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Mask
Thanks! I like to think it's a nice and important landmark for the clan- seeing it means you've come home! As for the weaponized knitting needles... I honestly think it's really funny too, haha.
@
Mask
Thanks! I like to think it's a nice and important landmark for the clan- seeing it means you've come home! As for the weaponized knitting needles... I honestly think it's really funny too, haha.
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
[center][img]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/588440113638539274/908207729712189450/The_Second_Omen_Art_Banner_Size.png[/img]
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“So once again, you are my keeper and my watcher.” Frostkeeper looked up. “Though I must admit, I did not foresee it happening in quite this way.”
The icy statue of the Icewarden glared silently back at him. Frostkeeper snorted, and kept pacing around the base. Behind him, his chain scraped along the floor, still securely attached at the base. On the rare occasions his old bones grew restless, Frostkeeper would pace around its circular bottom until the chain wrapped around once, then twice, then however times it took until it was pulled taut. Then he would reverse his route until it was unwound.
The chain itself was more of a formality, at this point. It had been several months, almost half a year, since he had been tried and found guilty by the strange clan he wandered into. The chan now let him wander almost the entirety of the shrine comfortably. The shrine itself was located on the southernmost outskirts of the clan, where the winds ran coldest the year around. A few steps at the entrance lead into a hollow cave where the Icewarden’s statue sat, with a shrine at its base for offerings. Lanterns on the walls and furs on the floor were the only sources of warmth within. Frostkeeper had been given a bare few belongings to help ease his stay- these had been pushed to the most private corner. Food would be delivered to him periodically to prepare and consume as he saw fit, and Ozensa came in from time to time to ensure the shrine was kept neat, under the protection of an armed guard. The shrine had been warded against magic heavily, and they were maintained well. Frostkeeper in turn had been on good behavior the past few months and kept his claws to himself, so some time later visitors started to trickle in.
Not of the clan, of course. As far as he could sense, only two dragons held influence over ice magic in the clan. He only ever saw one of them, a dark colored skydancer, once. Every once in a while another dragon would stumble in, half rotting flesh and half wood, to check and re-light the lanterns. The spirit animating the undead body attempted to approach him once or twice, but he quickly taught them to keep their distance. He failed to see why the clan allowed such an abomination to wander about freely.
Other visitors slowly crept in. Outsiders, who wanted to see whether or not the clan was telling the truth about what they had found. Worshippers, who seemed to range from curious to awe-struck.
Zealots, who begged him to reveal the true intentions of the Master Warden.
One of these flitted around the entrance now, a young dragon from the tundra who had visited him in the days prior. He was an eager young thing, entranced by his tales of the war against the banescales. At first, he indulged him, but Frostkeeper had quickly grown weary of him. He supposed that he should be the guiding claw of the Icewarden to these new dragons who had lost their way, but mostly he was just tired.
Frostkeeper lurked in the back, letting himself blend into the mist and ice in the darker corners of the shrine. Once again he lamented the fact that the clan had managed to capture him before the full strength of his magic had returned. At the height of his strength, Frostkeeper could disappear unseen into the ferocity of a blizzard. Now, between the chain and the magical warding around him, Frostkeeper could only settle for hiding and hoping his visitors couldn’t spot him.
So concerned he was with hiding himself that he didn’t hear the slight shifting of rock on the ceiling, or the acrid scent of smoke drifting through the shrine.
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[size=2][font=Optima][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_3077472]General Information[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593743]Table of Contents[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593771]Dragons of Rank[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593788]Notes and Scrawlings[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593791]Maps and Locations[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593815]Clan Affiliates[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593832]Credits[/url][/size]
The Second Omen I.
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“So once again, you are my keeper and my watcher.” Frostkeeper looked up. “Though I must admit, I did not foresee it happening in quite this way.”
The icy statue of the Icewarden glared silently back at him. Frostkeeper snorted, and kept pacing around the base. Behind him, his chain scraped along the floor, still securely attached at the base. On the rare occasions his old bones grew restless, Frostkeeper would pace around its circular bottom until the chain wrapped around once, then twice, then however times it took until it was pulled taut. Then he would reverse his route until it was unwound.
The chain itself was more of a formality, at this point. It had been several months, almost half a year, since he had been tried and found guilty by the strange clan he wandered into. The chan now let him wander almost the entirety of the shrine comfortably. The shrine itself was located on the southernmost outskirts of the clan, where the winds ran coldest the year around. A few steps at the entrance lead into a hollow cave where the Icewarden’s statue sat, with a shrine at its base for offerings. Lanterns on the walls and furs on the floor were the only sources of warmth within. Frostkeeper had been given a bare few belongings to help ease his stay- these had been pushed to the most private corner. Food would be delivered to him periodically to prepare and consume as he saw fit, and Ozensa came in from time to time to ensure the shrine was kept neat, under the protection of an armed guard. The shrine had been warded against magic heavily, and they were maintained well. Frostkeeper in turn had been on good behavior the past few months and kept his claws to himself, so some time later visitors started to trickle in.
Not of the clan, of course. As far as he could sense, only two dragons held influence over ice magic in the clan. He only ever saw one of them, a dark colored skydancer, once. Every once in a while another dragon would stumble in, half rotting flesh and half wood, to check and re-light the lanterns. The spirit animating the undead body attempted to approach him once or twice, but he quickly taught them to keep their distance. He failed to see why the clan allowed such an abomination to wander about freely.
Other visitors slowly crept in. Outsiders, who wanted to see whether or not the clan was telling the truth about what they had found. Worshippers, who seemed to range from curious to awe-struck.
Zealots, who begged him to reveal the true intentions of the Master Warden.
One of these flitted around the entrance now, a young dragon from the tundra who had visited him in the days prior. He was an eager young thing, entranced by his tales of the war against the banescales. At first, he indulged him, but Frostkeeper had quickly grown weary of him. He supposed that he should be the guiding claw of the Icewarden to these new dragons who had lost their way, but mostly he was just tired.
Frostkeeper lurked in the back, letting himself blend into the mist and ice in the darker corners of the shrine. Once again he lamented the fact that the clan had managed to capture him before the full strength of his magic had returned. At the height of his strength, Frostkeeper could disappear unseen into the ferocity of a blizzard. Now, between the chain and the magical warding around him, Frostkeeper could only settle for hiding and hoping his visitors couldn’t spot him.
So concerned he was with hiding himself that he didn’t hear the slight shifting of rock on the ceiling, or the acrid scent of smoke drifting through the shrine.
General Information - Table of Contents - Dragons of Rank - Notes and Scrawlings - Maps and Locations - Clan Affiliates - Credits
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
I feel like we need to queue music for a prison break, but I’m a bit biased for Ice denizens.
I feel like we need to queue music for a prison break, but I’m a bit biased for Ice denizens.
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Mask
Haha... unfortunately I don't think Frostkeeper is getting out of this one so easy!
TBH he kind of deserves to be imprisoned but that's an aspect of his backstory my lore may or may not directly address much later.
@
Mask
Haha... unfortunately I don't think Frostkeeper is getting out of this one so easy!
TBH he kind of deserves to be imprisoned but that's an aspect of his backstory my lore may or may not directly address much later.
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
*chef kisses for your lore*
*chef kisses for your lore*
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Amhara was not happy to see a distant plume of black smoke on the horizon.
This in of itself was not entirely unusual. Now that the coldest weeks were finally over, hearthfires dotted the horizon as the dragons of the clan left the Rivensong and returned to their homes. This was not one of those fires. It was distant, just on the edge of the horizon of the land.
“...This is going to interrupt tea, isn’t it.” Spiritdawn said wryly. Amhara sighed, gently setting down the small teacup she cradled in her massive hands on the table with a clink.
“That’s near the ice shrine. If it weren’t for that damned gaoler I’d leave it be and let one of the hired guards.” She unfurled her wings, shivering as they caught a draft of cold air. “With any luck, I’ll return soon.”
Spiritdawn set a gentle hand on top of Amhara’s, smiling fondly at her. “Stay safe, dear.”
“Of course.” Amhara gave her a brief smile back, then launched herself into the air.
They had been sharing early morning tea on a quiet ledge, surrounded by bamboo and recently cleared of snow, enjoying the silence of a winter that was finally breaking. Stretching her wings and catching an updraft, the heartland of the clan’s territory came into view.
The ledge they had been having tea on was a quiet area on the side of the Zephyr Ascent, the Windsinger’s shrine quiet for the season. At its base rested the wreck of the Rivensong, the large airship that fatefully crashed on the island years ago, transformed into the centerpiece of the town and the seat of the clan leaders. Narrow streets squeezed their ways between the permanent homes of the clan, and more ramshackle residences rented out by visitors and travelers in the warmer months. Open market squares sat silent. The docks were frozen solid. The clan’s raiding boats sat on the beach, safely out of the way of the ice until the thaw came.
Amhara followed the main street, the only one properly wide enough to bring loaded carts to and from the docks. Most dragons preferred to take to the skies rather than navigate the labyrinthian paths in between the buildings. In the vast, open, winter sky she spotted the silhouette of Fausto- albeit heading in the opposite direction of her.
When she reached the shore and sea ice spread out below her, Amhara swept across on the wind towards the other side of the bay. The ice shrine where the gaoler was imprisoned sat south of the city, on a small island just off the coast. On the wing, with a strong wind behind her, it didn’t take her long to reach it. The smoke was a faint plume on the horizon at first, but quickly billowed into a large cloud of smoke. Amhara quickly landed and plunged through the haze.
The scene before her was like something out of a legend.
The massive, enchanted ice culture of the warden was half melted, water pooling on the floor. Offerings were scattered across the large room, burning or smoldering in puddles. Huge walls of fire thrived where they could find the fuel on the stone floors. Smoke choked the room, but through the stinging haze she caught a glimpse of the battle.
The gaoler was tangled in his chains, which glowed from the heat in the room. He roared mindlessly, ice melting around him as quickly as it formed. He cowered away from the ceiling, where his attacker was clinging.
Dug into the rock of the ceiling of the shrine, a dragon wound its way around the rock. It was a dark red, with purple markings that shone so dark they were nearly black in the harsh light. Its golden wings, marked with dark stripes, were spread threateningly and glimmered in the fire. Smoke billowed from its mouth, pierced only by a glinting orange eye. It hissed back at the goaler, rattling its spines and dousing the statue of the warden in white hot flames.
Nivenor had, once, told Amhara a childhood story about the war between the banescales and gaolers after they had found Frostkeeper out on the ice. She remembered very little of it, or about what the banescales were supposed to look like. She supposed this dragon fit the description fairly well- although, admittedly, she thought they’d be bigger.
Regardless, she couldn’t let them burn the entire shrine down. Or kill Frostkeeper.
She waited for the banescale to stop spewing fire then surged forward, throwing herself in front of Frostkeeper and spreading her wings. She hissed as she felt the heat buffet her from the front and what remained of Frostkeeper’s ice magic at her back.
“Stand down!” She snapped. “You are attacking a prisoner of Clan Rivensong, protected by clan law.”
The banescale hissed again, staring at her with those glowing eyes. When they opened their mouth, more smoke came billowing out. When they spoke, it was with an ominously harmonious voice, like a choir was held within their chest.
[i]“By bone or by bane, I shall avenge my name.”[/i]
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[size=2][font=Optima][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_3077472]General Information[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593743]Table of Contents[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593771]Dragons of Rank[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593788]Notes and Scrawlings[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593791]Maps and Locations[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593815]Clan Affiliates[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593832]Credits[/url][/size]
The Second Omen II.
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Amhara was not happy to see a distant plume of black smoke on the horizon.
This in of itself was not entirely unusual. Now that the coldest weeks were finally over, hearthfires dotted the horizon as the dragons of the clan left the Rivensong and returned to their homes. This was not one of those fires. It was distant, just on the edge of the horizon of the land.
“...This is going to interrupt tea, isn’t it.” Spiritdawn said wryly. Amhara sighed, gently setting down the small teacup she cradled in her massive hands on the table with a clink.
“That’s near the ice shrine. If it weren’t for that damned gaoler I’d leave it be and let one of the hired guards.” She unfurled her wings, shivering as they caught a draft of cold air. “With any luck, I’ll return soon.”
Spiritdawn set a gentle hand on top of Amhara’s, smiling fondly at her. “Stay safe, dear.”
“Of course.” Amhara gave her a brief smile back, then launched herself into the air.
They had been sharing early morning tea on a quiet ledge, surrounded by bamboo and recently cleared of snow, enjoying the silence of a winter that was finally breaking. Stretching her wings and catching an updraft, the heartland of the clan’s territory came into view.
The ledge they had been having tea on was a quiet area on the side of the Zephyr Ascent, the Windsinger’s shrine quiet for the season. At its base rested the wreck of the Rivensong, the large airship that fatefully crashed on the island years ago, transformed into the centerpiece of the town and the seat of the clan leaders. Narrow streets squeezed their ways between the permanent homes of the clan, and more ramshackle residences rented out by visitors and travelers in the warmer months. Open market squares sat silent. The docks were frozen solid. The clan’s raiding boats sat on the beach, safely out of the way of the ice until the thaw came.
Amhara followed the main street, the only one properly wide enough to bring loaded carts to and from the docks. Most dragons preferred to take to the skies rather than navigate the labyrinthian paths in between the buildings. In the vast, open, winter sky she spotted the silhouette of Fausto- albeit heading in the opposite direction of her.
When she reached the shore and sea ice spread out below her, Amhara swept across on the wind towards the other side of the bay. The ice shrine where the gaoler was imprisoned sat south of the city, on a small island just off the coast. On the wing, with a strong wind behind her, it didn’t take her long to reach it. The smoke was a faint plume on the horizon at first, but quickly billowed into a large cloud of smoke. Amhara quickly landed and plunged through the haze.
The scene before her was like something out of a legend.
The massive, enchanted ice culture of the warden was half melted, water pooling on the floor. Offerings were scattered across the large room, burning or smoldering in puddles. Huge walls of fire thrived where they could find the fuel on the stone floors. Smoke choked the room, but through the stinging haze she caught a glimpse of the battle.
The gaoler was tangled in his chains, which glowed from the heat in the room. He roared mindlessly, ice melting around him as quickly as it formed. He cowered away from the ceiling, where his attacker was clinging.
Dug into the rock of the ceiling of the shrine, a dragon wound its way around the rock. It was a dark red, with purple markings that shone so dark they were nearly black in the harsh light. Its golden wings, marked with dark stripes, were spread threateningly and glimmered in the fire. Smoke billowed from its mouth, pierced only by a glinting orange eye. It hissed back at the goaler, rattling its spines and dousing the statue of the warden in white hot flames.
Nivenor had, once, told Amhara a childhood story about the war between the banescales and gaolers after they had found Frostkeeper out on the ice. She remembered very little of it, or about what the banescales were supposed to look like. She supposed this dragon fit the description fairly well- although, admittedly, she thought they’d be bigger.
Regardless, she couldn’t let them burn the entire shrine down. Or kill Frostkeeper.
She waited for the banescale to stop spewing fire then surged forward, throwing herself in front of Frostkeeper and spreading her wings. She hissed as she felt the heat buffet her from the front and what remained of Frostkeeper’s ice magic at her back.
“Stand down!” She snapped. “You are attacking a prisoner of Clan Rivensong, protected by clan law.”
The banescale hissed again, staring at her with those glowing eyes. When they opened their mouth, more smoke came billowing out. When they spoke, it was with an ominously harmonious voice, like a choir was held within their chest.
“By bone or by bane, I shall avenge my name.”
General Information - Table of Contents - Dragons of Rank - Notes and Scrawlings - Maps and Locations - Clan Affiliates - Credits
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
[quote]She supposed this dragon fit the description fairly well- although, admittedly, she thought they’d be bigger.[/quote]
Ngl, this line got a chuckle out of me. The room is on fire and Amhara has time for sass.
Quote:
She supposed this dragon fit the description fairly well- although, admittedly, she thought they’d be bigger.
Ngl, this line got a chuckle out of me. The room is on fire and Amhara has time for sass.
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Mask
Yup, that's Amhara... she's so done with all of the Omens' melodrama.
@
Mask
Yup, that's Amhara... she's so done with all of the Omens' melodrama.
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
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“Behave, both of you. This is a house of healing.”
The months since Tanja had, luckily, been saved from the ice had been mercifully quiet. Now Marusya was treating two dragons at once. It should’ve been three, but Amhara had taken one look at the two dragons then gruffly asserted she would be back later. In retrospect, that had probably been because they wouldn’t stop trying to kill one another.
The healing rooms within the [i]Rivensong[/i] were warded heavily, designed to drain away all but the most necessary magical reserves from a dragon. Magic had a funny way of interfering with healing, especially with the herbs and poultices needed to ward off infection. It was safer to keep the levels low overall. That, however, had not stopped the two ancient dragons from trying to kill one another.
Pyresong, the banescale, refused to stop snapping at Frostkeeper’s prone form. She had the fewest injuries of them all, merely a few scratches from where Amhara had grabbed her and pinned her against the floor, so she was bound and left to wait while he treated Frostkeeper.
Frostkeeper had suffered more serious injuries. The ice dragon did not handle heat well at all, and had several burns across his body. Luckily, it seemed to be nothing he wouldn’t recover from without proper treatment and time. He was less outwardly aggressive than Pyresong, but he caught him watching her with those strange, glowing eyes of his, and occasionally he subtly tugged at the bonds wrapped around him.
Marusya was brought out of his focus by the door swinging open, Nivenor and his father stepping into the room. Nivenor caught a glimpse of the banescale restrained on the cot and froze, while Gryzor brushed past her and swept Marusya up into a strong hug.
“Father!” He yelped indignantly, chuckling into his fur regardless. “I am working. What if I had been doing something delicate?”
“You would’ve managed.” Gryzor said, setting him down again. “We’ve come to take a look at our visitors.”
“There’s nothing much to see. Luckily, our friend here has a thick fur coat. No long lasting damage, but they’ll need to be treated with salves daily until they heal. Our new visitor has minor scrapes and bruising, but nothing that won’t heal within a few days.” Marusya sighed. “Personally, I prefer not to treat patients when they are tied to the healing cots.”
“Normal patients aren’t trying to kill one another, I imagine.” Gryzor sighed, and gestured to Nivenor. “Is this-?”
“A banescale.” Nivenor hovered on the edge of the room. She wavered on the edge between reverence and fear. “It’s- I thought they were wiped out in the war.”
[i]“The fire of homes sing on.”[/i] Words poured out of the banescale’s mouth like flame. [i]“Even after our elders are gone.”[/i]
“They sing?” Marusya asked.
“It’s an old local tradition from the Great Furnace. Many of the old coatl forgemasters speak the older, local tongue, and plenty of forge songs are derived from it. Modern draconic has been adapted to the same rhythms and tunes there.” Nivenor was hushed. “I learned some of it when I was growing up. Maybe I can-”
Nivenor started, first slowly and awkwardly, to sing. The banescale was quiet at first, but soon seemed to stir and began to respond in kind. Slowly, they began to weave an intricate song, passing the tune back and forth until they both fell silent.
“Her name is- well, the modern draconic translation would be Pyresong. She says she emerged from her slumber from the embers of war, kept warm by the Flameforger’s heart. She says the mother kept- saved her from the frost as a mentor for the new…”
“New what?” Marusya asked, noting the way Frostkeeper was watching them all intently.
“She used the word- it best translates to fire, but originally and in context she meant… Banescales. Eggs. Young ones.”
Silence reigned in the room.
“Your mother is going to hate this.” Gryzor said, making his way to the door. “Well, you best come with us, Marusya. She’ll want to know all the details.”
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[size=2][font=Optima][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_3077472]General Information[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593743]Table of Contents[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593771]Dragons of Rank[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593788]Notes and Scrawlings[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593791]Maps and Locations[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593815]Clan Affiliates[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593832]Credits[/url][/size]
The Second Omen III.
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GRYZOR
The Keeper of the Guard
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“Behave, both of you. This is a house of healing.”
The months since Tanja had, luckily, been saved from the ice had been mercifully quiet. Now Marusya was treating two dragons at once. It should’ve been three, but Amhara had taken one look at the two dragons then gruffly asserted she would be back later. In retrospect, that had probably been because they wouldn’t stop trying to kill one another.
The healing rooms within the Rivensong were warded heavily, designed to drain away all but the most necessary magical reserves from a dragon. Magic had a funny way of interfering with healing, especially with the herbs and poultices needed to ward off infection. It was safer to keep the levels low overall. That, however, had not stopped the two ancient dragons from trying to kill one another.
Pyresong, the banescale, refused to stop snapping at Frostkeeper’s prone form. She had the fewest injuries of them all, merely a few scratches from where Amhara had grabbed her and pinned her against the floor, so she was bound and left to wait while he treated Frostkeeper.
Frostkeeper had suffered more serious injuries. The ice dragon did not handle heat well at all, and had several burns across his body. Luckily, it seemed to be nothing he wouldn’t recover from without proper treatment and time. He was less outwardly aggressive than Pyresong, but he caught him watching her with those strange, glowing eyes of his, and occasionally he subtly tugged at the bonds wrapped around him.
Marusya was brought out of his focus by the door swinging open, Nivenor and his father stepping into the room. Nivenor caught a glimpse of the banescale restrained on the cot and froze, while Gryzor brushed past her and swept Marusya up into a strong hug.
“Father!” He yelped indignantly, chuckling into his fur regardless. “I am working. What if I had been doing something delicate?”
“You would’ve managed.” Gryzor said, setting him down again. “We’ve come to take a look at our visitors.”
“There’s nothing much to see. Luckily, our friend here has a thick fur coat. No long lasting damage, but they’ll need to be treated with salves daily until they heal. Our new visitor has minor scrapes and bruising, but nothing that won’t heal within a few days.” Marusya sighed. “Personally, I prefer not to treat patients when they are tied to the healing cots.”
“Normal patients aren’t trying to kill one another, I imagine.” Gryzor sighed, and gestured to Nivenor. “Is this-?”
“A banescale.” Nivenor hovered on the edge of the room. She wavered on the edge between reverence and fear. “It’s- I thought they were wiped out in the war.”
“The fire of homes sing on.” Words poured out of the banescale’s mouth like flame. “Even after our elders are gone.”
“They sing?” Marusya asked.
“It’s an old local tradition from the Great Furnace. Many of the old coatl forgemasters speak the older, local tongue, and plenty of forge songs are derived from it. Modern draconic has been adapted to the same rhythms and tunes there.” Nivenor was hushed. “I learned some of it when I was growing up. Maybe I can-”
Nivenor started, first slowly and awkwardly, to sing. The banescale was quiet at first, but soon seemed to stir and began to respond in kind. Slowly, they began to weave an intricate song, passing the tune back and forth until they both fell silent.
“Her name is- well, the modern draconic translation would be Pyresong. She says she emerged from her slumber from the embers of war, kept warm by the Flameforger’s heart. She says the mother kept- saved her from the frost as a mentor for the new…”
“New what?” Marusya asked, noting the way Frostkeeper was watching them all intently.
“She used the word- it best translates to fire, but originally and in context she meant… Banescales. Eggs. Young ones.”
Silence reigned in the room.
“Your mother is going to hate this.” Gryzor said, making his way to the door. “Well, you best come with us, Marusya. She’ll want to know all the details.”
General Information - Table of Contents - Dragons of Rank - Notes and Scrawlings - Maps and Locations - Clan Affiliates - Credits
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
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Nivenor stood alone at the edge of the shrine, watching the warm flicker of flames.
The Flamecaller’s shrine was a bastion of warmth in the early spring, equal parts forge and hearth. It was a simple building, located near the crafts district of Rivensong's town. Built out of fired clay bricks, sturdy wood, and iron nails- a round, sturdy building with a hole in the top for smoke to escape. An arch, interlaid with golden filigree, depicted the Flamecaller curled around her children.
Nivenor noted that the number of limbs on the banescales were wrong.
The inner shrine was composed of one, simple room. Incense burned in sconces on the wall, or in alcoves filled with offerings left by other dragons. Carved bricks arranged in an intricate circular pattern, interlaid with more gold, surrounded a large fire pit. In the middle of the circular pit was a statue of the Flamecaller, interlaid with jewels, wreathed in ever-burning flames. Pyresong lay at the statue’s feet. She was partially camouflaged by the flames, but dark smoke billowed from her nostrils with every breath.
With the discovery of the banescale, a small council meeting was held- which meant no official decisions could be made by clan leadership, but the meeting was private and all speakers had to be invited personally. Tanja had become outspoken about the idea of exiling both ancients, and any others who may enter clan territory. Amhara had refrained from offering official council to the leaders, but Nivenor knew privately she agreed. Spiritdawn had advocated for imprisonment, and Struve had so far declared this was to be the case. Nivenor respected Gryzor as leader of the guard, but wished that for once he might speak against the wishes of his mate. Capocollo, Cheraw, and Kar had all refrained from giving their council, instead pledging to support the leaders with whatever choice they made. Ozensa had warned against hasty action taken against dragons sent by the deities themselves- a statement that had not gone over well with her friend, Tanja, and ended the meeting in an uproar. Throughout all of it, the dragons kept turning to Nivenor, and each time, Nivenor was at a loss for what to say.
Nivenor grew up in Ashfall Waste, surrounded by stories of the ancient war between fire and ice. She was taught the local coatl tongue, and even some of the formal variations of the language. All in all, though, she had been more concerned with fletching arrows or exploring the forges than studying the lore of her homeland. This was the first time she had even stepped foot in the shrine since coming to live in Rivensong, outside of the Flameforger's Festival.
Nivenor approached the edge of the fire. Pyresong stirred, burning eyes flickering open to fix on her intently. Those eyes burned through her, but Nivenor forced herself to hold the gaze. Slowly, intently, she placed a single gem on the edge of the brick. The heat singed her claws as the light from the fire burst through the gem in a hundred scattered fractals of rainbow light.
“Tell me the story of the Bane Wars.” Nivenor steeled herself. “Sing me the Song of Fire.”
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[size=2][font=Optima][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_3077472]General Information[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593743]Table of Contents[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593771]Dragons of Rank[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593788]Notes and Scrawlings[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593791]Maps and Locations[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593815]Clan Affiliates[/url] - [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3077472#post_49593832]Credits[/url][/size]
The Second Omen IV.
Nivenor stood alone at the edge of the shrine, watching the warm flicker of flames.
The Flamecaller’s shrine was a bastion of warmth in the early spring, equal parts forge and hearth. It was a simple building, located near the crafts district of Rivensong's town. Built out of fired clay bricks, sturdy wood, and iron nails- a round, sturdy building with a hole in the top for smoke to escape. An arch, interlaid with golden filigree, depicted the Flamecaller curled around her children.
Nivenor noted that the number of limbs on the banescales were wrong.
The inner shrine was composed of one, simple room. Incense burned in sconces on the wall, or in alcoves filled with offerings left by other dragons. Carved bricks arranged in an intricate circular pattern, interlaid with more gold, surrounded a large fire pit. In the middle of the circular pit was a statue of the Flamecaller, interlaid with jewels, wreathed in ever-burning flames. Pyresong lay at the statue’s feet. She was partially camouflaged by the flames, but dark smoke billowed from her nostrils with every breath.
With the discovery of the banescale, a small council meeting was held- which meant no official decisions could be made by clan leadership, but the meeting was private and all speakers had to be invited personally. Tanja had become outspoken about the idea of exiling both ancients, and any others who may enter clan territory. Amhara had refrained from offering official council to the leaders, but Nivenor knew privately she agreed. Spiritdawn had advocated for imprisonment, and Struve had so far declared this was to be the case. Nivenor respected Gryzor as leader of the guard, but wished that for once he might speak against the wishes of his mate. Capocollo, Cheraw, and Kar had all refrained from giving their council, instead pledging to support the leaders with whatever choice they made. Ozensa had warned against hasty action taken against dragons sent by the deities themselves- a statement that had not gone over well with her friend, Tanja, and ended the meeting in an uproar. Throughout all of it, the dragons kept turning to Nivenor, and each time, Nivenor was at a loss for what to say.
Nivenor grew up in Ashfall Waste, surrounded by stories of the ancient war between fire and ice. She was taught the local coatl tongue, and even some of the formal variations of the language. All in all, though, she had been more concerned with fletching arrows or exploring the forges than studying the lore of her homeland. This was the first time she had even stepped foot in the shrine since coming to live in Rivensong, outside of the Flameforger's Festival.
Nivenor approached the edge of the fire. Pyresong stirred, burning eyes flickering open to fix on her intently. Those eyes burned through her, but Nivenor forced herself to hold the gaze. Slowly, intently, she placed a single gem on the edge of the brick. The heat singed her claws as the light from the fire burst through the gem in a hundred scattered fractals of rainbow light.
“Tell me the story of the Bane Wars.” Nivenor steeled herself. “Sing me the Song of Fire.”
End.
General Information - Table of Contents - Dragons of Rank - Notes and Scrawlings - Maps and Locations - Clan Affiliates - Credits
Pyrouge | Butch Lesbian | They/She | +1 FR
