The large tree that made up the central home for Myrkvidr Clan was silent. They waited. Their leaders had left for war, friends and family as well, and as they all knew, some of them would not make it back. Aramina had taken over their daily coordination, but even she missed the Matriarch of the clan. The youngest of the clan was still a hatchling, luckily too young to understand or much care why so many of them were missing from her daily life. But still, the Clan worried.
Dragons began to filter in, one or two at a time. Parents that had not traveled waited anxiously for their children, grown dragons waiting to see if parents that had left were coming back. Too many were disappointed, or waiting far beyond any time that their loved ones would have arrived. Every so often, news would be passed, someone who fell in battle and whose only hope was to go to the Glademother. Forlorn roars would echo through the trees, the quill of the Record Keeper dripping ink across the pages as she furiously scribbled names and deeds, trying to keep up.
Vatrel and Lyanna wandered into the trees together, their leaves scattered and falling. Even now, the druidic symbols of the Glademother that they wore upon their bodies and brow glowed faintly with green light. They gathered the hatchling Misu to them, to take and explain why her parents would not be returning. Yan and Unblooded, new parents to only one. But now they resided with the Glademother, and Misu would have to grow up under the wings of the Matriarch. The hatchling did not understand, and her wings flapped weakly as she cried to the canopy for her parents.
The Guardian Knights marched through the trees, disciplined and together. Covered in dust, the exhaustion was visible in their bodies. But still they marched with their heads high, armor making soft noises as their heavy steps marched them to their homes. Their leader would wait for the Matriarch, but her mate would have none of it. They dispersed as Nyss pushed Sequoia towards their home, not taking no for an answer. They would rest, shorter than all of the others, and resume their duties far sooner than most. But for now, food and sleep, hoping for no dreams of what they had faced.
Those that were wounded came to the tree of Aramina, for healing and whatever solace she could provide them. She knew that some would not be able to stay, either having grown a taste for war or a desire for peace, and would travel on to the Glademother's home, looking for what they desired. Some would wear new scars like a badge of honour, like the Ridgeback Diana. The scars that covered her rear leg were vivid and deep, but she still showed them to every dragon that had stayed behind, including her mother Enchanter. Her father had enough scars of his own that she would not show him, but he was proud of the warrior she had become none the less.
The Matriarch was last. The furs she wore were stained, covered in dust and dirt. Those that remained waiting parted as she came through, knowing that no one would come after her. She was always the last when the Clan went to war. Those that had waited patiently for brothers, sisters, parents, children... they wandered into their homes or the trees that surrounded them, grieving on their own. They would come together as a Clan when wounds had healed, when warriors had slept, and grieve as one.
Cluster was the last dragon to wait. He had stayed behind to guard a nest he had helped father, but his mate had went to war, to lead their children to battle and blood. As she climbed the steps to their home, he let her lean against him for a moment, their necks wrapping around each other as they stood for a moment. He knew that his mate would weep in silence, far from where her children could see her, but she would take this peace she could get from him now. Finally, she moved away from him, and headed into the hollowed out tree trunk they shared.
Myrkvidr Clan had done their part, but it had taken its toll. Hollowed out trunks that would stand empty for who knew how long, empty flets that had to be cleaned out of their owners possessions eventually, but whoever could stand to do so. Parents that grieved, children that missed their parents, no matter how much of a full grown adult they were now. The Matriarch grieved for all of her children that she had lost, those that were not of her egg and the three that she had hatched herself that had went on to the Green Mother.
But as always, they would survive. Their roots ran too deep for them to wither away so easily, and they would grow. And they would be ready for the next battle.
Dragons began to filter in, one or two at a time. Parents that had not traveled waited anxiously for their children, grown dragons waiting to see if parents that had left were coming back. Too many were disappointed, or waiting far beyond any time that their loved ones would have arrived. Every so often, news would be passed, someone who fell in battle and whose only hope was to go to the Glademother. Forlorn roars would echo through the trees, the quill of the Record Keeper dripping ink across the pages as she furiously scribbled names and deeds, trying to keep up.
Vatrel and Lyanna wandered into the trees together, their leaves scattered and falling. Even now, the druidic symbols of the Glademother that they wore upon their bodies and brow glowed faintly with green light. They gathered the hatchling Misu to them, to take and explain why her parents would not be returning. Yan and Unblooded, new parents to only one. But now they resided with the Glademother, and Misu would have to grow up under the wings of the Matriarch. The hatchling did not understand, and her wings flapped weakly as she cried to the canopy for her parents.
The Guardian Knights marched through the trees, disciplined and together. Covered in dust, the exhaustion was visible in their bodies. But still they marched with their heads high, armor making soft noises as their heavy steps marched them to their homes. Their leader would wait for the Matriarch, but her mate would have none of it. They dispersed as Nyss pushed Sequoia towards their home, not taking no for an answer. They would rest, shorter than all of the others, and resume their duties far sooner than most. But for now, food and sleep, hoping for no dreams of what they had faced.
Those that were wounded came to the tree of Aramina, for healing and whatever solace she could provide them. She knew that some would not be able to stay, either having grown a taste for war or a desire for peace, and would travel on to the Glademother's home, looking for what they desired. Some would wear new scars like a badge of honour, like the Ridgeback Diana. The scars that covered her rear leg were vivid and deep, but she still showed them to every dragon that had stayed behind, including her mother Enchanter. Her father had enough scars of his own that she would not show him, but he was proud of the warrior she had become none the less.
The Matriarch was last. The furs she wore were stained, covered in dust and dirt. Those that remained waiting parted as she came through, knowing that no one would come after her. She was always the last when the Clan went to war. Those that had waited patiently for brothers, sisters, parents, children... they wandered into their homes or the trees that surrounded them, grieving on their own. They would come together as a Clan when wounds had healed, when warriors had slept, and grieve as one.
Cluster was the last dragon to wait. He had stayed behind to guard a nest he had helped father, but his mate had went to war, to lead their children to battle and blood. As she climbed the steps to their home, he let her lean against him for a moment, their necks wrapping around each other as they stood for a moment. He knew that his mate would weep in silence, far from where her children could see her, but she would take this peace she could get from him now. Finally, she moved away from him, and headed into the hollowed out tree trunk they shared.
Myrkvidr Clan had done their part, but it had taken its toll. Hollowed out trunks that would stand empty for who knew how long, empty flets that had to be cleaned out of their owners possessions eventually, but whoever could stand to do so. Parents that grieved, children that missed their parents, no matter how much of a full grown adult they were now. The Matriarch grieved for all of her children that she had lost, those that were not of her egg and the three that she had hatched herself that had went on to the Green Mother.
But as always, they would survive. Their roots ran too deep for them to wither away so easily, and they would grow. And they would be ready for the next battle.
“Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.” ― Vera Nazarian
