Hey, I know you have a lot of asks, and I really hate to back it up so feel free to ignore this, but would it be possible to have some fluff featuring Fledge? Any scenario is fine!
This. Got out of hand. And I do not apologize. Welcome to an in depth dive into a side headcanon I have as well as my development of Grizzleheim in Fledge’s timeline(s).
(Fledge’s tag) Content warnings for civil war, violence, blood, weapons, animal violence, child neglect, child abandonment, child endangerment, faking child death, arguments, cultures being disregarded and/or mocked.
Fledge had a good start to their childhood, actually.
They were one of those rare, irresponsible cases from those who inhabit the Spiral. They send their baby, all bundled up in a basket, through the Spiral Door. Many do this in the secrecy of night, they fake the death of this small being and send them off, trusting in the love of another world.
And the Door does send the child wherever they will grow up happy, healthy, and alive. This happened with Irisi as well, just sending a baby away and hoping for the best, and she appeared, so small and precious in a maroon blanket and woven basket, in the warm pyramid of Krokotopia where the Spiral Door rested, where the Door knew someone in that world would take her in and love her.
But Fledge was sent in a ragged baby blanket, pale patches of soft sheep worn from their pastels into white though still stained, frayed stitches and moth eaten holes throughout. It was a small threadbare quilt, barely covering Fledge’s swaddled body, and the rush of a fresh breeze startled Fledge from their sleep, causing them to cry out in distress.
Grizzleheim was not a peaceful world at this time.
The Bears were a prosperous people, their trading culture expanding across the Spiral, their invented Common language becoming a staple of all questing wizards, all of their fellow merchants as well. Their monarchy was strong, centralizing their trading into coffers for the entire society to thrive. Their strongest warrior, Valgar Goldenblade, had recently ascended to the throne, his teeth sharp and gilded blade sharper.
The Wolves were an instinctive people, focusing on what it means to be one with nature, their healers fundamental to their community. They favored the environment around them most, finding solace and meaning in the trees, the waterfalls, the rivers, the genuine and unapologetic nature of nature itself. Their land was encroached on, their trees felled with no regard for their funeral practice of planting a new sapling. The Bears cut down the strong, aged trees of ancient Wolf ancestors for timber, for their new cabins and ships, and that was cause for the Wolves to fight back. They sharpened their claws and gritted their teeth, and their healers prepared to work long days.
The Ravens were an intellectual people, focusing on philosophy and the meanings of what people think and do. They created vast libraries of knowledge, compiling it and trying to find the significance of the everyday aspects of the Spiral. Trying to find deep magic, how it interacted with wizards, exploring what history was recorded, interpreting a history that is not theirs. The Ravens were called pedantic by the Bears and Wolves, in far less kind words. What the Bears and Wolves also suspected was how the Ravens would hide and plot in secret, stealing what little recorded histories and academic texts the other two cultures had. The Ravens knew they would be found out one day, and so they kept their talons sharp and quills sharper, prepared to fight and then record their victory, as all histories are written.
And so, claws screeched against the metal and wood of finely crafted shields. Talons scraped and knocked against horned helmets. Blades cut into flesh, whether it be furred or feathered, the tool itself tasting blood, uncaring of its use.
All anyone outside of Grizzleheim knew was that trades were stopped, and merchants had gone to their home world, and nothing more.
Why, then, did the Spiral Door send an infant into this world?
Why, then, is anyone brought into such a cruel world, one might as well ask. The Spiral Door was not truly given a sentience, only as much as any tool of destiny or fate has.
But what right does any tool have to make a decision without a master to guide it? When does the hammer gain some sliver of sentience and smash the priceless crystal of its own accord?
Largely, people believe the Door itself cannot think, cannot reason, and does not decide where lost infants go. That is the only reasoning the young wolf had when she found this swaddled lost child, cold, afraid, and alone. A battle ended a day ago, and she had planned to sneak away, back into Wolf territory.
Her name was Eir, and she was first and foremost a warrior, no time or need for any kind of romance, though her friendships ran deep, and she had never thought of bearing pups of her own, too intent on being another pillar of support to her community. But Eir was a Wolf of duty, of protecting the weak with her own compassionate strength.
So this large armored woman, pale grey fur matted with blood and dirt, set aside her spear coated in the flaking dried blood of those who destroyed the land the Wolves saw as sacred, and she carefully lifted the young human with her large paws, her sharpened claws causing more tears in the fabric. It was reminiscent of how her claws so easily raked through thin, feathered flesh...
Eir’s eyes widened, her breath catching in a rough puff of air, the flash and recollection of how the civil war was progressing sinking into their mind. This, Northguard, was no place for a child.
But then, where was there a place for a child? The pups of the Wolves’ entire society were all hidden deep in the caves of Mirkholm Keep, but any fortress could fall, and that was so very far away from the Spiral Door.
She quickly, automatically, set the child aside for merely a moment as she discarded her armor, laying it aside to rest with her weapon. She wore only a woven tunic colored a deep blue, coppery brown designs to match her eyes in runes of strength and protection weaved throughout it, alongside her leather skirts to protect her. Eir gathered the infant in her arms, only to swaddle it clumsily in her warrior’s tunic, leaving her furred back bare, cold wind already rustling her fur and seeping into her flesh.
Eir knew she would do anything, anything for this child. So she wrapped them in her tunic and held them close, attempting to soothe their whimpers with soft croons of song as she began to walk the rainbow bridge, the bifrost sparkling and tinkling musically. The soft chimes of the bridge seemed to soothe the child, for which Eir was grateful, but then she was in Northguard proper.
There was only one choice. She would not gamble with the child’s life, would not expose it further to the elements to avoid conflict. Eir always preferred to face problems head on, anyway, and keep hope in her heart.
It was with that hope that kept her head held high as she surrendered to a pair of bear guards that held their blades to her throat.
The only defiance Eir showed while imprisoned by the enemy was in the care of the child she held in her arms. She insisted on keeping them at her side always, on never letting them out of her sight. Soon the child grew hungry, thirsty, and dirty, and thus the guards were forced to bow to her demands lest they sit and hear endless wails of an infant and know it was their fault.
They knew of Eir. Of her prowess in battle. They knew that even without a spear or armor, to truly fight her would result in many deaths, and the bears would not stand for that needless bloodshed when they could simply assist in the care of a child.
Then a council was held, because word escaped and spread through Grizzleheim that a child was being held alongside a war prisoner.
The oaths of peace and pacifism, just for this meeting, were held on magic and blades, the knowledge that breaking those vows would result in painful death sending shivers down every oath taker’s spine. And then they all sat, outside, in the emptied marketplace of Northguard.
Three groups sat there, tension rising.
The Bears, at a well crafted table, the redwood’s varnish shining in the weak winter sunlight, the carvings’ depiction of violence causing others to scoff. The king himself, Valgar Goldenblade, sat between his advisors and weaponless guards, his chair just slightly more intricate, facing his own stronghold where the famed warrior would come.
The Wolves, on woven mats and rough rugs, furs as well, all sat on the well trodden ground. All of them were slight, with keen eyes, smelling of herbs and spices, obviously healers. They were wise almost to the point of cynical, the war sharpening them into fine, dangerous points. They awaited Eir’s arrival with bated breath, the warrior a friend, a pillar to their community.
The Ravens brought their own table and chairs, spindly things, old and used with no thought for upkeep. Some of the Bears sneered at the poor craftsmanship, the crude make of their furniture, treating it as another tool as opposed to a facet of a home. The Ravens sat, curious about the child, wondering how it appeared in Grizzleheim at all.
Eir was brought forth from the stronghold of the Bears, and the Wolves murmured in discontent, lips pulling to reveal teeth without them thinking of the threat.
She was hunched over a bundle in her arms, her large form conveying a weariness everyone could see. Her fur had patches matted and encrusted with blood and dirt. Her coppery brown eyes were anxious as she quickly gazed at those gathered in front of her, though she obviously found solace in the sight of the elder healers from the Wolves.
“The child?” The leader of the Ravens croaked as Eir approached, standing in the middle of the semicircle of gathered people. “Is it truly a human?”
Eir clutched harder at the swaddled form in her arms. “Yes, and they are healthy and safe in my care.” She stared hard at the leader, fur bristling.
“The warrior is truthful. She has only requested or spoken on the behalf of the child, and has been almost fervent in her care” Valgar spoke, face passive.
“Yet still, a human child does not belong with the Wolves.” A raven spoke.
“And yet it belongs with you birds?” A wolf healer spoke, his nose scrunching with distaste. “For what purpose, to examine them, to experiment on someone with so much potential yet no bias of race?”
“How dare-“ The same raven spoke again, standing up abruptly.
“Calm yourselves!” Eir snapped, her voice a stage whisper, as she rocked the baby back and forth, intent on soothing the child who had awoken.
“Forgive me, Eir.” The wolf healer said with a bow of his head.
“Forgiven, Helge.” Eir answered absentmindedly.
Words were paused as the child still fussed in her arms, and everyone witnessed one of the living legends of the Wolves coo and rumble to comfort a human infant, mumbling in a sing-song with kind, gentle eyes.
“We... must decide the child’s fate.” Valgar spoke again. “The child was left at the Spiral Door... correct?”
“Yes.” Eir did not look away from the baby’s swaddled form. “The poor pup was left in rags, I could not leave them to freeze, so I gave them the clothes off my own back for their safety.” She did not appear to notice how jaws clenched, how they all knew what it supposedly meant for a child to be sent through the Door.
“But still...” Valgar’s voice became firmer, more insistent. “We cannot allow for the human child to be raised as a Wolf. It would be far better to have the honor of a Bear.”
“A Bear’s honor?” The Raven’s leader exclaimed. “What use is honor? Why not the safety of becoming a Raven? We could teach them magic, we could-”
The eldest wolf, fur greyed and eyes milky with blindness, scoffed loudly. “Besides. Saying a Bear has honor is an oxymoron. Since when has a Bear possessed the amount of honor I have in a single claw?” The wolf raised their paws, showing some missing digits, but still wiggling them mockingly.
“We have honor! Just due to your Wolves’ jealousy we have-“ A bear advisor snarled.
“Jealousy! Jealousy?!” The elder spoke again, spitting at the ground. “Jealous of what? Gold? Bowing to the whims of others who demand your goods? Or maybe, maybe jealous of the sacred trees you callously felled and carved into what, a bookshelf? Another pretty table? Bah, jealousy.” They spat again. “The nerve.”
“What?” Valgar stood, pressing a hand on the angered advisor’s shoulder. “Sacred trees? I was not told of any sacred trees.”
“The Wolves plant trees to mourn their dead, and to imbue life in the world where death has touched. It is common knowledge.” A raven piped up, then bashfully turned away once attention was on them.
“Yes. Everyone knows of the significance, yet you Bears chopped down our most ancient of trees.” Eir spoke again, voice soft in its reprimand.
Valgar looked around, mouth open slightly. “We... did not know...” He sat back down hard, a paw to his face. “I cannot believe...”
“You truly did not know?” Eir asked.
“No.” The helpless, almost vulnerable tone caught everyone off guard. “No, we would never! As far as I knew, that land was in our territory!” The king gestured widely in the direction of the Wolves’ land. “And yet, my ignorance deceived me, and I have ruined... oh, to imagine if the tables were turned, and our stones were desecrated...”
The Wolves were almost statues, the eldest of them shaking.
“Aside from that, we had no quarrel with the Bears.” Eir’s soft, forgiving tone was simply another blow to Valgar. “Everything since has been a result of that, retaliation for and unknown slight...”
“Did you Ravens do this?!” A young bear guard growled. “Manipulated us into war?”
“No- we were caught in the middle of that as well... simply nearby, collecting artifacts.”
“Artifacts?” Another Bear sneered. “You mean stealing from us? Our masterpieces and treasured items?”
The Raven’s eyes widened. “They were untouched for decades! Artifacts!” She insisted.
“They were kept safe! To be used is an honor, but some are so old to use them would be to ruin them, and thus they are kept secure and isolated! And you stole them!” Valgar’s voice was stern, as if he had come back to himself.
“None of this matters!” Eir’s voice flared into a yell, unrestrained. “The war is nothing, apparently, built on lies, yet still that does not matter!” She gestured forward, displaying the now awake and staring young human. “They matter! This child! And all the others that we dared endanger in our foolishness! To argue of artifacts and territory is to ignore the youth who cry for warrior parents gone for months, for homes that are ruined, and empty bellies neglected. You all must come to a compromise. Now.”
With that, she walked purposefully to the Wolves’ area, where the healer Helge had set up a soft nest of furs and woven fabric for Eir and the child. With a nod of thanks, Eir sat with legs crossed, settling the child with a large paw gently supporting their head.
“... She is right. A compromise, and peace, must be made. Today.” Valgar’s determined tone washed over the rest, conveying the need and trust that they could reach peace in so few words.
“We shall.” The lead raven nodded sagely, leaning forward, now eager.
The peace was almost laughably simple, once met.
Eir sat, letting words pass over her tired mind in a low rumble, her eyes only for the child in her arms.
They were so small. So soft, fragile. They had bright brown eyes, dark brown skin. They had two little hands, terrifyingly small in her large paws. They had a little nose, its bridge wide, and it was so much more charming than any human trader she had seen, she wanted to prod at it with dulled claws and cause them to laugh like she did at times for the pups at home.
This child deserved a world to grow up in, a peaceful, kind world.
And they got it.
Fledge had three names, really. As part of the peace treaty, they moved from pack to stronghold to roost, rotating around and learning the ins and outs of every culture, of what it meant to be a Wolf or Bear or Raven. Their three names were simple, just called Pup (sometimes Puppy, by a teasing Eir), Cub, and Fledgling.
They changed who they were with ease, happy and content with the shifting, asking to be a girl or boy or neither when it suited them, and their families complied. Almost every citizen of Grizzleheim had housed them at one point in their life, had seen how small and charming and wonderful this strange child was.
They were allowed to speak as much or as little as they wanted. They could spend weeks only communicating in the broad, blunt gestures of the Grizzleheim sign language, or more nuanced of Common sign language. Then other times they would grow excitable, teeth bared as they rambled on to their friends and fellow wolf pups as they played in the creek, talking of their studies with the Ravens and the honor code of the Bears.
They learned the ancient runes, their own strange passion that few understood, but they allowed it, they encouraged it, because to see their Pup or Cub or Fledgling smile like they were given the world was enchanting.
They were a natural fire wizard, as well.
The destructive magic would usually be a worry, but they were taught control of their strength with the Bears, and an appreciation for wild untameable things from the Wolves, and an understanding of magic itself from the Ravens.
And so their fire magic was life, was what kept people warm in the harsh winters. It was the necessary burns to control the forest and keep it from destroying itself later, it was the cauterization of a bad wound to keep someone alive. Their fire grew so quickly, still in control. It was a spark that quickly flared and crawled each kindling of knowledge and passion into a bonfire, something to be loved and celebrated.
Just as Fledge had been loved and celebrated.
Whether she was their Cub, or he was their Fledgling, or they were their Pup, they were loved so very much, and always cared for, and always warm.
So the Spiral Door made the right choice, if it can do such a thing.