[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 3[/font][/size]
[item=golden betta]
[size=3][font=antiqua]food :: battle
seafood :: 30-40 matches[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
Even with just the two of us, resources are scarce, and the Rim is crowded with other piecemeal clans desperate to feed themselves. Spira eats a great deal, and the territory we managed to claim for ourselves is small. My chiefest concern is making certain it continues to support us, which means we need to be careful about how much we take, and how often.
The Wastes are dangerous even in daylight, but we need more than the safety of our territory provides. Little though I like it, venturing into the wildlands is necessary.
Today was a good day for us. Neither of us suffered significant injury, for all we had to fight a great deal while we scavanged for whatever the cataclysm left in the dirt. We have plenty of food for now.
We do not have much barter left because we met a merchant who offered many bits of the old world. Spira insisted on trading much of our barter for a scroll and some clothing for me. I could not find it in me to refuse. Our argument yesterday has made things sour between us, and I do not want to make it worse. If Spira wishes to dress me up, then I will allow it.
We also found an injured hyena that followed us home. Spira was reluctant to let it stay, until it uncovered a buried cache of treasure for us. I hope we find other dragons to join us soon; the isolation is wearing on Spira more than on myself. I fear for her.
[color=transparent]x[/color]
[indent]- [i]Sirrah[/i][/indent]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=60768957][img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/607690/60768957_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
-------
[size=4][font=antiqua]I really do need more dragons, or to change up the madness mechanics, because as things stand each dragon has a 25% chance of going a little madder every day, and that is just too high.
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
Traditionally given out to the second wave of food taste-testers. Many dragons hold onto them rather than eating them.
25
3
food :: battle
seafood :: 30-40 matches
Even with just the two of us, resources are scarce, and the Rim is crowded with other piecemeal clans desperate to feed themselves. Spira eats a great deal, and the territory we managed to claim for ourselves is small. My chiefest concern is making certain it continues to support us, which means we need to be careful about how much we take, and how often.
The Wastes are dangerous even in daylight, but we need more than the safety of our territory provides. Little though I like it, venturing into the wildlands is necessary.
Today was a good day for us. Neither of us suffered significant injury, for all we had to fight a great deal while we scavanged for whatever the cataclysm left in the dirt. We have plenty of food for now.
We do not have much barter left because we met a merchant who offered many bits of the old world. Spira insisted on trading much of our barter for a scroll and some clothing for me. I could not find it in me to refuse. Our argument yesterday has made things sour between us, and I do not want to make it worse. If Spira wishes to dress me up, then I will allow it.
We also found an injured hyena that followed us home. Spira was reluctant to let it stay, until it uncovered a buried cache of treasure for us. I hope we find other dragons to join us soon; the isolation is wearing on Spira more than on myself. I fear for her. x
- Sirrah
I really do need more dragons, or to change up the madness mechanics, because as things stand each dragon has a 25% chance of going a little madder every day, and that is just too high.
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 4[/font][/size]
[item=broad-footed mole]
[size=3][font=antiqua]food :: battle
meat :: 40-50 matches[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
We ranged further into the wastes today. Nothing of note happened. We are growing stronger, though my magic grows no more reliable. If anything, it is warping further.
Part of me hoped that once the initial cataclysm ceased, magic would settle again. So much of the old way of life relied on magic that it cannot be reclaimed without stable magic. I knew the hope was foolish, but I am young, and was born in an era where foolishness was acceptable of hatchlings.
We do not have that luxury now.
Magic is still twisting, warping further from what it was and should be. The great changes have stopped for now, but the small changes continue. I can taste them in the air. Spira can feel them in the ground. The world is still ending. It is just doing so with more subtlety than before.
Spira does not like my new markings anymore. She says they writhe and pulse when she looks at them. I have not seen them do this, but I do not have the best view of them, as we have not yet found an intact mirror.
I hope that they behave as she claims. The alternative is less pleasant, and does not bear thinking of.
[color=transparent]x[/color]
[indent]- [i]Sirrah[/i][/indent]
-------
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
Broad-footed moles will stubbornly dig in the opposite direction of their mate.
50
5
food :: battle
meat :: 40-50 matches
We ranged further into the wastes today. Nothing of note happened. We are growing stronger, though my magic grows no more reliable. If anything, it is warping further.
Part of me hoped that once the initial cataclysm ceased, magic would settle again. So much of the old way of life relied on magic that it cannot be reclaimed without stable magic. I knew the hope was foolish, but I am young, and was born in an era where foolishness was acceptable of hatchlings.
We do not have that luxury now.
Magic is still twisting, warping further from what it was and should be. The great changes have stopped for now, but the small changes continue. I can taste them in the air. Spira can feel them in the ground. The world is still ending. It is just doing so with more subtlety than before.
Spira does not like my new markings anymore. She says they writhe and pulse when she looks at them. I have not seen them do this, but I do not have the best view of them, as we have not yet found an intact mirror.
I hope that they behave as she claims. The alternative is less pleasant, and does not bear thinking of. x
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 5[/font][/size]
[item=shattered ceramic shard]
[size=3][font=antiqua]material :: writing[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
Who's ready for some worldbuilding?
[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/rF6yztc6/map.png[/img][/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua] That big red circle up there? That's all that's left of the Wasteland. Everything beyond it was eaten up by the Contagion, leaving behind a barren, lifeless circle of death and decay. This salted-earth zone and the Contagion work together as a double barrier between the remnants of the Plague flight and the rest of Sornieth: if you manage to survive one, the other will probably still kill you. Most dragons don't bother to try.
No one lairs in the shrunken boneyard, as that part of the Wastes in crawling with mutated disease-ridden animals and beasts, and those dragons mad enough to flee their clans usually don't die right away. All lairs are inside the Rim. The edge of the Rim is taken mainly by the desperate, while the edge of the Wyrmwound belongs to the foolish. The bottom of the Wound cracked when the world ended, draining its contents, but some insist there's something in there. Something powerful, vengeful, and [i]hungry[/i].
Dragons who claim this usually go mad shortly thereafter. Those who have the leisure to speculate are split on whether these claims are an early sign of madness, or if there really [i]is[/i] something in there, and seeing it is what drives those dragons insane.
Plague clans are insular and suspicious, but courteous. Always courteous. Territory lines within the Rim are inviolate and carefully controlled. Tresspassing is punished harshly, as is theft from another clan's stockpile. Beyond the Rim is a free-for-all where anything goes, but inside the Rim is civilized. The clans who lived in the Rim before the end of the world were powerful, large, and protected from the worst of the cataclysm, and they keep the peace through swift, savage justice.
For the most part, the rest of the world has little impact on the Wasteland these days. The exception is to the west, where the Starfall Isles used to sit. Clans who lair on that side of the Rim swear the wall of shimmering crystal in the distance pulses as if in time with a heartbeat, that it flows and undulates like cloth in the breeze, and few will hunt or scavenge to the west unless they have no other choice. The detritus found there is valuable and the food is relatively plentiful, but things not of the Wasteland have been spotted in the distance (only ever close enough to show they don't look quite right), and the world shifts and ripples underfoot sometimes, and occasionally the wind carries with it the barely-audible sound of distant terrified screams.
Some claim that the Plaguebringer's rotted bones lie to the west. Others blame the Arcane flight or the Arcanist. Still others believe that the cataclysm awakened something ancient and eldritch, and the west is where it lairs.
Any and all of these theories could be true. No one is willing to venture out in search of the answer. For now, they're all a bit too busy trying to survive.
-------
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
That big red circle up there? That's all that's left of the Wasteland. Everything beyond it was eaten up by the Contagion, leaving behind a barren, lifeless circle of death and decay. This salted-earth zone and the Contagion work together as a double barrier between the remnants of the Plague flight and the rest of Sornieth: if you manage to survive one, the other will probably still kill you. Most dragons don't bother to try.
No one lairs in the shrunken boneyard, as that part of the Wastes in crawling with mutated disease-ridden animals and beasts, and those dragons mad enough to flee their clans usually don't die right away. All lairs are inside the Rim. The edge of the Rim is taken mainly by the desperate, while the edge of the Wyrmwound belongs to the foolish. The bottom of the Wound cracked when the world ended, draining its contents, but some insist there's something in there. Something powerful, vengeful, and hungry.
Dragons who claim this usually go mad shortly thereafter. Those who have the leisure to speculate are split on whether these claims are an early sign of madness, or if there really is something in there, and seeing it is what drives those dragons insane.
Plague clans are insular and suspicious, but courteous. Always courteous. Territory lines within the Rim are inviolate and carefully controlled. Tresspassing is punished harshly, as is theft from another clan's stockpile. Beyond the Rim is a free-for-all where anything goes, but inside the Rim is civilized. The clans who lived in the Rim before the end of the world were powerful, large, and protected from the worst of the cataclysm, and they keep the peace through swift, savage justice.
For the most part, the rest of the world has little impact on the Wasteland these days. The exception is to the west, where the Starfall Isles used to sit. Clans who lair on that side of the Rim swear the wall of shimmering crystal in the distance pulses as if in time with a heartbeat, that it flows and undulates like cloth in the breeze, and few will hunt or scavenge to the west unless they have no other choice. The detritus found there is valuable and the food is relatively plentiful, but things not of the Wasteland have been spotted in the distance (only ever close enough to show they don't look quite right), and the world shifts and ripples underfoot sometimes, and occasionally the wind carries with it the barely-audible sound of distant terrified screams.
Some claim that the Plaguebringer's rotted bones lie to the west. Others blame the Arcane flight or the Arcanist. Still others believe that the cataclysm awakened something ancient and eldritch, and the west is where it lairs.
Any and all of these theories could be true. No one is willing to venture out in search of the answer. For now, they're all a bit too busy trying to survive.
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 6[/font][/size]
[item=shark tooth spear]
[size=3][font=antiqua]trinket :: writing[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
The earth throbs beneath my feet, shaking in my bones, eating away at my mind. There is. [s]someone[/s] Something. Something in the ground. Or maybe the ground is alive. The air sings with it. I'm
I'm going mad.
I can feel it inside me, feel it tearing away at me, bits and pieces every day. Soon there will be nothing left. I can't. I have to stay, to stay sane, stay with Sirrah. I have to protect him. I have to hold on. To fight.
I can fight. [s]I don't want to.[/s]
I won't fail him. Half my heart [s]was Hess[/s] is buried with Hess. Half is [s]sirrah[/s] still here. I can't won't fail Sirrah.
[s]The Wound is calling me.[/s]
I will be strong. I will fight this. I won't fail Sirrah.
[color=transparent]x[/color]
[indent]- [i]Spira[/i][/indent]
[center][b][s]the wound is calling[/s][/b][/center]
-------
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
The earth throbs beneath my feet, shaking in my bones, eating away at my mind. There is. someone Something. Something in the ground. Or maybe the ground is alive. The air sings with it. I'm
I'm going mad.
I can feel it inside me, feel it tearing away at me, bits and pieces every day. Soon there will be nothing left. I can't. I have to stay, to stay sane, stay with Sirrah. I have to protect him. I have to hold on. To fight.
I can fight. I don't want to.
I won't fail him. Half my heart was Hess is buried with Hess. Half is sirrah still here. I can't won't fail Sirrah.
The Wound is calling me.
I will be strong. I will fight this. I won't fail Sirrah. x
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 6 Supplement[/font][/size]
[item=zeeba]
[size=3][font=antiqua]familiar drop
20 :: 3 :: Mirror
[b]tw[/b]: brief mention of cannibalism[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
Sirrah paused in the act of plucking a wisp fruit roughly as large as his entire head and turned, peering through the shimmering haze.
"What is it?" Spira asked, claws twitching slightly in an involuntary show of agitation.
"I do not know," Sirrah said, finishing removing the fruit from its tree and flying over to deposit it with the rest of their meager harvest, eyes still straining for signs of movement amid the dust and dessicated trees.
Spira turned in the same direction, but her eyes had never been as good as Sirrah's, even before it started to waver and tinge red at the edges. If Sirrah couldn't see it, she definitely couldn't.
Spira had no idea how long they stayed like that, watching blankly, before a thick stand of cindermint rustled and parted to allow a lone Zeeba through into the open.
Before either of them could react to the sudden intrusion, something else blundered through the brush: a Mirror hatchling, clumsy and uncoordinated and probably only a few days old, but still as big as the Zeeba and bigger than Sirrah. It tripped over a root and tumbled wings-over-crest in the dirt, howling with gleeful laughter as it bumped into the Zeeba.
The Zeeba made a noise suspiciously like a put-upon sigh and stepped out of the way, but didn't try to run, watching calmly as the hatchling continue to roll until it rolled right into Spira's leg.
The little thing wiggled right way up and shook its head comically before looking up at Spira, craning its neck further and further until it fell onto its back with another delighted laugh. It twisted its head to look at the Zeeba, pointed at Spira with both forepaws, and announced with utmost confidence: "Dragon!"
Sirrah perched lightly on Spira's shoulder, fins rustling. The hatchling scrambled to its feet with a shriek, bouncing up and down with excitement.
"Tiny dragon! Tiny dragon!"
The Zeeba very definitely heaved an exasperated sigh this time and walked over, headbutting the hatchling in a way that looked less like an attack and more like a nanny admonishing their charge.
"I am very small," Sirrah said calmly. "You are very young."
"Yes!"
"Where are your parents, young one?"
It stopped bouncing, sitting abruptly. "Dead. Mama ate Daddy then the ground ate her."
"I see. You are alone?"
The hatchling pointed at the Zeeba. "Horns is here, too."
"I see," Sirrah repeated. "Only the two of you?" The hatchling nodded. "What is your name, young one?"
"Rhiada," Rhiada said. "Mama named me, then she ate Daddy."
"Wanna travel with us a while?" Spira asked, since she knew that's where Sirrah was heading with all this. "Horns can come, too."
Rhiada perked up, whipping around to stare at Horns until the Zeeba finally nodded.
Then the excited shrieking started again.
"Come on," Spira said with a sigh. "Let's get her back to the Rim so the neighbors can start complaining."
Sirrah rattled his fins again, moving to Spira's other shoulder to continue speaking to Rhiada. Spira started back toward the lair, trailing Rhiada and Horns, and in the back of her mind, under the squirming feeling of wrongness, an echo fo Sirrah asked 'if you die, what reason do I have to live?' and she carefully didn't answer 'Rhiada'.
-------
[center]@Everburn[/center][nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
During the winter months, Zeebas grow a long, thick, woolen coat. This coat has no stripes, and the Zeeba's striking coloring is obscured until late spring.
1900
familiar drop
20 :: 3 :: Mirror
tw: brief mention of cannibalism
Sirrah paused in the act of plucking a wisp fruit roughly as large as his entire head and turned, peering through the shimmering haze.
"What is it?" Spira asked, claws twitching slightly in an involuntary show of agitation.
"I do not know," Sirrah said, finishing removing the fruit from its tree and flying over to deposit it with the rest of their meager harvest, eyes still straining for signs of movement amid the dust and dessicated trees.
Spira turned in the same direction, but her eyes had never been as good as Sirrah's, even before it started to waver and tinge red at the edges. If Sirrah couldn't see it, she definitely couldn't.
Spira had no idea how long they stayed like that, watching blankly, before a thick stand of cindermint rustled and parted to allow a lone Zeeba through into the open.
Before either of them could react to the sudden intrusion, something else blundered through the brush: a Mirror hatchling, clumsy and uncoordinated and probably only a few days old, but still as big as the Zeeba and bigger than Sirrah. It tripped over a root and tumbled wings-over-crest in the dirt, howling with gleeful laughter as it bumped into the Zeeba.
The Zeeba made a noise suspiciously like a put-upon sigh and stepped out of the way, but didn't try to run, watching calmly as the hatchling continue to roll until it rolled right into Spira's leg.
The little thing wiggled right way up and shook its head comically before looking up at Spira, craning its neck further and further until it fell onto its back with another delighted laugh. It twisted its head to look at the Zeeba, pointed at Spira with both forepaws, and announced with utmost confidence: "Dragon!"
Sirrah perched lightly on Spira's shoulder, fins rustling. The hatchling scrambled to its feet with a shriek, bouncing up and down with excitement.
"Tiny dragon! Tiny dragon!"
The Zeeba very definitely heaved an exasperated sigh this time and walked over, headbutting the hatchling in a way that looked less like an attack and more like a nanny admonishing their charge.
"I am very small," Sirrah said calmly. "You are very young."
"Yes!"
"Where are your parents, young one?"
It stopped bouncing, sitting abruptly. "Dead. Mama ate Daddy then the ground ate her."
"I see. You are alone?"
The hatchling pointed at the Zeeba. "Horns is here, too."
"I see," Sirrah repeated. "Only the two of you?" The hatchling nodded. "What is your name, young one?"
"Rhiada," Rhiada said. "Mama named me, then she ate Daddy."
"Wanna travel with us a while?" Spira asked, since she knew that's where Sirrah was heading with all this. "Horns can come, too."
Rhiada perked up, whipping around to stare at Horns until the Zeeba finally nodded.
Then the excited shrieking started again.
"Come on," Spira said with a sigh. "Let's get her back to the Rim so the neighbors can start complaining."
Sirrah rattled his fins again, moving to Spira's other shoulder to continue speaking to Rhiada. Spira started back toward the lair, trailing Rhiada and Horns, and in the back of her mind, under the squirming feeling of wrongness, an echo fo Sirrah asked 'if you die, what reason do I have to live?' and she carefully didn't answer 'Rhiada'.
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 7[/font][/size]
[item=vampire eel]
[size=3][font=antiqua]food :: battle
seafood :: 30-40 matches
match 4 :: tpk[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
"They're not coming back, are they?" Rhiada asked.
Rhiada was young, but she wasn't stupid. She remembered what Mama had done to Daddy. She remembered what had happened to Mama. She remembered the smell of it. She knew what death was and how the Wasteland ate dragons.
She knew Sirrah and Spira weren't going to come back.
Horns huffed at her, butting his head against her shoulder. Horns knew, too.
"Maybe they're just late," Summer said, but Rhiada could tell she didn't even believe herself. "The sun hasn't set yet."
"They're not coming back," Rhiada disagreed. "The Wasteland ate them."
"We don't know that yet," Summer insisted. Rhiada decided she liked the familiars who couldn't talk a bit better than the ones that could.
She didn't move, though. She stayed at the edge of the Rim, sitting still and waiting, because hope was a thing that happened and even though she knew they weren't coming back, she didn't want to know that.
She sat there until the sun was almost touching the horizon and something out in the Wasteland moved.
Fang, the dire hyena that followed Sirrah around everywhere, limped his way toward the safety of the Rim. There was no Sirrah with him. No Spira. Just blood on his fur and a ragged scrap of the bright pretty wrap Sirrah always wore in his jaws, dyed rusty red at the edges.
Rhiada stood and hurried out to meet him, helping him up the Rim and into the den. Once they were inside, he dropped the scrap of fabric into her claws and collapsed, panting into the dust.
"I'm sorry," Summer said quietly.
"It's okay," Rhiada said, carrying the scrap to Sirrah's bed and layin it with the rest of his thing. "The Wasteland just eats dragons sometimes. At least I didn't have to watch this time."
She nudged a few things here and there, making sure everything was just how Sirrah liked it, then crossed to Spira's much bigger bed and climbed in. Fang stood again with Summer's help and climbed in after her, curling up against her side. Horns climbed in, too, settling on her other side. Summer and the Cockatrice they'd never gotten around to naming climbed in, too.
Rhiada laid down in the middle of a little pile of familiars and, even though she said she was fine, cried herself to sleep.
-------
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
"They're not coming back, are they?" Rhiada asked.
Rhiada was young, but she wasn't stupid. She remembered what Mama had done to Daddy. She remembered what had happened to Mama. She remembered the smell of it. She knew what death was and how the Wasteland ate dragons.
She knew Sirrah and Spira weren't going to come back.
Horns huffed at her, butting his head against her shoulder. Horns knew, too.
"Maybe they're just late," Summer said, but Rhiada could tell she didn't even believe herself. "The sun hasn't set yet."
"They're not coming back," Rhiada disagreed. "The Wasteland ate them."
"We don't know that yet," Summer insisted. Rhiada decided she liked the familiars who couldn't talk a bit better than the ones that could.
She didn't move, though. She stayed at the edge of the Rim, sitting still and waiting, because hope was a thing that happened and even though she knew they weren't coming back, she didn't want to know that.
She sat there until the sun was almost touching the horizon and something out in the Wasteland moved.
Fang, the dire hyena that followed Sirrah around everywhere, limped his way toward the safety of the Rim. There was no Sirrah with him. No Spira. Just blood on his fur and a ragged scrap of the bright pretty wrap Sirrah always wore in his jaws, dyed rusty red at the edges.
Rhiada stood and hurried out to meet him, helping him up the Rim and into the den. Once they were inside, he dropped the scrap of fabric into her claws and collapsed, panting into the dust.
"I'm sorry," Summer said quietly.
"It's okay," Rhiada said, carrying the scrap to Sirrah's bed and layin it with the rest of his thing. "The Wasteland just eats dragons sometimes. At least I didn't have to watch this time."
She nudged a few things here and there, making sure everything was just how Sirrah liked it, then crossed to Spira's much bigger bed and climbed in. Fang stood again with Summer's help and climbed in after her, curling up against her side. Horns climbed in, too, settling on her other side. Summer and the Cockatrice they'd never gotten around to naming climbed in, too.
Rhiada laid down in the middle of a little pile of familiars and, even though she said she was fine, cried herself to sleep.
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 7 Supplement[/font][/size]
[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=52585729][img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/525858/52585729_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
An anxious pitious sort of sing-song-y noise drew Joelle off the path she'd picked out for herself today, through the underbrush where the beasties lived.
She knew what she was going to find long before she found it, of course, because there was a certain stinging metallic undertone to dragon blood that beastie blood didn't have. Corpses weren't new to her, not anymore, and she normally didn't bother about them, but there was that noise to consider.
Her end goal did indeed turn out to be dragon corpses: two of them, Guardian and Fae, no sign of a third. Tricky and risky in these parts, to be out at less than full strength.
(She was a runner-hider, that was different. She didn't fight beasties, she got away from them right quick, and one was faster than more.)
The curious noise came from a wispy watery spirit anchored to a glowing watery gem fastened around the Guardian's neck. The tiny thing was crying in a voice not built for that and clinging to a blood-streaked scale.
"Oh, little starfall," Joelle said, sighing.
The spirit turned and warbled at her in heartbroken sorrow.
"I'm sorry, moonbeam," she said gently. "They're dead."
The little thing continued to cry.
Joelle reached down and carefully broke the chain around the gem, picking it up. "Come along, then," she said. "Do you know where your lair is? A Guardian's a bit much for me to bury, but I can at least pass on the news so they aren't stuck wondering."
The spirit moved away slightly. Joelle cradled the gem carefully in her foreclaws and followed it.
It took hours, slipping around the beasties and avoiding spots that smelled dangerous. It took her far off her path and into the deeper wasteland, to the great rotted rim where the Plaguelings all had their homes now. Up and over and inside, and some of them stared but none of them said a word, so Joelle kept going.
The lair the spirit led her to was dark and looked empty for a long moment as Joelle peered through the dusk-shadows, until she spied a shape in the biggest of the three nests. She moved toward it but stopped short when a pair of green-glowing eyes and a matching mouth full of fangs rose from the heap to glare at her.
"Wazz't, Fang?" A high sleepy voice asked.
The little spirit burst out in wavering blue light and strained toward the nest, where the heap dissolved into a number of familiars huddled around a single Mirror hatchie.
"Gem!" the hatchie exclaimed, flailing toward the nest edge to snatch the gem from Joelle's claws and hold it close. "Who're you?"
"My name's Joelle, starmoss," she said. "Where's the rest of your clan?"
[i]Please don't say it was only the three of you, Glowstar, I can't handle that kind of heartbreak this time of night.[/i]
"They died today," the hatchie said, as if that was a normal, not awful thing to happen. "Thanks for bringing Gem back."
"You're all alone here?"
"Horns and Summer and Fang and 'Trice and Gem are here."
"There are no other dragons left in your clan?"
"Nope. Just me again."
"Who will hunt for you?"
"I guess Fang, once he's healed up? Fang's a good hunter."
Fang bared his fangs at Joelle and snuggled back down against the hatchie. Now that she looked, his side and neck and three of his legs were crudely bandaged. He must've fought hard to make it back to the poor little hatchie.
"Who'll hunt for Fang while he's healing up?"
"I dunno."
"That won't do, starmoss," Joelle said. "We can't just let him be hungry."
"Well who d'you think should hunt for him, then?"
Joelle pretended to think for a moment, drifting in a lazy loop. "How about me, starmoss?"
"Why do you keep calling me Starmoss?" the hatchie asked with a giggle. It still sounded a little wet and halfway full of grief, but it was better than nothing. "My name's Rhiada."
"Are you sure?" Joelle asked. "I'm pretty sure your name's Starmoss."
Rhiada giggled again. "No, it's not!"
"Are you really really sure?"
"Yes!"
"If you're sure..." Joelle righted herself and finally landed, draping herself over the edge of the nest. "Okay, then, Rhiada. You go back to sleep. I'll take care of everything."
Poor little hatchie was tired and grieving and so so young, and she flopped back down in her pile of familiars and fell right back to sleep.
[i]You get some rest, starmoss,[/i] Joelle thought with a smile as 'Gem' dimmed herself down to a soft glow. [i]I'll take care of you.[/i]
-------
It's not cheating if other people give me dragons unprompted, right?
[center]@Everburn[/center][nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
An anxious pitious sort of sing-song-y noise drew Joelle off the path she'd picked out for herself today, through the underbrush where the beasties lived.
She knew what she was going to find long before she found it, of course, because there was a certain stinging metallic undertone to dragon blood that beastie blood didn't have. Corpses weren't new to her, not anymore, and she normally didn't bother about them, but there was that noise to consider.
Her end goal did indeed turn out to be dragon corpses: two of them, Guardian and Fae, no sign of a third. Tricky and risky in these parts, to be out at less than full strength.
(She was a runner-hider, that was different. She didn't fight beasties, she got away from them right quick, and one was faster than more.)
The curious noise came from a wispy watery spirit anchored to a glowing watery gem fastened around the Guardian's neck. The tiny thing was crying in a voice not built for that and clinging to a blood-streaked scale.
"Oh, little starfall," Joelle said, sighing.
The spirit turned and warbled at her in heartbroken sorrow.
"I'm sorry, moonbeam," she said gently. "They're dead."
The little thing continued to cry.
Joelle reached down and carefully broke the chain around the gem, picking it up. "Come along, then," she said. "Do you know where your lair is? A Guardian's a bit much for me to bury, but I can at least pass on the news so they aren't stuck wondering."
The spirit moved away slightly. Joelle cradled the gem carefully in her foreclaws and followed it.
It took hours, slipping around the beasties and avoiding spots that smelled dangerous. It took her far off her path and into the deeper wasteland, to the great rotted rim where the Plaguelings all had their homes now. Up and over and inside, and some of them stared but none of them said a word, so Joelle kept going.
The lair the spirit led her to was dark and looked empty for a long moment as Joelle peered through the dusk-shadows, until she spied a shape in the biggest of the three nests. She moved toward it but stopped short when a pair of green-glowing eyes and a matching mouth full of fangs rose from the heap to glare at her.
"Wazz't, Fang?" A high sleepy voice asked.
The little spirit burst out in wavering blue light and strained toward the nest, where the heap dissolved into a number of familiars huddled around a single Mirror hatchie.
"Gem!" the hatchie exclaimed, flailing toward the nest edge to snatch the gem from Joelle's claws and hold it close. "Who're you?"
"My name's Joelle, starmoss," she said. "Where's the rest of your clan?"
Please don't say it was only the three of you, Glowstar, I can't handle that kind of heartbreak this time of night.
"They died today," the hatchie said, as if that was a normal, not awful thing to happen. "Thanks for bringing Gem back."
"You're all alone here?"
"Horns and Summer and Fang and 'Trice and Gem are here."
"There are no other dragons left in your clan?"
"Nope. Just me again."
"Who will hunt for you?"
"I guess Fang, once he's healed up? Fang's a good hunter."
Fang bared his fangs at Joelle and snuggled back down against the hatchie. Now that she looked, his side and neck and three of his legs were crudely bandaged. He must've fought hard to make it back to the poor little hatchie.
"Who'll hunt for Fang while he's healing up?"
"I dunno."
"That won't do, starmoss," Joelle said. "We can't just let him be hungry."
"Well who d'you think should hunt for him, then?"
Joelle pretended to think for a moment, drifting in a lazy loop. "How about me, starmoss?"
"Why do you keep calling me Starmoss?" the hatchie asked with a giggle. It still sounded a little wet and halfway full of grief, but it was better than nothing. "My name's Rhiada."
"Are you sure?" Joelle asked. "I'm pretty sure your name's Starmoss."
Rhiada giggled again. "No, it's not!"
"Are you really really sure?"
"Yes!"
"If you're sure..." Joelle righted herself and finally landed, draping herself over the edge of the nest. "Okay, then, Rhiada. You go back to sleep. I'll take care of everything."
Poor little hatchie was tired and grieving and so so young, and she flopped back down in her pile of familiars and fell right back to sleep.
You get some rest, starmoss, Joelle thought with a smile as 'Gem' dimmed herself down to a soft glow. I'll take care of you.
It's not cheating if other people give me dragons unprompted, right?
[columns][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][nextcol][center][size=7][font=gabriola]Day 8[/font][/size]
[item=roan mouse]
[size=3][font=antiqua]food :: battle
meat :: 40-50 matches[/center]
[size=4][font=antiqua]-------
While it was certainly possible for two dragons to live off a bit of thrifty gathering, Joelle knew that was a lean lifestyle, and no way for a growing hatchie to eat. Rhiada had so much growing left to do, and she couldn't very well do it on an empty stomach!
Still, she understood why Rhiada watched her sadly while she settled her bags. Between Summer the Dryad and Rhiada, Joelle had something of a general picture of Rhiada's short and frankly ridiculously tragic life so far, and she didn't judge her little starmoss in the least for assuming there was a pattern here.
Joelle slid across the cave and wrapped herself around Rhiada, flapping all her wings as if trying to lift her, then 'collapsed' with an overdramatic [i]oof![/i]
"Nothing for it, starmoss," she said. "You'll just have to walk."
"Walk where?"
"Outside, of course. We just found out for sure I can't carry you."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to teach you how to hunt," Joelle informed her. "You're getting big enough, and we'll stick to easy prey, but you need to start pulling your own weight." She flapped her wings again for emphasis and groaned theatrically. "Nope, still can't pull it for you."
Rhiada scrambled to her feet without letting Joelle get off and scrambled for the entrance before stopping short so Joelle pitched over her head and landed in a tumbled heap. "But Fang!"
"Summer can look after Fang," Joelle assured her reasonably. "She and 'Trice between them can keep him in line."
Rhiada, bless her loyal little heart, still looked conflicted.
"We'll bring him a nice fat webwing," Joelle said. "That should help him recover."
Fang barked once. It was hard to tell if it was in agreement or derision. Either way, that seemed to decide things for Rhiada.
"C'mon, c'mon, get up get up, let's go!"
Joelle laughed, untangling herself from herself and getting airborne again. "Come along, then, starmoss- let's go catch Fang a redwing."
-------
[center][size=3][font=antiqua]@Everburn @CleverTrick[/font][/size][/center]
[nextcol][color=transparent]xxxxx[/color][/columns]
The Roan Mouse is considered a fancier variety of mouse, yet it tastes like any other.
20
2
food :: battle
meat :: 40-50 matches
While it was certainly possible for two dragons to live off a bit of thrifty gathering, Joelle knew that was a lean lifestyle, and no way for a growing hatchie to eat. Rhiada had so much growing left to do, and she couldn't very well do it on an empty stomach!
Still, she understood why Rhiada watched her sadly while she settled her bags. Between Summer the Dryad and Rhiada, Joelle had something of a general picture of Rhiada's short and frankly ridiculously tragic life so far, and she didn't judge her little starmoss in the least for assuming there was a pattern here.
Joelle slid across the cave and wrapped herself around Rhiada, flapping all her wings as if trying to lift her, then 'collapsed' with an overdramatic oof!
"Nothing for it, starmoss," she said. "You'll just have to walk."
"Walk where?"
"Outside, of course. We just found out for sure I can't carry you."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to teach you how to hunt," Joelle informed her. "You're getting big enough, and we'll stick to easy prey, but you need to start pulling your own weight." She flapped her wings again for emphasis and groaned theatrically. "Nope, still can't pull it for you."
Rhiada scrambled to her feet without letting Joelle get off and scrambled for the entrance before stopping short so Joelle pitched over her head and landed in a tumbled heap. "But Fang!"
"Summer can look after Fang," Joelle assured her reasonably. "She and 'Trice between them can keep him in line."
Rhiada, bless her loyal little heart, still looked conflicted.
"We'll bring him a nice fat webwing," Joelle said. "That should help him recover."
Fang barked once. It was hard to tell if it was in agreement or derision. Either way, that seemed to decide things for Rhiada.
"C'mon, c'mon, get up get up, let's go!"
Joelle laughed, untangling herself from herself and getting airborne again. "Come along, then, starmoss- let's go catch Fang a redwing."
