@Gn0me
So, first of all, I'm so, so thankful that I get to post this story. I won't go into the details of why I was so on-and-off, but I would like to just assure you again that it was absolutely not your fault in the slightest, and you were incredibly kind to hang onto her for so long. I'm planning on writing her a proper story next, and I've already got a massive art piece of her in the works (which I'll post here, if you'd like to see it?) But here's the summary of her story up until she starts making her way back to Lockesol. At the moment in my lore's timeline, she's very cranky that Lockesol is being assimilated into the fishing village, but seeing her son so excited about the Bazaar being hosted there is helping her tolerate it.
Dune- Heart of ice
A Gaoler who was not born in the Icewarden's domain. Dune's mother sought a better life for her daughter than the servitude that had worn her to dust, and ran to the Earthshakers domain, far enough that the whispers of her betrayal in the darkest corners of her mind were quiet enough to ignore, some days- and far enough that when her daughter opened her eyes, they were brown, not white.
Dune has always hated her for it.
Her instincts did not whisper traitor, or coward, as it was not her choice to leave. But they whispered things she couldn’t quite hear, as if she was standing on the doorstep of some great celebration, and yet couldn’t open the door. It drove her mad. Had she been born in the Icelands, she would have been a general, her connection to her deity so strong she could feel the ice across Sornieth. But her antlers never grew to the towering size of an ice-born Gaoler, and her eyes never shifted from their deep brown.
So she left, with the desperate warnings of her mother still hanging like burrs on her hide. And she trained. She stepped foot in every territory in Sorneith, except for ice. She avoided Arcane, only visiting the very outskirts so she couldn’t see the glaciers rising in the distance. She found that dragons began to avoid her the more she grew, and relished in the newfound realisation that scared dragons don't tend to want trouble.
Until one did. She had always despised any dragon bigger than her, and despised Imperials most of all. She happened upon a clan of fishers, desperate for her to join, as they only had one guard fit to fight- and the guard? A colossal, golden imperial, standing high enough that for the first time, she had to look up while talking to someone. She agreed to help for as long as they didn’t have enough guard dragons, a sliver of her heart still unable to refuse to help a distressed clan. And immediately, began looking for someone who could replace her.
A Gaoler's promise is a curious thing. They can lie just as any dragon does, and yet as soon as an offer to serve is given, they cannot betray it until the deal is done.
And she found her replacement. Witnessing a black Undertide that made Altan look small burst out of the sea and nearly bite a dragon clean in half, she saw the perfect opportunity to obtain a guard that could free her from her promise. As soon as Altan had played the hero and the Undertide slunk back into the water, she followed it. They met on the rocky pools just out of the clans sight, and, her heart hammering, he accepted the offer to take her place. She was free, now.
Free until she met Pyrite, only days before she was planning to leave with the provisions she had collected. Free until she realised she didn’t want to leave the clan, until she started to see the shores of Lockesol as her home.
Free until on an expedition to distant lands to find new dragons, there was a cave in.
Buried under tons of dirt and stone, she was certain that she had died. It took her weeks to scrabble out of her own grave, but finally, she stood in the sun and fresh air, and looked around for her clan, her mate, the dragons she thought would have waited for her. (To her, time had lost all meaning in the caves. To the clan, she had been dead for a long time.)
They had not.
Instead, a different clan, one of weavers and craftsmen, picked her up. They were nothing but kind to her, but Dune saw the root of it- pity. They believed her when she said she had been left behind to die. She hated them with the fury she had once hated Lockesol with, until she found the clans own gaoler. A tiny thing, with burnt orange fur, and a disposition as feisty as hers as a hatchling. And pure white eyes.
He became her son in all but blood. She began to tolerate her new clan, even though the ache of what had been lost still haunted her. She had no skill in weaving or crafting, but learnt enough that when her son surpassed her, she felt nothing but joy. Then there was news. It had become time for the clan to make their yearly trip to the market of the Icelands, to sell the goods they had spent the year compiling. To come with them, she would have to enter the Icewarden's domain.
She did. Not for herself, but for the hatchling steadily growing by her side, who had looked at her with his first expression of terror when he had realised the choice she had yet to make. She couldn’t leave him behind- couldn’t forget him, as she had been forgotten. She stepped onto the ice.
Nothing happened. There were no whispers. No accusations from a godly voice. She was no deserter- she had not ever served the Icewarden in the first place. She was almost entirely beneath his notice.
But there was something that was watching her. As her son gave the clan the slip and ran into the depths of Reclaimers Glacier, as icy dread gripped her heart like claws, as she ran after his rapidly fading trails, she heard a voice.
She had stepped on the grave of Xatia. The first Queen's warrior.
God-killer.
(Quick explanation- Xatia is one of the founders of a Kingdomlocke I'm hoping to do soon! It's set in the middle of ice territory, far away from civilisation- usually, dragons there die lonely deaths, but then all the lost start feeling a tug towards the same cave)
(I've written a little segment for her mate in her bio, too, so I'll pop that here :D)
Dune does not trust many. But Pyrite is one of the very few that remain on the list. Her first reaction to him was disgust- he had been born of ice, had served the Icewarden for most of his life, but had deserted. To her, he had given up her perfect life, and she hated him for it.
However, his endless kindness eventually wore her down enough to listen. Listen to him say the same thing, over and over, without a sliver of deception- that the jail had almost killed him. The Gaolers weren't evil. They were simply born without a longing for the sun, something he was unlucky enough to desire more than anything else. He had to leave, or he would rot away as surely as their prisoners. Dune began to see the courage, not the cowardice. She began to fall in love with him.
And then the cave in. Pyrite still has scars from where Altans claws had dug into him, pulling him away from the collapse. He had screamed bloody murder that they were letting her die, that there was still hope, that he'd wait until he rotted if they wouldn’t. She didn’t hear him. She thought he'd left without a second thought, her worst fears confirmed.
It was years before they met again, after Dune had gained the courage to confront her old clan once more. She wanted closure- she wanted to look them in the eyes and say I survived. You thought I didn’t, but I did.
She wasn’t prepared for Pyrite to start crying.
So, first of all, I'm so, so thankful that I get to post this story. I won't go into the details of why I was so on-and-off, but I would like to just assure you again that it was absolutely not your fault in the slightest, and you were incredibly kind to hang onto her for so long. I'm planning on writing her a proper story next, and I've already got a massive art piece of her in the works (which I'll post here, if you'd like to see it?) But here's the summary of her story up until she starts making her way back to Lockesol. At the moment in my lore's timeline, she's very cranky that Lockesol is being assimilated into the fishing village, but seeing her son so excited about the Bazaar being hosted there is helping her tolerate it.
Dune- Heart of ice
A Gaoler who was not born in the Icewarden's domain. Dune's mother sought a better life for her daughter than the servitude that had worn her to dust, and ran to the Earthshakers domain, far enough that the whispers of her betrayal in the darkest corners of her mind were quiet enough to ignore, some days- and far enough that when her daughter opened her eyes, they were brown, not white.
Dune has always hated her for it.
Her instincts did not whisper traitor, or coward, as it was not her choice to leave. But they whispered things she couldn’t quite hear, as if she was standing on the doorstep of some great celebration, and yet couldn’t open the door. It drove her mad. Had she been born in the Icelands, she would have been a general, her connection to her deity so strong she could feel the ice across Sornieth. But her antlers never grew to the towering size of an ice-born Gaoler, and her eyes never shifted from their deep brown.
So she left, with the desperate warnings of her mother still hanging like burrs on her hide. And she trained. She stepped foot in every territory in Sorneith, except for ice. She avoided Arcane, only visiting the very outskirts so she couldn’t see the glaciers rising in the distance. She found that dragons began to avoid her the more she grew, and relished in the newfound realisation that scared dragons don't tend to want trouble.
Until one did. She had always despised any dragon bigger than her, and despised Imperials most of all. She happened upon a clan of fishers, desperate for her to join, as they only had one guard fit to fight- and the guard? A colossal, golden imperial, standing high enough that for the first time, she had to look up while talking to someone. She agreed to help for as long as they didn’t have enough guard dragons, a sliver of her heart still unable to refuse to help a distressed clan. And immediately, began looking for someone who could replace her.
A Gaoler's promise is a curious thing. They can lie just as any dragon does, and yet as soon as an offer to serve is given, they cannot betray it until the deal is done.
And she found her replacement. Witnessing a black Undertide that made Altan look small burst out of the sea and nearly bite a dragon clean in half, she saw the perfect opportunity to obtain a guard that could free her from her promise. As soon as Altan had played the hero and the Undertide slunk back into the water, she followed it. They met on the rocky pools just out of the clans sight, and, her heart hammering, he accepted the offer to take her place. She was free, now.
Free until she met Pyrite, only days before she was planning to leave with the provisions she had collected. Free until she realised she didn’t want to leave the clan, until she started to see the shores of Lockesol as her home.
Free until on an expedition to distant lands to find new dragons, there was a cave in.
Buried under tons of dirt and stone, she was certain that she had died. It took her weeks to scrabble out of her own grave, but finally, she stood in the sun and fresh air, and looked around for her clan, her mate, the dragons she thought would have waited for her. (To her, time had lost all meaning in the caves. To the clan, she had been dead for a long time.)
They had not.
Instead, a different clan, one of weavers and craftsmen, picked her up. They were nothing but kind to her, but Dune saw the root of it- pity. They believed her when she said she had been left behind to die. She hated them with the fury she had once hated Lockesol with, until she found the clans own gaoler. A tiny thing, with burnt orange fur, and a disposition as feisty as hers as a hatchling. And pure white eyes.
He became her son in all but blood. She began to tolerate her new clan, even though the ache of what had been lost still haunted her. She had no skill in weaving or crafting, but learnt enough that when her son surpassed her, she felt nothing but joy. Then there was news. It had become time for the clan to make their yearly trip to the market of the Icelands, to sell the goods they had spent the year compiling. To come with them, she would have to enter the Icewarden's domain.
She did. Not for herself, but for the hatchling steadily growing by her side, who had looked at her with his first expression of terror when he had realised the choice she had yet to make. She couldn’t leave him behind- couldn’t forget him, as she had been forgotten. She stepped onto the ice.
Nothing happened. There were no whispers. No accusations from a godly voice. She was no deserter- she had not ever served the Icewarden in the first place. She was almost entirely beneath his notice.
But there was something that was watching her. As her son gave the clan the slip and ran into the depths of Reclaimers Glacier, as icy dread gripped her heart like claws, as she ran after his rapidly fading trails, she heard a voice.
She had stepped on the grave of Xatia. The first Queen's warrior.
God-killer.
(Quick explanation- Xatia is one of the founders of a Kingdomlocke I'm hoping to do soon! It's set in the middle of ice territory, far away from civilisation- usually, dragons there die lonely deaths, but then all the lost start feeling a tug towards the same cave)
(I've written a little segment for her mate in her bio, too, so I'll pop that here :D)
Dune does not trust many. But Pyrite is one of the very few that remain on the list. Her first reaction to him was disgust- he had been born of ice, had served the Icewarden for most of his life, but had deserted. To her, he had given up her perfect life, and she hated him for it.
However, his endless kindness eventually wore her down enough to listen. Listen to him say the same thing, over and over, without a sliver of deception- that the jail had almost killed him. The Gaolers weren't evil. They were simply born without a longing for the sun, something he was unlucky enough to desire more than anything else. He had to leave, or he would rot away as surely as their prisoners. Dune began to see the courage, not the cowardice. She began to fall in love with him.
And then the cave in. Pyrite still has scars from where Altans claws had dug into him, pulling him away from the collapse. He had screamed bloody murder that they were letting her die, that there was still hope, that he'd wait until he rotted if they wouldn’t. She didn’t hear him. She thought he'd left without a second thought, her worst fears confirmed.
It was years before they met again, after Dune had gained the courage to confront her old clan once more. She wanted closure- she wanted to look them in the eyes and say I survived. You thought I didn’t, but I did.
She wasn’t prepared for Pyrite to start crying.
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