows now - maybe it should have always been this way.
Location
[center]
[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/imkbo2kyh44uyge/nature%20full.png[/img]-----[font=Georgia]
Don’t listen to the jealous courtiers. The prophet never asked for favor; she has only ever done what has needed to be done, and in turn has been rewarded.
All Felara remembers of her youth is the calm of the forest. She remembers the cool, damp air on still mornings, the songs of birds, and the steady echoes of bamboo stalks rattling in the breeze. More than anything, she remembers the owl, how they came to her at her most vulnerable and defied their nature to guide her with kindness and love. The owl guarded her as she slept, taught her to fly, and showed her the way of the wood - as she grew, she learned to hunt by the light of the moon and move silently through the trees. By the time Felara had become an adolescent, she had come to understand and master everything essential to her survival in the wilds, thanks largely in part to the mercy of her avian guardian.
Problems started happening for Felara when she began to meet other dragons.
Her foresight had always been there, but when she was little it never felt like something outside the norm. She never seemed to misplace her pearl, but that diligence never struck her as strange. Some nights, she would dream of coming storms, and others, unsettling thoughts of roving hunters would drive her deeper into the forest. She never had a need to understand the nature of her gift when all she knew was the forest and the owl.
As she grew, she started learning from and trading with the dragons that passed through the forest. Certainties manifested in fear and dread: from nobody in particular, she learned of deaths, of failures, of betrayals. Muddled flashes of the future invasively punctuated her day-to-day life, distressing her and wracking her with paranoia. Distraught by the mounting predictions, the young dragon drove a wedge between herself and the cherished few she had worked to befriend.
The power of premonition is frightening when misunderstood, and it can be just as dangerous when mishandled. For years, the aimless oracle mishandled her gift with wild abandon. There were times when epiphanies instilled fear in her over inspiration, and times when she fought fruitlessly to shut out unpleasant thoughts. Her knowledge crushed her in the wake of all she had to bear.
In spite of everything, Felara was able to accept the things that haunted her. Years passed, and one by one, her hunches began to manifest: the victors won, the doomed perished, and the fate-bound fell in love. Plague ripped along the forest's edge, scarring the earth with fleshy blight. Felara accepted the fulfillment of every inevitability with ease.
A sense of peace followed her contentment, and the forest grew quiet again. The silence afforded her an opportunity to confront her trauma; she spent months alone with her thoughts, her only company the owl that had taught her so much. She remembered with perfect clarity, every kindness she had been afforded and every hardship she had endured. Eventually, her thoughts stilled, and for the first time she could see her path forward.
Night after night, the blackened corridors of a drowned kingdom haunted Felara's dreams. Each time she visited it, she swam with uncertainty through the submerged city, her spirit drawn toward an unpleasant force that lay unseen at its heart. Each night, before she woke, she entered the spire at the center of the sunken palace and confronted the magnetizing force: a pot in the center of a throne room, out of which withering vines slithered and thrashed toward a massive, cowering dragon.
The dragon's face stuck in her mind every moment she was awake. Over time, the vines grew, and questions about the city in the sea occupied her waking thoughts more and more. One night, the pot shattered and the vines blanketed the walls. The next, she dreamt of nothing at all.
Felara bid the owl farewell with a sorrowful sort of urgency and left the only place she had ever known. She followed the plague scar south, soaring over peaks and dipping into narrow ravines, her unflown path not entirely unfamiliar. The days blurred together, with each proving to be less remarkable than the last as the terrain melted into an endless sea of green before her. After a week of travel, just as the graveness of her dream was starting to slip away from her, she found the city.
In the light of the morning, Felara could see it perfectly: every neighborhood, every greenway, every spire. She could see the crisp line of the ocean tide lapping along the outer walls of the great palace, and she could see the shell-topped roofs of a thousand underwater buildings glimmer through the clear blue water. Splayed out in the palace gardens lay the dragon from her dreams, swathed in red silk and flanked by attendants on all sides.
Kasho, as she learned he was called, was the first dragon to surprise her. Fortune had given him excess upon excess, but that excess never eroded his empathy for others. He had all the power and favor a person could ever ask for, yet applied it so cautiously and thoughtfully that he seemed more a guardian to Felara than a king.
It did not take long for the oracle to endear herself to Kasho. Beyond her curious, poetic predictions, Felara possessed care for him beyond his station that allowed him to feel comfortable opening up to her. They became fast friends, and as the pearlcatcher became entrenched in the goings-on of the Yearning Waters, she grew into his most trusted advisor. In her dreams, the city lifted from the depths, and the vines in the throne room withered to nothing.
Just as Felara had known the fate of her friends in the forest, she knew the way of the city. At the very least, she knew the blue bloods would gossip about her, and she knew the lies that they would spite her with, because she knew how deeply the roots of insecurity bore into them. She understood their intentions before they ever spoke a word of her, and she already forgave them. After all, her entire life up until that point had been a game of discerning intent: every decision she ever made was informed by cryptic certainties, an unseen force guiding her by way of preternatural intuition.
Inscrutable though Felara's intentions were to Kasho’s jealous stewards, her words were truthful, her actions selfless, and her integrity unerring; even in times where she acted in self-service, she never made a decision to the detriment of innocent people. The peace she made with the judgment of others and the fluidity of her foresight gave her greater insight into her abilities than she ever imagined was possible.
For the first time in her life, secure in herself and her trust in those around her, Felara was comfortable. No matter what was on the horizon, she was equipped to deal with it - covetous nobles be damned.[/font]-----[font=Georgia][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/6965656]Location[/url][/font]
[/center]
Don’t listen to the jealous courtiers. The prophet never asked for favor; she has only ever done what has needed to be done, and in turn has been rewarded.
All Felara remembers of her youth is the calm of the forest. She remembers the cool, damp air on still mornings, the songs of birds, and the steady echoes of bamboo stalks rattling in the breeze. More than anything, she remembers the owl, how they came to her at her most vulnerable and defied their nature to guide her with kindness and love. The owl guarded her as she slept, taught her to fly, and showed her the way of the wood - as she grew, she learned to hunt by the light of the moon and move silently through the trees. By the time Felara had become an adolescent, she had come to understand and master everything essential to her survival in the wilds, thanks largely in part to the mercy of her avian guardian.
Problems started happening for Felara when she began to meet other dragons.
Her foresight had always been there, but when she was little it never felt like something outside the norm. She never seemed to misplace her pearl, but that diligence never struck her as strange. Some nights, she would dream of coming storms, and others, unsettling thoughts of roving hunters would drive her deeper into the forest. She never had a need to understand the nature of her gift when all she knew was the forest and the owl.
As she grew, she started learning from and trading with the dragons that passed through the forest. Certainties manifested in fear and dread: from nobody in particular, she learned of deaths, of failures, of betrayals. Muddled flashes of the future invasively punctuated her day-to-day life, distressing her and wracking her with paranoia. Distraught by the mounting predictions, the young dragon drove a wedge between herself and the cherished few she had worked to befriend.
The power of premonition is frightening when misunderstood, and it can be just as dangerous when mishandled. For years, the aimless oracle mishandled her gift with wild abandon. There were times when epiphanies instilled fear in her over inspiration, and times when she fought fruitlessly to shut out unpleasant thoughts. Her knowledge crushed her in the wake of all she had to bear.
In spite of everything, Felara was able to accept the things that haunted her. Years passed, and one by one, her hunches began to manifest: the victors won, the doomed perished, and the fate-bound fell in love. Plague ripped along the forest's edge, scarring the earth with fleshy blight. Felara accepted the fulfillment of every inevitability with ease.
A sense of peace followed her contentment, and the forest grew quiet again. The silence afforded her an opportunity to confront her trauma; she spent months alone with her thoughts, her only company the owl that had taught her so much. She remembered with perfect clarity, every kindness she had been afforded and every hardship she had endured. Eventually, her thoughts stilled, and for the first time she could see her path forward.
Night after night, the blackened corridors of a drowned kingdom haunted Felara's dreams. Each time she visited it, she swam with uncertainty through the submerged city, her spirit drawn toward an unpleasant force that lay unseen at its heart. Each night, before she woke, she entered the spire at the center of the sunken palace and confronted the magnetizing force: a pot in the center of a throne room, out of which withering vines slithered and thrashed toward a massive, cowering dragon.
The dragon's face stuck in her mind every moment she was awake. Over time, the vines grew, and questions about the city in the sea occupied her waking thoughts more and more. One night, the pot shattered and the vines blanketed the walls. The next, she dreamt of nothing at all.
Felara bid the owl farewell with a sorrowful sort of urgency and left the only place she had ever known. She followed the plague scar south, soaring over peaks and dipping into narrow ravines, her unflown path not entirely unfamiliar. The days blurred together, with each proving to be less remarkable than the last as the terrain melted into an endless sea of green before her. After a week of travel, just as the graveness of her dream was starting to slip away from her, she found the city.
In the light of the morning, Felara could see it perfectly: every neighborhood, every greenway, every spire. She could see the crisp line of the ocean tide lapping along the outer walls of the great palace, and she could see the shell-topped roofs of a thousand underwater buildings glimmer through the clear blue water. Splayed out in the palace gardens lay the dragon from her dreams, swathed in red silk and flanked by attendants on all sides.
Kasho, as she learned he was called, was the first dragon to surprise her. Fortune had given him excess upon excess, but that excess never eroded his empathy for others. He had all the power and favor a person could ever ask for, yet applied it so cautiously and thoughtfully that he seemed more a guardian to Felara than a king.
It did not take long for the oracle to endear herself to Kasho. Beyond her curious, poetic predictions, Felara possessed care for him beyond his station that allowed him to feel comfortable opening up to her. They became fast friends, and as the pearlcatcher became entrenched in the goings-on of the Yearning Waters, she grew into his most trusted advisor. In her dreams, the city lifted from the depths, and the vines in the throne room withered to nothing.
Just as Felara had known the fate of her friends in the forest, she knew the way of the city. At the very least, she knew the blue bloods would gossip about her, and she knew the lies that they would spite her with, because she knew how deeply the roots of insecurity bore into them. She understood their intentions before they ever spoke a word of her, and she already forgave them. After all, her entire life up until that point had been a game of discerning intent: every decision she ever made was informed by cryptic certainties, an unseen force guiding her by way of preternatural intuition.
Inscrutable though Felara's intentions were to Kasho’s jealous stewards, her words were truthful, her actions selfless, and her integrity unerring; even in times where she acted in self-service, she never made a decision to the detriment of innocent people. The peace she made with the judgment of others and the fluidity of her foresight gave her greater insight into her abilities than she ever imagined was possible.
For the first time in her life, secure in herself and her trust in those around her, Felara was comfortable. No matter what was on the horizon, she was equipped to deal with it - covetous nobles be damned.
Location
[center]
[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/82c4mkb726en517/windfull.png[/img]-----[font=Georgia][size=3]The seat of the Windsinger is elegant as it ever was, winding freely over the verdant steppes on the high breeze. Young dragons playfully circle each other through the clouds with delicate kites in tow, drawing their revelry in hues of green and gold across the midday sky. There are excited whispers of celebration in the air, but neither streamer nor balloon looks out of place on the airborne embankments here on the Cloudsong. The real spectacle lay far beneath the cool winds, where the common clans tread the sprawling plateau.
The tiers of the tranquil steppes are covered from edge to edge in a sea of pinwheels thousands strong. Hollowed-out bamboo shoots snaking down from the northern ascent carry the song of the wind down over the land. They aren’t difficult to see even from where you stand on the lower decks: they rise fifty meters over the lush ground, their paper fans decorated with ink and paint and glitter that melt into a colorful blur as they spin lazily in the breeze.
Today marks the date of one of the most involved celebrations in all the region, and the often-silent steppes have taken on the festive energy in spades. All along the edge of the pinwheel forest, tents of sheer fabric are drawn up into makeshift spires on long, narrow posts. Dragons of all ages and sizes slink between tents in search of delicious food and carouse on broad, shaded platforms. Sweet scents on the breeze lead the curious to stacks of spiced pastries meters tall, and whelps of all types wrestle and race under the wings of their guardians, all untroubled by the woes of the world. At the center of the festival alley, mounted upon the highest post, the standard of Clan Rook flutters on the lowland zephyrs.
A bell is struck with such force that the rope bridges sway on the edges of the Cloudsong, then again, then again. Twelve bells ring as the sun reaches its zenith in the summer sky, and the bustle of the floating structure rumbles to a halt. Two by two, decorated dragons begin plunging from the shadowed underbelly of the structure, each swathed in jade silk and singing chimes; sheer ribbons of various colors stream behind them as they dive, turning their flight into a weightless dance. They follow the path of the wind as they spiral gracefully toward the earth, precise, gentle, free.
You breathe in deeply as you watch the flight over the pinwheels; even up here, the air is thick with the smells of sweets and incense. The wind brings no ill omens today; there are no conspiracies in the brush; the powerful do not plot against each other. There are no slights made toward visitors from beyond the plateau, nor do storied traditions lie in wait for missteps to criticize. The festival is carefree and contemporary - a testament to the tenets of the Windsinger. In those tenets lay the essence at the heart of the celebration. The dragons of Clan Rook are as diverse as their display is commanding, and in that lies their strength.[/font]-----[font=Georgia][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/7995512]Location[/url][/font]
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The seat of the Windsinger is elegant as it ever was, winding freely over the verdant steppes on the high breeze. Young dragons playfully circle each other through the clouds with delicate kites in tow, drawing their revelry in hues of green and gold across the midday sky. There are excited whispers of celebration in the air, but neither streamer nor balloon looks out of place on the airborne embankments here on the Cloudsong. The real spectacle lay far beneath the cool winds, where the common clans tread the sprawling plateau.
The tiers of the tranquil steppes are covered from edge to edge in a sea of pinwheels thousands strong. Hollowed-out bamboo shoots snaking down from the northern ascent carry the song of the wind down over the land. They aren’t difficult to see even from where you stand on the lower decks: they rise fifty meters over the lush ground, their paper fans decorated with ink and paint and glitter that melt into a colorful blur as they spin lazily in the breeze.
Today marks the date of one of the most involved celebrations in all the region, and the often-silent steppes have taken on the festive energy in spades. All along the edge of the pinwheel forest, tents of sheer fabric are drawn up into makeshift spires on long, narrow posts. Dragons of all ages and sizes slink between tents in search of delicious food and carouse on broad, shaded platforms. Sweet scents on the breeze lead the curious to stacks of spiced pastries meters tall, and whelps of all types wrestle and race under the wings of their guardians, all untroubled by the woes of the world. At the center of the festival alley, mounted upon the highest post, the standard of Clan Rook flutters on the lowland zephyrs.
A bell is struck with such force that the rope bridges sway on the edges of the Cloudsong, then again, then again. Twelve bells ring as the sun reaches its zenith in the summer sky, and the bustle of the floating structure rumbles to a halt. Two by two, decorated dragons begin plunging from the shadowed underbelly of the structure, each swathed in jade silk and singing chimes; sheer ribbons of various colors stream behind them as they dive, turning their flight into a weightless dance. They follow the path of the wind as they spiral gracefully toward the earth, precise, gentle, free.
You breathe in deeply as you watch the flight over the pinwheels; even up here, the air is thick with the smells of sweets and incense. The wind brings no ill omens today; there are no conspiracies in the brush; the powerful do not plot against each other. There are no slights made toward visitors from beyond the plateau, nor do storied traditions lie in wait for missteps to criticize. The festival is carefree and contemporary - a testament to the tenets of the Windsinger. In those tenets lay the essence at the heart of the celebration. The dragons of Clan Rook are as diverse as their display is commanding, and in that lies their strength.
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[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/86qbkt5wl1j2sqs/lightfull.png[/img]-----[font=Georgia][size=3]In the best of times, godhood is just as demanding as it is rewarding - in the worst of times, the stress and expectations placed on the divine strip away the glamor of reverence and leave the ugly truth there, bare and vulnerable: there is a deep loneliness to being worshipped.
For a long time, Eyht understood such loneliness more than most. Mortal dragons made sacrifices in their name for luck with the year's harvest, and the beastfolk offered gifts of their own to escape the ire of Eyht's devotees. They accepted these offerings, but the snacks and trinkets meant little to them; for all the love their servants and supplicants purported to have, the god felt quite unloved and quite unseen.
There was no happiness to be found in being worshiped; the mortals' adoration rang hollow. They did not love Eyht, after all - they loved what Eyht could do for them. Up on their pedestal, so far removed from those beneath them, the god came to understand this truth, and it wracked them with a spiteful sort of sorrow. They rejected the sycophants who once sought their gifts for selfish reasons and left their home behind.
They did no harm when they departed; they simply left the dragons of the region to their work, disappearing under cover of night. Some followed: craftspeople, arborists, and artists of different stripes all accompanied Eyht to new lands, all dragons who lived humble lives in service to the earth and their communities. Many of them had never once uttered the god’s name, and yet they all followed their example with silent understanding.
Eyht's new domain was smaller, quieter, less extravagant - that suited them just fine. Their followers settled down in caves and lean-tos and began to build a new home, one more town than shrine, more community than machine. The god watched with elation as these quiet few lived their lives in service of life, love, art and nature. They were all perfectly happy in the absence of the expectations they were once plagued by, and with Eyht they worked to build something better - not beneath them, but by their side.
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In the best of times, godhood is just as demanding as it is rewarding - in the worst of times, the stress and expectations placed on the divine strip away the glamor of reverence and leave the ugly truth there, bare and vulnerable: there is a deep loneliness to being worshipped.
For a long time, Eyht understood such loneliness more than most. Mortal dragons made sacrifices in their name for luck with the year's harvest, and the beastfolk offered gifts of their own to escape the ire of Eyht's devotees. They accepted these offerings, but the snacks and trinkets meant little to them; for all the love their servants and supplicants purported to have, the god felt quite unloved and quite unseen.
There was no happiness to be found in being worshiped; the mortals' adoration rang hollow. They did not love Eyht, after all - they loved what Eyht could do for them. Up on their pedestal, so far removed from those beneath them, the god came to understand this truth, and it wracked them with a spiteful sort of sorrow. They rejected the sycophants who once sought their gifts for selfish reasons and left their home behind.
They did no harm when they departed; they simply left the dragons of the region to their work, disappearing under cover of night. Some followed: craftspeople, arborists, and artists of different stripes all accompanied Eyht to new lands, all dragons who lived humble lives in service to the earth and their communities. Many of them had never once uttered the god’s name, and yet they all followed their example with silent understanding.
Eyht's new domain was smaller, quieter, less extravagant - that suited them just fine. Their followers settled down in caves and lean-tos and began to build a new home, one more town than shrine, more community than machine. The god watched with elation as these quiet few lived their lives in service of life, love, art and nature. They were all perfectly happy in the absence of the expectations they were once plagued by, and with Eyht they worked to build something better - not beneath them, but by their side.
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[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/i1vtno1ez9wf225/plaguefull.png[/img]-----[font=Georgia][size=3]Destruction's loyalty to EE is one of neither convenience nor expectation - she follows her out of choice, spiting her wicked father, BadVibes, and the bloodline he works so obsessively to protect and uplift; beyond her father, she spurns the ethical hairsplitting and excuse-making of Distorticon, unimpressed as she is by what she considers a milquetoast approach to the essence of Edge.
Destruction has opinions about both of them in spades: her father, as far as she is concerned, is needlessly cruel, driving his children to serve EE to his own selfish ends; Distorticon is little more than a fickle bureaucrat, a well-meaning Imperial weaponizing respectability to placate those who question his devotion to Edge; both, she thinks, have completely missed the point.
EE has long since turned her gaze from both, of course; it seems like they're eternally at odds over the concept of Edge, one eager to tout its brutality, and the other, its authoritativeness - in the process of trying to ascribe meaning to it, both have lost sight of what is so special about it. Destruction hasn't, though; she lives her life free of the worry associated with performing Edge to others' expectations.
That's what it's about, isn't it? That's why she has followed EE all these years; that is what EE's existence has taught her. She is trying to live her life to the fullest, embracing her capriciousness and going with the flow of the world, no matter how hectic things get - that is what she thinks EE would want, and until EE comes into the world and seizes her crown, what she thinks is good enough.[/font]-----[font=Georgia][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/69514485]Location[/url][/font]
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Destruction's loyalty to EE is one of neither convenience nor expectation - she follows her out of choice, spiting her wicked father, BadVibes, and the bloodline he works so obsessively to protect and uplift; beyond her father, she spurns the ethical hairsplitting and excuse-making of Distorticon, unimpressed as she is by what she considers a milquetoast approach to the essence of Edge.
Destruction has opinions about both of them in spades: her father, as far as she is concerned, is needlessly cruel, driving his children to serve EE to his own selfish ends; Distorticon is little more than a fickle bureaucrat, a well-meaning Imperial weaponizing respectability to placate those who question his devotion to Edge; both, she thinks, have completely missed the point.
EE has long since turned her gaze from both, of course; it seems like they're eternally at odds over the concept of Edge, one eager to tout its brutality, and the other, its authoritativeness - in the process of trying to ascribe meaning to it, both have lost sight of what is so special about it. Destruction hasn't, though; she lives her life free of the worry associated with performing Edge to others' expectations.
That's what it's about, isn't it? That's why she has followed EE all these years; that is what EE's existence has taught her. She is trying to live her life to the fullest, embracing her capriciousness and going with the flow of the world, no matter how hectic things get - that is what she thinks EE would want, and until EE comes into the world and seizes her crown, what she thinks is good enough.
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[img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/86qbkt5wl1j2sqs/lightfull.png[/img]-----[font=Georgia][size=3]Canelm never wanted to be a Warleader. She had hardly shed the last shell fragments from her tiny back when the clan elders started to teach her their ways - from the start, they called it "the way it has always been done," and she listened to everything they had to tell her with adoration, always accepting, never questioning. She was hardly a whelp, after all, and one gifted and cursed in equal measure with an unshakable kindness.
In her lessons on military strategy, War Counselor Parn spoke to her of the ruthlessness of the Corven to the north, how they raided the clan's lands and seized their unhatched eggs to infuse them with corruptive magics; Canelm wept not only for the hatchlings that were lost, but also for the innocent Corven who paid the ultimate price at the hands of her clan for a crime they did not commit.
During her martial training, between the shrill ringing of crossing blades, Master Vennu spoke ill of the many scions over the years who failed to meet his expectations. She was older than she was in the schoolroom, and a little bit wiser to the world: she argued that the worth of those failed students went beyond Vennu's expectations, that they might be gifted merchants, craftsmen or cooks - to her surprise, she was dismissed.
Canelm continued to train, continued to defy her teachers, continued to weep - she trained and defied and wept into adulthood, right up until the day of Warleader Karza's passing.
As the Warleader's death drew near, Canelm was escorted into the throne room and brought before the dying dragon. The ridgeback lay on a huge blanket spread out across the polished floor, his breathing staggered and harsh. He was fairly young, but looked so old in the midst of his own death, curled up in bandages; Canelm understood that this was the fate of all Warleaders, to lead fearlessly and die gloriously.
She also understood that the passing of the crown was the last rite performed in honor to one so close to death.
Karza wheezed out the same questions he was asked so long ago by his predecessor, and that his predecessor must have been asked too: "Do you accept the mantle of Warleader, for the protection of longevity of our clan? Will you defend our children, our future?"
Canelm declined.
The response she received confirmed everything she had come to suspect of her clan; instead of understanding, she was met with hostility, and instead of being allowed to pass, many dragons she had once called friends turned their claws and weapons on her as she tried to leave the hall. There were a few who did not, however - they chose to turn theirs on everyone who had lied to her, everyone who had betrayed her trust to try to force her into a crown she was never fit to wear. Warleaders, after all, struck terror into innocents across the river valley beneath the stronghold, razing their towns and condemning their innocents to terrible fates. For those dragons who shared her feelings on the matter, defending Canelm was something that required no second thought.
The skydancer wove gracefully through the war hall as the carnage broke out. Massive dragons clashed above their smaller comrades in the heat of the fight, their tails and wings swinging through the pillars holding the roof aloft. The battle was only as long as it needed to be; as Canelm escaped through the stained glass windows lining the sloped roof, the building came down, leaving those committed to ending one another to their fates.
Many days passed; Canelm traveled the countryside under cover of night, avoiding the beastfolk her forebears had been so easy to stamp out. She traveled in circles, moving down into the valley and traveling along the rivers that wound through the lowlands. Each time she circled, she looked up at the stronghold, how it towered so high over everything as a symbol of draconic superiority, how the roofs of the war hall and the barracks burned and burned. As the cinders settled and the black skies cleared, dragons started to descend from the summit; Canelm soon learned they were all defectors, as those still loyal to the deceased Warleader either perished in the battle or remained in the stronghold.
They had done such cruel things in defense of a cruel system, and she wept - not just for their victims, but also for them. How easily they could have been taught the truth.
Canelm and the defectors circled the valley again; this time, they entered its many villages with white flags raised high. They threw down their weapons and sought audiences with the leaders of these settlements to tell them of what had happened on the summit. Some were receptive to them and allowed them to stay; others listened earnestly, but turned them away after they made their peace; others still rejected their apologies and drove them out with swords and magic.
Canelm understood the breadth of responses her little group received. Each was just as respectable as the last, and just as meaningful. She was working now to become an ambassador, after all - one who could bridge the gap between the defectors and those they had once terrorized so the victims could begin to heal. She understood that not all would be ready to forgive, now or ever, and that was just fine; so long as those who her comrades once harmed knew their suffering was over, she was happy.[/font]-----[font=Georgia][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/50268419]Location[/url][/font]
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Canelm never wanted to be a Warleader. She had hardly shed the last shell fragments from her tiny back when the clan elders started to teach her their ways - from the start, they called it "the way it has always been done," and she listened to everything they had to tell her with adoration, always accepting, never questioning. She was hardly a whelp, after all, and one gifted and cursed in equal measure with an unshakable kindness.
In her lessons on military strategy, War Counselor Parn spoke to her of the ruthlessness of the Corven to the north, how they raided the clan's lands and seized their unhatched eggs to infuse them with corruptive magics; Canelm wept not only for the hatchlings that were lost, but also for the innocent Corven who paid the ultimate price at the hands of her clan for a crime they did not commit.
During her martial training, between the shrill ringing of crossing blades, Master Vennu spoke ill of the many scions over the years who failed to meet his expectations. She was older than she was in the schoolroom, and a little bit wiser to the world: she argued that the worth of those failed students went beyond Vennu's expectations, that they might be gifted merchants, craftsmen or cooks - to her surprise, she was dismissed.
Canelm continued to train, continued to defy her teachers, continued to weep - she trained and defied and wept into adulthood, right up until the day of Warleader Karza's passing.
As the Warleader's death drew near, Canelm was escorted into the throne room and brought before the dying dragon. The ridgeback lay on a huge blanket spread out across the polished floor, his breathing staggered and harsh. He was fairly young, but looked so old in the midst of his own death, curled up in bandages; Canelm understood that this was the fate of all Warleaders, to lead fearlessly and die gloriously.
She also understood that the passing of the crown was the last rite performed in honor to one so close to death.
Karza wheezed out the same questions he was asked so long ago by his predecessor, and that his predecessor must have been asked too: "Do you accept the mantle of Warleader, for the protection of longevity of our clan? Will you defend our children, our future?"
Canelm declined.
The response she received confirmed everything she had come to suspect of her clan; instead of understanding, she was met with hostility, and instead of being allowed to pass, many dragons she had once called friends turned their claws and weapons on her as she tried to leave the hall. There were a few who did not, however - they chose to turn theirs on everyone who had lied to her, everyone who had betrayed her trust to try to force her into a crown she was never fit to wear. Warleaders, after all, struck terror into innocents across the river valley beneath the stronghold, razing their towns and condemning their innocents to terrible fates. For those dragons who shared her feelings on the matter, defending Canelm was something that required no second thought.
The skydancer wove gracefully through the war hall as the carnage broke out. Massive dragons clashed above their smaller comrades in the heat of the fight, their tails and wings swinging through the pillars holding the roof aloft. The battle was only as long as it needed to be; as Canelm escaped through the stained glass windows lining the sloped roof, the building came down, leaving those committed to ending one another to their fates.
Many days passed; Canelm traveled the countryside under cover of night, avoiding the beastfolk her forebears had been so easy to stamp out. She traveled in circles, moving down into the valley and traveling along the rivers that wound through the lowlands. Each time she circled, she looked up at the stronghold, how it towered so high over everything as a symbol of draconic superiority, how the roofs of the war hall and the barracks burned and burned. As the cinders settled and the black skies cleared, dragons started to descend from the summit; Canelm soon learned they were all defectors, as those still loyal to the deceased Warleader either perished in the battle or remained in the stronghold.
They had done such cruel things in defense of a cruel system, and she wept - not just for their victims, but also for them. How easily they could have been taught the truth.
Canelm and the defectors circled the valley again; this time, they entered its many villages with white flags raised high. They threw down their weapons and sought audiences with the leaders of these settlements to tell them of what had happened on the summit. Some were receptive to them and allowed them to stay; others listened earnestly, but turned them away after they made their peace; others still rejected their apologies and drove them out with swords and magic.
Canelm understood the breadth of responses her little group received. Each was just as respectable as the last, and just as meaningful. She was working now to become an ambassador, after all - one who could bridge the gap between the defectors and those they had once terrorized so the victims could begin to heal. She understood that not all would be ready to forgive, now or ever, and that was just fine; so long as those who her comrades once harmed knew their suffering was over, she was happy.
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