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Etzili Alright this is the only finished passage I have that isn't just bare bones, question marks and shrug emojis, and unfinished ideas- it's not much, but I hope it's enough to give you a motivational boost into tackling your lore!
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He didn’t know why he hatched, honestly. All of life must have a reason, but as soon as he freed himself of his eggshell and stretched his trembling paws up towards the sky, the voices started, and, as of now, they still hadn’t stopped. Endlessly, they whispered, crooned, babbled into his ear- all desperate, all needing him to fix something he knew nothing of. He had heard of learning life’s calling, often from patient elders whispering to their hatchlings at night, but he hadn’t ever heard of a dragon
literally hearing it. Maybe he should hang out with other dragons more- but then again, he didn't want to burden them with the knowledge that he was made to die. Or that he could hear voices. Or that sometimes, when he injured himself, he bled gold, and that the gold burned any and all dragon that laid hands on him, no matter how pure their intentions were.
Frankly, he was fine with the dying part. Dying was a part of life, after all; everyone had their time, and he couldn't say that his was the worst of it. He just didn't want to think of hurting anybody, even though he knew that the dragon he was inexorably drawn towards would die without question. Having burning blood and spirits was difficult enough to manage without innocents being harmed over something as simple as a papercut.
The whisper of a skysong rippled through his head, meaningless drivel hummed in the tune of a wind dragon’s accent. With a snort, he shook his head, clearing it- but the smoke of the spirit in his mind reformed as quickly as it dispersed. Wearily, he shrugged, and tried not to think about how close it had sounded to a mourning prayer.
He looked back down into the pool of water that lay at his feet, the polished mirror at the bottom reflecting him back at himself through the liquid. The ghosts that haunted him swirled over the surface like oil, muted black and gold that he saw from the inside of his head rather than the outside, but no visions of his future surfaced. Even the waters taken from the Tidelord’s scryshop couldn’t tell him his purpose, and he abandoned the bowl with a sigh, the click of his talons against the glass gentle, even as frustration suffused his heart. It wouldn’t do to drop it and hurt himself- shattered scrying mirrors were bad luck, and if he split his flesh on the shards, he wasn’t all that certain that what he would bleed wouldn’t be gold.
He didn’t want to think of the magic that flowed through his veins. It was hard enough acknowledging that he was nothing but a lamb meant to be lead to slaughter, without knowing he had the power of the sun running through his veins.
Hurry, hurry. The voices cried.
Death comes, death approaches. Hurry, hurry.
