Tales of the Lost
The Stories of the lost members of the clan are kept by _____, that they might never be forgotten. Some of them are kept here.
Siennia
Roleplay
Tell stories and roleplay in the world of Flight Rising.
TOPIC | [Private] Tales of the Lost
Tales of the Lost
The Stories of the lost members of the clan are kept by _____, that they might never be forgotten. Some of them are kept here.
The Stories of the lost members of the clan are kept by _____, that they might never be forgotten. Some of them are kept here.
[center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/111015/11101403_350.png?mtime=ZAAAAAAAAAA.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XEM5qlc.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ENF4NJH.png[/img][font=Book Antiqua][size=4][size=5][color=#292929]"Destinies are Troublesome Things"[/color][/size][img]http://i.imgur.com/HcLmuty.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/l3kRBf2.png[/img][/center]
[color=#292929][font=century][size=5]M[/size]erlin's destiny weighs on him. He was supposed to bring about change, to help create a Golden Age. He was supposed to [i]protect[/i]. And he had, for a while.
[size=5]F[/size]or those few years, he had been Arthur's right arm; the secret weapon he had never known he'd had.
[size=5]N[/size]ow that was over. Arthur was gone. But Arthur would return. He would rise again when Albion's need was at it's greatest. So Merlin would wait. He would wait for Arthur to call him back, to make him whole once more.
[size=5]I[/size]n the meantime, he has found a place in Ista as a healer. None of the other dragons seem to see anything unusual about him, questioning neither his past, nor his unusual gifts. He's grateful for that. He finds Vela a difficult subject, however; she seems to look through him as often as she looks at him, and though she takes great delight in taunting the other clan members about their futures, with him her eyes are only ever melancholy. He's glad she doesn't require treatment too often.
[size=5]H[/size]e wondered if it was selfish to hope that Arthur would be needed soon. [/font][/color]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/1vtchYM.png[/img][/center]
"Destinies are Troublesome Things"
For those few years, he had been Arthur's right arm; the secret weapon he had never known he'd had.
Now that was over. Arthur was gone. But Arthur would return. He would rise again when Albion's need was at it's greatest. So Merlin would wait. He would wait for Arthur to call him back, to make him whole once more.
In the meantime, he has found a place in Ista as a healer. None of the other dragons seem to see anything unusual about him, questioning neither his past, nor his unusual gifts. He's grateful for that. He finds Vela a difficult subject, however; she seems to look through him as often as she looks at him, and though she takes great delight in taunting the other clan members about their futures, with him her eyes are only ever melancholy. He's glad she doesn't require treatment too often.
He wondered if it was selfish to hope that Arthur would be needed soon.
Siennia
[center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/45476/4547561_350.png?mtime=ZAAAAAAAAAA.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XEM5qlc.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ENF4NJH.png[/img][font=Book Antiqua][size=4][size=5][color=#292929]"Maleficent, these are [i]not[/i] a raven's wings!"[/color][/size][img]http://i.imgur.com/HcLmuty.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/l3kRBf2.png[/img][/center]
[color=#292929][font=century][size=5]O[/size]nce upon a time, Diaval was a raven. In another world, far beyond the boundaries of Sornieth's magic, he had reveled in the strength of his wings, the elegant turns of his form through the air. He was king of the skies, in his own way. But on the ground was another matter.
[size=5]A[/size] farmer - a [i]man[/i]. He was nearly defeated by a man. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it now - caught him in his net and determined that he would suffer for all the sins of his kind. But something stopped him in his tracks. Fairy magic is not something that can be described, once you have experienced it. Light and heavy all at once, the magic swirled around him and transformed him, for the first time, into the shape of a man.
[size=5]A[/size]nd so he met Maleficent.
[size=5]T[/size]heir story together is a long one. First he was her wings. Then, in the years of waiting, he was her confidante. He won her friendship, watching Aurora grow, and kept her trust close to his heart after Aurora turned sixteen.
[size=5]D[/size]iaval was Maleficent's eyes and ears, her spy and advisor, her man of business and her agitated pet. But magic is a complicated affair, and not even fairies can know what will happen when one spell collides with another.
[size=5]T[/size]he result is this: Diaval trapped in another world, struggling to survive in a land that does not best favour ravens, no matter how large their wings. The one blessing in the whole affair is that, as they had been at war, he had taken the form of a dragon. He fit in admirably well, now.
[size=5]M[/size]aleficent, he knows, is searching for a way to bring him home, to drag him from the jaws of defeat as she has done so many times before. Sometimes the boundary between is so [i]thin[/i] he can hear her voice. Those are the good nights.
[size=5]B[/size]ut some days, he finds it increasingly difficult to hope. [/font][/color]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/1vtchYM.png[/img]
[img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/7dbe42e32c95e9dc78034fdf6a6a70f4/tumblr_ohsecsZZ3h1tc910vo1_r1_540.png[/img]
[img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/582496e6374d51f98e7dd481cb7fc225/tumblr_only25bJeY1uzoyiao3_250.png[/img]
(Art by [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=238711]Neowulf[/url] and [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=view&tab=userpage&id=59902]Birdskull[/url])
"Maleficent, these are not a raven's wings!"
A farmer - a man. He was nearly defeated by a man. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it now - caught him in his net and determined that he would suffer for all the sins of his kind. But something stopped him in his tracks. Fairy magic is not something that can be described, once you have experienced it. Light and heavy all at once, the magic swirled around him and transformed him, for the first time, into the shape of a man.
And so he met Maleficent.
Their story together is a long one. First he was her wings. Then, in the years of waiting, he was her confidante. He won her friendship, watching Aurora grow, and kept her trust close to his heart after Aurora turned sixteen.
Diaval was Maleficent's eyes and ears, her spy and advisor, her man of business and her agitated pet. But magic is a complicated affair, and not even fairies can know what will happen when one spell collides with another.
The result is this: Diaval trapped in another world, struggling to survive in a land that does not best favour ravens, no matter how large their wings. The one blessing in the whole affair is that, as they had been at war, he had taken the form of a dragon. He fit in admirably well, now.
Maleficent, he knows, is searching for a way to bring him home, to drag him from the jaws of defeat as she has done so many times before. Sometimes the boundary between is so thin he can hear her voice. Those are the good nights.
But some days, he finds it increasingly difficult to hope.
Siennia
[center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/318742/31874135_350.png?mtime=ZAAAAAAAAAA.png[/img]
[/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XEM5qlc.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ENF4NJH.png[/img][font=Book Antiqua][size=4][size=5][color=#292929]"A pro isn't someone who sacrifices himself for the job. That's just a fool"[/color][/size][img]http://i.imgur.com/HcLmuty.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/l3kRBf2.png[/img][/center]
[color=#292929][font=century]
[size=5]W[/size]hen Iostrom was small, he dreamed of heroism. Of striding onto a battlefield and having the enemy fall back in awe and respect, of his clanmates calling on him when they were in trouble, when they needed advice. He dreamed of being a leader, a warrior, a catalyst.
[size=5]T[/size]hat was before he'd really thought about what being a hero meant. What others wanted to be saved from. What [i]he[/i] wanted to be saved from.
They came in the night, because [i]of course[/i] they did. Six of them, he thought, huge and armoured and silent as mist. And they'd grinned at him as they'd walked past, one after the other. They'd grinned, and they'd disappeared, and the screaming had started and he ran, he [i]ran[/i]-
All his dreams of heroism, of respect and power, clung to him like blood from an old kill, polluting his every thought and breath. He was a coward. and someday he would have to serve penance for that. Every night, he waited, eyes shut, eyes open, but nothing happened. He went on, lived. He found an apprenticeship and breezed through it in a daze, constantly looking over his shoulder, or casting worried looks at the sky.
In the end, it was possibly the most anticlimactic moment of his life. He'd been looking over the seeds for the stall - fresh from the Labyrinth itself, the stand claimed, though Iostrom had been tending them behind the safety of the ruined wall six feet away - and glancing up, his heart froze as he recognised the face.
[/columns][color=#292929][font=century]
Two years of running, and that grin was still the same.
The nightmare came towards him, smaller without its armour, diminished by the daylight, and all the more terrifying because [i]no one else seemed to see[/i]. Around him, folk bustled past, chasing birds and cats and ragepuffs, escaped from the next stall but one. Sellers called buyers for flowers, for fish, for fancies, and no one noticed the hulking mass of evil in their midst.
Closer, closer, and Iostrom [i]couldn't move[/i], couldn't bring himself to leave the safety of his stall, now the moment had finally come.
The ridgeback, wild-eyed and [i]still grinning[/i], keepers damn him began to spread its wings, points of sharp metal jutting forward where there should have been bone, towering over him. Iostrom closed his eyes.
He heard a hiss, felt the wind against his throat, cringed back against the wall -
Nothing happened. No pain, no slicing horror.
He heard a deep, rumbling laugh somewhere close by, and opened his eyes.
The nightmare was gone. In its place, an enormous black imperial was half-curled in the sunlight, sprawled out before the stall.
"So you're [i]that[/i] one, are you? I shouldn't worry. They'll bother you no more."
-------------------
These days, Iostrom spends most of his time in the small cavern that had once been Shirda's, before she had taken flight. He's put what's left of her old supplies to good use, though his work isn't as precise or as intricate as hers. He prefers broad sweeps of colour to intense detail, painting his fears and insecurities in great arcs of red and grey and green, an impression of an image, rather than a recreation.
He paints his relationships, too: bright yellows and orange and pink for his blossoming friendship with Paneshel; subdued blues and golds for his saviour, Tarel, who rarely visits but often approves of his work. He's found a camaraderie with Sobarynik, too: the pain of shared experience drawing them together.
His life still isn't perfect. Nightmares keep him awake as many nights as they don't, and the voice in the back of his mind tells him constantly what a burden he is, how unwanted and spare he is compared to the others, but he tries his best to push the voice into his paints and out onto his canvas, whatever that might be.
He has friends who care for him, a passion that makes him smile, and an affectionate clan who are always willing to lend a strong shoulder to cry on, or to hold up the ceiling when it falls in.
He doesn't [i]have[/i] to be a hero, here. But someday, he vows, he'll be better.
[/font][/color]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/1vtchYM.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ldbf8dW.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=2][color=#292929][i]Bio template by @Mibella, find it [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/1895073]here[/url].[/i][/color][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://78.media.tumblr.com/1a675c2e70384162c0ecdb21319ec616/tumblr_p6dhqbugeU1uzoyiao1_400.png[/img]
(Quoting FFVII)
"A pro isn't someone who sacrifices himself for the job. That's just a fool"
When Iostrom was small, he dreamed of heroism. Of striding onto a battlefield and having the enemy fall back in awe and respect, of his clanmates calling on him when they were in trouble, when they needed advice. He dreamed of being a leader, a warrior, a catalyst.
That was before he'd really thought about what being a hero meant. What others wanted to be saved from. What he wanted to be saved from.
They came in the night, because of course they did. Six of them, he thought, huge and armoured and silent as mist. And they'd grinned at him as they'd walked past, one after the other. They'd grinned, and they'd disappeared, and the screaming had started and he ran, he ran-
All his dreams of heroism, of respect and power, clung to him like blood from an old kill, polluting his every thought and breath. He was a coward. and someday he would have to serve penance for that. Every night, he waited, eyes shut, eyes open, but nothing happened. He went on, lived. He found an apprenticeship and breezed through it in a daze, constantly looking over his shoulder, or casting worried looks at the sky.
In the end, it was possibly the most anticlimactic moment of his life. He'd been looking over the seeds for the stall - fresh from the Labyrinth itself, the stand claimed, though Iostrom had been tending them behind the safety of the ruined wall six feet away - and glancing up, his heart froze as he recognised the face.
[/columns]
Two years of running, and that grin was still the same.
The nightmare came towards him, smaller without its armour, diminished by the daylight, and all the more terrifying because no one else seemed to see. Around him, folk bustled past, chasing birds and cats and ragepuffs, escaped from the next stall but one. Sellers called buyers for flowers, for fish, for fancies, and no one noticed the hulking mass of evil in their midst.
Closer, closer, and Iostrom couldn't move, couldn't bring himself to leave the safety of his stall, now the moment had finally come.
The ridgeback, wild-eyed and still grinning, keepers damn him began to spread its wings, points of sharp metal jutting forward where there should have been bone, towering over him. Iostrom closed his eyes.
He heard a hiss, felt the wind against his throat, cringed back against the wall -
Nothing happened. No pain, no slicing horror.
He heard a deep, rumbling laugh somewhere close by, and opened his eyes.
The nightmare was gone. In its place, an enormous black imperial was half-curled in the sunlight, sprawled out before the stall.
"So you're that one, are you? I shouldn't worry. They'll bother you no more."
These days, Iostrom spends most of his time in the small cavern that had once been Shirda's, before she had taken flight. He's put what's left of her old supplies to good use, though his work isn't as precise or as intricate as hers. He prefers broad sweeps of colour to intense detail, painting his fears and insecurities in great arcs of red and grey and green, an impression of an image, rather than a recreation.
He paints his relationships, too: bright yellows and orange and pink for his blossoming friendship with Paneshel; subdued blues and golds for his saviour, Tarel, who rarely visits but often approves of his work. He's found a camaraderie with Sobarynik, too: the pain of shared experience drawing them together.
His life still isn't perfect. Nightmares keep him awake as many nights as they don't, and the voice in the back of his mind tells him constantly what a burden he is, how unwanted and spare he is compared to the others, but he tries his best to push the voice into his paints and out onto his canvas, whatever that might be.
He has friends who care for him, a passion that makes him smile, and an affectionate clan who are always willing to lend a strong shoulder to cry on, or to hold up the ceiling when it falls in.
He doesn't have to be a hero, here. But someday, he vows, he'll be better.
(Quoting FFVII)
Siennia
[center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/253220/25321905_350.png?mtime=ZAAAAAAAAAA.png[/img]
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[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XEM5qlc.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ENF4NJH.png[/img][font=Book Antiqua][size=4][size=5][color=#292929][i]Dark Lights from the Shadows[/i][/color][/size][img]http://i.imgur.com/HcLmuty.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/l3kRBf2.png[/img][/center]
[color=#292929][font=century][size=5]T[/size]here are some things that should never be uncovered, some doors better left locked. In attempting to contact the world beyond, Effessia opened one such door. Now, in the darkness of the Sea, lurks a creature from the world Between.
[size=5]P[/size]erhaps it was once a dragon. Perhaps it was once the trapped soul of an Emperor. But the past is the past, and now it is teeth and eyes and amusement.
[size=5]I[/size]t's careful, for now, not to let itself be seen. There's a Soulwatch looking for it, and it doesn't want to play it's hand too soon, but Alcia is so delicious to taunt, it often can't resist.
[size=5]M[/size]ost of the time it lets the clan continue on, content to watch and wait, gathering all it knows about them. It bides it's time, avoiding the pesky Soulwatch and her ghostly counterpart as best it can, letting them faff and flounder and cast their petty spells.
[size=5]S[/size]oon enough, there will be time for all that it has planned, and the dragons of Ista will learn to cower before it.
[center][size=5]But not quite yet...[/center][/size][/font][/color]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/1vtchYM.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/WQUzpsu.png[/img]
(Adopt by Kurayami)
(Quoting [i]Wolf Brother[/i])
Dark Lights from the Shadows
Perhaps it was once a dragon. Perhaps it was once the trapped soul of an Emperor. But the past is the past, and now it is teeth and eyes and amusement.
It's careful, for now, not to let itself be seen. There's a Soulwatch looking for it, and it doesn't want to play it's hand too soon, but Alcia is so delicious to taunt, it often can't resist.
Most of the time it lets the clan continue on, content to watch and wait, gathering all it knows about them. It bides it's time, avoiding the pesky Soulwatch and her ghostly counterpart as best it can, letting them faff and flounder and cast their petty spells.
Soon enough, there will be time for all that it has planned, and the dragons of Ista will learn to cower before it.
But not quite yet...
(Adopt by Kurayami)
(Quoting Wolf Brother)
Siennia
[center][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/51861/5186068_350.png?mtime=ZAAAAAAAAAA.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XEM5qlc.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/ENF4NJH.png[/img][font=Book Antiqua][size=4][size=5][color=#292929]"My Goooold..."[/color][/size][img]http://i.imgur.com/HcLmuty.png[/img][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/l3kRBf2.png[/img][/center]
[color=#292929][font=century][size=5]S[/size]asaldier didn’t really intend to become the clan’s treasurer. He liked the coins; they were shiny and glittery, just like him, and at first he simply started to hoard them, sometimes going so far as to steal them from Arandar and Lafiris as they headed out to trade, only to tuck the cold treasure under him, feel it’s smooth shiny surface against his skin.
[size=5]H[/size]e wasn’t sure who ratted him out - probably Von, or Sapphire, the self-named morality compasses of the group - but somewhere down the line, other dragons actively started giving him the treasure.
[size=5]H[/size]e wasn’t upset about it, really. If they wanted to give him a gift, well, who was he to stop them? But he started to feel a bit bad about it when even the hatchlings would toddle proudly up to him and nudge coins and gems across with their noses and their stubby claws.
[size=5]N[/size]ot that he refused them, of course. Couldn’t be rude, could he?
[size=5]T[/size]hen, eventually, there came a day when a group of hatchlings started to hover nervously about him. They shifted their wings and twisted their elegant necks - skydancers, all. Ramoth and Mnementh’s latest brood, he noted - until eventually he sighed and asked them what they wanted, exactly.
[size=5]“W[/size]e were wondering, Sas- um, sir, if we could… borrow some of your money?”
[size=5]S[/size]he said it so quietly that by the end it had become an unintelligible squeak, but he heard it, just about.
[size=5]A[/size]pparently, a game had gotten out of hand, and they had ruined their brother’s favourite toy: a little jackalope that Styrkur had given him before he… Before he’d left. The hatchling was apparently distraught, and although he said it was alright, that he didn’t blame them and it was ‘just a toy’, he hadn’t stopped crying since.
[size=5]“W[/size]e wanted to see if we could get him a new one,” the apparent ringleader explained, high voice still quivering with nerves. “We tried to make one ourselves, but we… Um.”
[size=5]“I[/size]t’s harder than it looks”, her brother finished.
[size=5]I[/size]t would be so easy to say no, Sasaldier mused. He was so much bigger than them, he could probably send them packing with a well-timed glare or two, but…
[size=5]T[/size]ruthfully, he’d seen their absent fourth, lurking about the lair. A pretty little thing, all dappled and golden, like his mother, and once just as vibrant. Now he always seemed so miserable.
[size=5]I[/size]t wasn’t a difficult decision to make.
[size=5]H[/size]e counted up his money and handed the right amount carefully - with strict instructions - to Lux, the ringleader.
[size=5]T[/size]hat evening, Kandofri had smiled for the first time in days, radiating joy like a small sun, clutching tight to his new toy.
[size=5]T[/size]he next time someone asked Sas for money - for some gear or other that Andele simply could not do without - he started making lists.
[size=5]A[/size]nd that was how it began.
[size=5]B[/size]orn in the Starry Isles 'Sassy', as he likes to be called, is an avid reader. He likes to read of battles and triumphs from other clans, and has even been known to pick up the odd romance, should the mood take him. He gets most of his texts from Farshantir's extensive library and takes a perverse pleasure in doing so without her knowledge or permission.
[size=5]I[/size]n retaliation, Farshantir has taken to calling him Mordred and asking where his Thrashers are. He's sure it's a reference to [i]something[/i], but he hasn't found the book yet.
[size=5]S[/size]asaldier's assistant is Ashok, who seems to have something wrong with his eyes. The coatl is constantly exercising them, rolling them to the ceiling and back. Sasaldier has advised him several times to see Merlin about it, but the condition only seems to be getting worse. [/font][/color]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/1vtchYM.png[/img]
"My Goooold..."
He wasn’t sure who ratted him out - probably Von, or Sapphire, the self-named morality compasses of the group - but somewhere down the line, other dragons actively started giving him the treasure.
He wasn’t upset about it, really. If they wanted to give him a gift, well, who was he to stop them? But he started to feel a bit bad about it when even the hatchlings would toddle proudly up to him and nudge coins and gems across with their noses and their stubby claws.
Not that he refused them, of course. Couldn’t be rude, could he?
Then, eventually, there came a day when a group of hatchlings started to hover nervously about him. They shifted their wings and twisted their elegant necks - skydancers, all. Ramoth and Mnementh’s latest brood, he noted - until eventually he sighed and asked them what they wanted, exactly.
“We were wondering, Sas- um, sir, if we could… borrow some of your money?”
She said it so quietly that by the end it had become an unintelligible squeak, but he heard it, just about.
Apparently, a game had gotten out of hand, and they had ruined their brother’s favourite toy: a little jackalope that Styrkur had given him before he… Before he’d left. The hatchling was apparently distraught, and although he said it was alright, that he didn’t blame them and it was ‘just a toy’, he hadn’t stopped crying since.
“We wanted to see if we could get him a new one,” the apparent ringleader explained, high voice still quivering with nerves. “We tried to make one ourselves, but we… Um.”
“It’s harder than it looks”, her brother finished.
It would be so easy to say no, Sasaldier mused. He was so much bigger than them, he could probably send them packing with a well-timed glare or two, but…
Truthfully, he’d seen their absent fourth, lurking about the lair. A pretty little thing, all dappled and golden, like his mother, and once just as vibrant. Now he always seemed so miserable.
It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.
He counted up his money and handed the right amount carefully - with strict instructions - to Lux, the ringleader.
That evening, Kandofri had smiled for the first time in days, radiating joy like a small sun, clutching tight to his new toy.
The next time someone asked Sas for money - for some gear or other that Andele simply could not do without - he started making lists.
And that was how it began.
Born in the Starry Isles 'Sassy', as he likes to be called, is an avid reader. He likes to read of battles and triumphs from other clans, and has even been known to pick up the odd romance, should the mood take him. He gets most of his texts from Farshantir's extensive library and takes a perverse pleasure in doing so without her knowledge or permission.
In retaliation, Farshantir has taken to calling him Mordred and asking where his Thrashers are. He's sure it's a reference to something, but he hasn't found the book yet.
Sasaldier's assistant is Ashok, who seems to have something wrong with his eyes. The coatl is constantly exercising them, rolling them to the ceiling and back. Sasaldier has advised him several times to see Merlin about it, but the condition only seems to be getting worse.
Siennia
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/175525/17552424_350.png[/img]
Afrimm is the clan’s resident dyer. Whether fabric, fur, feathers or scales, she can always find a way to change it’s spots for the better. Sometimes that does mean stealing from Shirda’s stores, but the other skydancer doesn’t really seem to mind too much, as long as she leaves her something in return.
As a dyer, she spends a lot of time working with Atsul and Marganess, the clan’s resident tailors. Both extremely elegant even without their drapery, she felt a little intimidated by them at first, but soon steeled herself against it. They, after all, needher, and even if Atsul isn’t always entirely polite, at least Marganess remembers to thank her before offering constructive criticism. She gets on rather well with the crimson skydancer, if she does say so herself. Marganess is quiet and competent, and she appreciates her attention to detail.
Although she does get along with Marganess, she’s well aware that they’re not really friends as such. Besides their love of colour and their almost seamless ability to collaborate, they don’t have that much in common. Sapphire, on the other hand, is a fellow lightning dragon, and is as vocal as Afrimm on her passions and projects. Afrimm has spent many a happy hour hunkered down in the back of Sapphire’s workshop talking about anything and nothing, and hopes the older skydancer enjoys their sessions just as much.
She’s almost certain that Sapphire at least likes her, because she made her a gift of a number of pieces of jewellery. It had started with the tail clasp, that Afrimm had picked up curiously.
“Oh, that”, Sapphire had said. “It’s broken. I’ll have to melt it down and start over.”
Afrimm had been appalled at the idea.
“But it’s so beautiful! What could possibly be wrong with it?”
“The jewel’s cracked. See? Chipped off. One of the hatchlings must have knocked it when my back was turned.”
Afrimm turned it in her claws, this way and that, watching the way it seemed to glow from within.
“You can have it, if you’d like.”
Afrimm had worn it ever since. And every once in a while - no regular patterns, not that she was looking for them - another piece would show up in her little workroom. A necklace, a bracelet, an anklet, and so on.
She wears them all with pride.
Except when she’s dip-dying, of course.
--------------------------
Lightning-born, Afrimm takes after her father in many ways. Infinitely practical and hardworking, she refuses to give up until she is sure the job - whatever it might be - has been done to the best of her ability. It’s both an endearing and a troubling trait; she’s reliable, after all, but sometimes she loses track of the fact that other people have their own tasks to accomplish, and manages to get herself under everyone’s feet as she rushes to and fro with her precious bundles of fabric, comparing the colours in different kinds of light.
Afrimm is the clan’s resident dyer. Whether fabric, fur, feathers or scales, she can always find a way to change it’s spots for the better. Sometimes that does mean stealing from Shirda’s stores, but the other skydancer doesn’t really seem to mind too much, as long as she leaves her something in return.
As a dyer, she spends a lot of time working with Atsul and Marganess, the clan’s resident tailors. Both extremely elegant even without their drapery, she felt a little intimidated by them at first, but soon steeled herself against it. They, after all, needher, and even if Atsul isn’t always entirely polite, at least Marganess remembers to thank her before offering constructive criticism. She gets on rather well with the crimson skydancer, if she does say so herself. Marganess is quiet and competent, and she appreciates her attention to detail.
Although she does get along with Marganess, she’s well aware that they’re not really friends as such. Besides their love of colour and their almost seamless ability to collaborate, they don’t have that much in common. Sapphire, on the other hand, is a fellow lightning dragon, and is as vocal as Afrimm on her passions and projects. Afrimm has spent many a happy hour hunkered down in the back of Sapphire’s workshop talking about anything and nothing, and hopes the older skydancer enjoys their sessions just as much.
She’s almost certain that Sapphire at least likes her, because she made her a gift of a number of pieces of jewellery. It had started with the tail clasp, that Afrimm had picked up curiously.
“Oh, that”, Sapphire had said. “It’s broken. I’ll have to melt it down and start over.”
Afrimm had been appalled at the idea.
“But it’s so beautiful! What could possibly be wrong with it?”
“The jewel’s cracked. See? Chipped off. One of the hatchlings must have knocked it when my back was turned.”
Afrimm turned it in her claws, this way and that, watching the way it seemed to glow from within.
“You can have it, if you’d like.”
Afrimm had worn it ever since. And every once in a while - no regular patterns, not that she was looking for them - another piece would show up in her little workroom. A necklace, a bracelet, an anklet, and so on.
She wears them all with pride.
Except when she’s dip-dying, of course.
Lightning-born, Afrimm takes after her father in many ways. Infinitely practical and hardworking, she refuses to give up until she is sure the job - whatever it might be - has been done to the best of her ability. It’s both an endearing and a troubling trait; she’s reliable, after all, but sometimes she loses track of the fact that other people have their own tasks to accomplish, and manages to get herself under everyone’s feet as she rushes to and fro with her precious bundles of fabric, comparing the colours in different kinds of light.
Siennia
[center][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/160320/16031949_350.png[/img][/center]
Ista, as a water lair, has a high number of visionary dragons. Alyagaster is one of them. Water-born twice over, through her mother, and the only third descendant of Ista itself still with the clan, the air of mystery she cultivates for strangers is distinctly lost on her clanmates.
---
Whilst exploring in Farshantir’s archives (as many hatchlings are encouraged to do), Alyagaster found a pack of old cards. At first she thought they might be a story, depicting a scene as she had seen in old tapestries. So, she tried to read them. They were difficult, and refused to offer her any clear meaning. She stared at them for hours, curled into a corner while her nestmates tumbled over one another and read aloud from tablets and tomes.
She hardly noticed the sun setting, red light filtering through the kelp walls of the cavern. Farshantir broke her gently from her trance and told her it was time to leave. Young as she was, and faced with the very real possibility of her first defeat, she burst into tears. Unequipped to deal with a wailing hatchling (and being very sympathetic to the plight of being dragged away from a book), Farshantir asked if she would like to take the cards with her, to look at overnight.
Alya stopped crying immediately and beamed at the pearlcatcher, before hurrying off to her bed.
Sleep, however, eluded her, so she untucked the cards from beneath her pillow and stared at them again.
She tried to examine the cards one at a time, examining each one as close as she dared. The pictures were beautiful, no doubt, but frustrating; they remained unclear. She tried to look at them as a whole, spreading all fifty-six cards out across the floor in front of her, but this only seemed to make things worse, somehow, as her eye was drawn this way and that and could not focus.
Eventually one of her nestmates, drawn by the light of her candle, wandered over to see what was up. Acrell settled down on her other side and hummed, flicking his tail across the cards.
“Maybe it’s a game? Maybe the pictures are supposed to mean something, and you’re supposed to follow the rules for them.”
They spent a happy hour making up games around the cards, first assigning them meanings and numbers, attempting to play snap with the closest picture matches, and then finally they began a game of stories themselves.
“Tell me… what I’m going to do in the future,” Acrell said, after a long pause.
Alyagaster, grinning, turned over the first six cards, and studied them for a moment.
“You,” she said eventually, picking up ‘La Bateleur’ and waving at him, “are going to be a mage. You will be talented with… fire, but you will be alone in studying it.” She frowned at L'Hermite. “You already know that, though. Someone’s helping you, but thinks you should push out on your own more, that you should try using your own judgement. And then you can’t lose!” She finished brightly.
Beside her, Acrell had gone very still.
She flushed, embarrassed.
“I… did I do it wrong?”
In the half-light of the candle, Acrell’s white eyes glittered coldly.
“No. No, I don’t think you did.”
Ista, as a water lair, has a high number of visionary dragons. Alyagaster is one of them. Water-born twice over, through her mother, and the only third descendant of Ista itself still with the clan, the air of mystery she cultivates for strangers is distinctly lost on her clanmates.
---
Whilst exploring in Farshantir’s archives (as many hatchlings are encouraged to do), Alyagaster found a pack of old cards. At first she thought they might be a story, depicting a scene as she had seen in old tapestries. So, she tried to read them. They were difficult, and refused to offer her any clear meaning. She stared at them for hours, curled into a corner while her nestmates tumbled over one another and read aloud from tablets and tomes.
She hardly noticed the sun setting, red light filtering through the kelp walls of the cavern. Farshantir broke her gently from her trance and told her it was time to leave. Young as she was, and faced with the very real possibility of her first defeat, she burst into tears. Unequipped to deal with a wailing hatchling (and being very sympathetic to the plight of being dragged away from a book), Farshantir asked if she would like to take the cards with her, to look at overnight.
Alya stopped crying immediately and beamed at the pearlcatcher, before hurrying off to her bed.
Sleep, however, eluded her, so she untucked the cards from beneath her pillow and stared at them again.
She tried to examine the cards one at a time, examining each one as close as she dared. The pictures were beautiful, no doubt, but frustrating; they remained unclear. She tried to look at them as a whole, spreading all fifty-six cards out across the floor in front of her, but this only seemed to make things worse, somehow, as her eye was drawn this way and that and could not focus.
Eventually one of her nestmates, drawn by the light of her candle, wandered over to see what was up. Acrell settled down on her other side and hummed, flicking his tail across the cards.
“Maybe it’s a game? Maybe the pictures are supposed to mean something, and you’re supposed to follow the rules for them.”
They spent a happy hour making up games around the cards, first assigning them meanings and numbers, attempting to play snap with the closest picture matches, and then finally they began a game of stories themselves.
“Tell me… what I’m going to do in the future,” Acrell said, after a long pause.
Alyagaster, grinning, turned over the first six cards, and studied them for a moment.
“You,” she said eventually, picking up ‘La Bateleur’ and waving at him, “are going to be a mage. You will be talented with… fire, but you will be alone in studying it.” She frowned at L'Hermite. “You already know that, though. Someone’s helping you, but thinks you should push out on your own more, that you should try using your own judgement. And then you can’t lose!” She finished brightly.
Beside her, Acrell had gone very still.
She flushed, embarrassed.
“I… did I do it wrong?”
In the half-light of the candle, Acrell’s white eyes glittered coldly.
“No. No, I don’t think you did.”
Siennia
[center][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/32454/3245309_350.png[/img]
[/center]
Andele is the clan’s Mechanic. She is the clan’s main ‘fix-it’, as it were. When something with cogs and gears breaks down, she’s the one you turn to. She can be a little disorganised (regularly losing herself in her projects so completely she even forgets to eat), and sometimes doesn’t return the object exactly as it was (after all, why shouldn’t she make it more efficient?), but she has deft claws and never seems to baulk, no matter how ridiculous the device in question.
Andele sometimes spends hours convinced that the shiny, gem-like protrusions on her wings vanish from time to time. It’s a perplexing concern, but she insists that some days they are simply… gone. She’ll sun herself, flex her wings, adjust them so they sit just so against her back, and the shine will vanish from her skin. She is increasingly convinced that there is some creature following her around and trying to steal her gems.
Andele has found an unexpected helper in Sapphire who, as a lightning-born, has a natural affinity for all things technological. Her natural ease frustrates and impresses Andele by turns. Through similar means, and quite without her realising it, Ternis has become her assistant. Quiet and diligent, she appreciates his focus and has started to leave him gifts of spare parts around his workbench.
Andele is very deft of claw and treats shattered, seemingly unusable objects like puzzles to be solved. The exact configuration of the pocket watch is still defeating her and, at times, her frustration bubbles over into violence. Pocketwatches, she has discovered, work no better after being smashed against the wall.
Her mate, Gadigil, likes to bring back broken things for her to fix from his gatherings. She is very deft of claw and treats shattered, seemingly unusable objects like puzzles to be solved. The exact configuration of the pocket watch is still defeating her.
[center][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/ab078d24a44e134f9bc3c317588bb382/tumblr_napx0u7S5n1ssnvh6o2_500.png[/img]
Art by Frithsamur
Andele is the clan’s Mechanic. She is the clan’s main ‘fix-it’, as it were. When something with cogs and gears breaks down, she’s the one you turn to. She can be a little disorganised (regularly losing herself in her projects so completely she even forgets to eat), and sometimes doesn’t return the object exactly as it was (after all, why shouldn’t she make it more efficient?), but she has deft claws and never seems to baulk, no matter how ridiculous the device in question.
Andele sometimes spends hours convinced that the shiny, gem-like protrusions on her wings vanish from time to time. It’s a perplexing concern, but she insists that some days they are simply… gone. She’ll sun herself, flex her wings, adjust them so they sit just so against her back, and the shine will vanish from her skin. She is increasingly convinced that there is some creature following her around and trying to steal her gems.
Andele has found an unexpected helper in Sapphire who, as a lightning-born, has a natural affinity for all things technological. Her natural ease frustrates and impresses Andele by turns. Through similar means, and quite without her realising it, Ternis has become her assistant. Quiet and diligent, she appreciates his focus and has started to leave him gifts of spare parts around his workbench.
Andele is very deft of claw and treats shattered, seemingly unusable objects like puzzles to be solved. The exact configuration of the pocket watch is still defeating her and, at times, her frustration bubbles over into violence. Pocketwatches, she has discovered, work no better after being smashed against the wall.
Her mate, Gadigil, likes to bring back broken things for her to fix from his gatherings. She is very deft of claw and treats shattered, seemingly unusable objects like puzzles to be solved. The exact configuration of the pocket watch is still defeating her.
Art by Frithsamur
Siennia
[center][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/89899/8989844_350.png[/img][/center]
When Arandar looks around the clan, she sees a strange kind of cohesion. Even those dragons who appear completely lost in their own worlds, like Tarel and Vela, tortured by strange visions of falsehoods and truths, find some way to pull together with the rest of the clan. Only Alcia stands apart.
When Arandar first encountered the irascible Guardian, she had still been a hatchling, and with her strong leather wings would have dwarfed her current form. The fierce look in Alcia’s eyes had terrified her, and she had stumbled, panicking, into the main tunnels of the lair. She had turned left, then right, then right again, until she was hopelessly lost. Von found her, hours later, curled into a tearful ball by the fresh water springs. When she learned, later, how close those springs were to the hatchlings den, she had been so utterly furious with herself she had accidentally gone into a form of hibernation, her new Nocturne wings wrapped tightly around herself.
She still shies away from Alcia, whenever she can. On the times when she can’t - the rare clan meetings where the Guardian appears, or meeting her suspicious gaze over the pile of food - her mate Kohaku has taken to stepping in, and whispering curious stories and anecdotes in her ears. His rumbling voice soothes her, and she is always intensely grateful for his support (and for tactfully ignoring her when she falls asleep, pressed against his voice box to feel the vibrations as he hums).
Arandar was barely a day old when her lithe Imperial form was remade into her new, tiny, nocturne body. Though she knows she should have some opinion on it, she doesn’t feel she can really comment, since she doesn’t remember any other way of life.
When Arandar looks around the clan, she sees a strange kind of cohesion. Even those dragons who appear completely lost in their own worlds, like Tarel and Vela, tortured by strange visions of falsehoods and truths, find some way to pull together with the rest of the clan. Only Alcia stands apart.
When Arandar first encountered the irascible Guardian, she had still been a hatchling, and with her strong leather wings would have dwarfed her current form. The fierce look in Alcia’s eyes had terrified her, and she had stumbled, panicking, into the main tunnels of the lair. She had turned left, then right, then right again, until she was hopelessly lost. Von found her, hours later, curled into a tearful ball by the fresh water springs. When she learned, later, how close those springs were to the hatchlings den, she had been so utterly furious with herself she had accidentally gone into a form of hibernation, her new Nocturne wings wrapped tightly around herself.
She still shies away from Alcia, whenever she can. On the times when she can’t - the rare clan meetings where the Guardian appears, or meeting her suspicious gaze over the pile of food - her mate Kohaku has taken to stepping in, and whispering curious stories and anecdotes in her ears. His rumbling voice soothes her, and she is always intensely grateful for his support (and for tactfully ignoring her when she falls asleep, pressed against his voice box to feel the vibrations as he hums).
Arandar was barely a day old when her lithe Imperial form was remade into her new, tiny, nocturne body. Though she knows she should have some opinion on it, she doesn’t feel she can really comment, since she doesn’t remember any other way of life.
Siennia