#nasolamia

[majestyrising]

scatterscroll adventures with nasolamia and negaprion! that’s defo what i wanna do with nasolamia, it’s latte/umber/peridot and just lovely, perfect for her.

not so sure what genes i’ll go for with negaprion but i am stopping there since j’adore antique and having his tert match his eyes is too good to pass up. i want to make him a fae or a bog, but i’m not a big fan of the m bog pose so, probs a fae.

[majestyrising]

Crystalline: Part III

[Part I] [Part II] [Part III] [Part VI]

Notes: The reign of Wolf King Koschei. Pings: @jollyroger-fr, @fusefr, @hellkite-fr, @kattafr, @archaic-fr, @mask-fr, @deadlanddisciple, @fr-crobbin

The light barely wanes, even in the evenings. Koschei knows this; this is his birthplace, that place of eternal darkness and eternal sun. He strides down the corridor that leads to the first floors of this place, the Citadel (that’s what he’s been calling it in his head, it’s grandiose and accurate, he makes a note to write it down later) to find the rest of his subjects. “Places, people,” he calls, voice loud as he stands at the top of the stairs to the main room (a clearing, really, that needs to be fixed) “There’s a lot to get through, and I won’t waste your time.”

It still takes hours. There aren’t as many people as there once were; only a hair over fifty of them; and many died in the tragedy at the Marble Palace. Koschei supposes, as he directs one man to show him how good he is with a sword, that he should feel guilt. There is certainly blood on his hands, the blood of many from his coup. Yet he doesn’t feel guilt. Mostly, he feels vindicated. The ends justify the means and all that. Mischa makes a note of the talented fighters, makes a note of who can cook, who can help clear the rest of the Citadel. Who is already well read, who understands finances, who among them knows anyone out here. It’s night before this survey is done, and Koschei eases the small booklet from Mischa’s hands. “Thank you,” he says, “You can go now.” Mischa blinks, blearily, running on autopilot and now exhausted. “Right,” he says, almost woozy. “That way,” Koschei says, nodding up the stairs. Mischa stumbles away. Koschei stays to watch, just to make sure Mischa stumbles into the right room. Ah, those needs official designations too. Koschei adds it to the bottom of the list before drawing an arrow to bump it up. He’s still flipping through the notebook as he walks through the Citadel. Everyone else has headed off for the night. Only their hushed voices carry through, but Koschei has several more things to do first. He tucks the notebook into his armour. It’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t have any pockets in it, but he jams the paper in one of the grooves and hopes it stays put.

His feet carry him mostly without thought, he’s been here so many times even in the past week that he goes and strides right into the designated doctor’s room. Nasolamia looks up as he walks in and smiles warmly at him. “Hello, your majesty,” she says, softly. “Good evening,” he says, striding over to her current patient, a woman who drips fluid and blood onto the clear ice. Koschei feels the weight on his chest- one he doesn’t remember getting- lift. “Hello, dear,” he says, leaning down to hug Nalvanka. Hello. Her thoughts slip into his mind; a meeting point between his unusual telepathic abilities and her inability to verbally speak. She holds him firm, stooped down before she eventually lets him go. Her ability to shift into humanoid form are less sophisticated than his own. She retains thick, wicked talons on the ends of her fingers, and her features are distinctly draconic, even now. “Where are my perfect children?” Koschei asks, smiling, before his smile falters. “You didn’t leave them alone, did you? Please tell me you didn’t leave them alone.” He holds a quivering hand to his chest in genuine distress. “They’re fine,” Nasolamia says, suppressing the desire to laugh at Koschei’s immediate transformation from mighty king to worried parent, “Just in the next room with Negaprion.” Koschei exhales. Are you okay? “You mean, besides the heart attack I just had? Yes, fine,” he says, dusting himself off. “How do I look?” Healthy. “We should probably work on appropriate compliments, my dear,” Koschei muses, as Nalvanka blinks, uncomprehending. “But healthy is good. Doctor?” “You look like a king,” Nasolamia says. “Ah, you’re so kind,” Koschei replies graciously. “You pay me enough to be kind,” she says, before giggling, “I’m just kidding. You do look quite regal. It suits you.” “Enough, or Mischa will come down here to batter at my ego,” Koschei says, standing up even straighter, taller. He lets go of his worries, or shoves them very far back in his mind. A thrill runs through his heart, making it beat faster. The best part of the day is this very part. Excitement runs through his veins alongside a healthy dose of fear. He paces over to the hole in the wall that leads to the next room (no doors and no way to install them, they should get bead curtains at least, make a note of that), and, with a deep breath, walks in.

[majestyrising]

oh hey guess who turned 3! uh, she’s naked cus i can’t dress female imps to save my goddamn life

[majestyrising]

Unfettered: Part III

Notes: Previous part is here. Warning for description of injuries and morally bankrupt practices. Pings: @jollyroger-fr, @fusefr, @hellkite-fr, @kattafr, @archaic-fr, @dragonhomeclan, @hawlucha-fr, @mask-fr, @shadowdrac-rising, @deadlanddisciple

Mahir is not an inexperienced dragon by any means. He has spent years upon years on his own, wandering from place to place in the way Plague dragons do, trying to be different people and always stubbornly ending up right back where he started. A brash, lawless loudmouth who gets himself into trouble. This is the longest he’s stayed in one place; pledged himself to a royal child no less, and everything has continually gone to shit straight after. It’s beginning to feel like a cosmic joke. At least, that’s what he thinks as he petulantly kicks a rock and stubs his toe against it, eliciting a stream of stumbled over swear words and curses to deities, real and fake. Phi rolls her eyes and shoves him aside, his whining ignored. “Keep going, dumbass,” she commands, one hand shielding her eyes despite the mask already casting her face in shadow. “It’s only midday and we have a lot more ground to cover.”

So this is his lot, for now. At home- ha, home- his kin are rebuilding, finding their footing again, but they are still sans one prince and his right hand. The prince is an enigma Mahir found himself usually steering clear of, the implication of his existence just a bit too much for his frankly quite ordinary brain. Bastion, however, he found himself deeply worried for. The three retainers had quite a rapport, and to be down one member made him feel on edge; as on edge as he was sure Phi felt as she scanned the horizon, looking for any tell-tale whispers of ice magic or black clothing. He knows without asking that she misses her brother deeply. The days are beginning to mesh together, with their searches growing ever more fruitless. “Phi,” Mahir says, half jogging to keep pace with her. “Phi-“ “Hush,” she mutters, approaching a shimmering black spot on the horizon. Mahir does as he is told, frowning angrily at himself for listening to her, and reaches down to rub his throbbing toe. When he looks back up her pace has only increased and Mahir grunts in annoyance as they chase down the thing on the horizon.

The thing turns out to be a caravan, setup for a small local market in the middle of nowhere. Enough to brighten Mahir’s mood with its familiarity, but only sour Phi’s. He jogs to her side, a lopsided grin on his face that widens the scar across his lip and cheek as he looks across the dusty ramshackle market. It’s incredibly ugly to look at. “Nice,” he says, looking over at Phi. She’s hard to read usually, but her mask has been pushed up to block the sun instead of strapped over her face; he can see her sharp features, and the fraught look on her face before she catches him looking and turns on him with a near snarl. “Easy,” he says quickly, holding his hands up. Her white eyes burn. “Right,” she mutters. He reaches up to punch her on the arm in an affectionate gesture. It’ll bruise his knuckles against her stone skin, but it’s enough to make the corner of her lips twitch. “Idiot,” she says, good-naturedly. “Come on, let’s take a look then keep going,” he replies. She follows a step behind as he eagerly looks through the stalls, leaning over the wares to haggle with the clerks. Phi ignores it, even as their voices raise and she sees his arm shoot out to lift a man off his feet. She’s not intervening in his fights today. She does look around though, ignoring the nagging cawing from the merchants and the vultures that are circling overhead, hoping to catch any rotten meat thrown their way. The market must have just been set up, as there’s a scant few other people browsing the wares.

Her body hurts, but it’s not fatigue. She feels wrong. Oh, she hates her brother sometimes, hates how he has the attention and power even when it was her that ran the clan in his place when he hid from everyone; but he’s grown, come so far recently. To have everything crash and burn around them twice- and despite trying to step up in his place, she still came into conflict with her other brother at every turn, until Eden had chosen to lead them instead. It should be humiliating, in a way. But she does care for Eden, did from the moment he stepped into their lives, from how different he was. He cares, unabashedly. But she cares too- and it wasn’t enough to set her differences aside. How long will it be before Rho returns? Will he even come back? Was the guilt too much? And what of Bastion? She trusts Rho’s instinct- no, she trusts that he is simply too powerful to die without it being a monumental magical shift. In other words, she would feel it. But Bastion is no demigod, simply a man who made the wrong choice and showed compassion to the wrong monster. Would Rho give up, if he- She shakes her head, another snarl at her lips and the beginnings of a headache pounding at her temples. She turns back to see Mahir haggling with another clerk, whilst being threatened by a throng of others. Some things never change, not even in tragedy. She turns her back on him and walks until another display catches her eye. She walks up to one of the clerks and silently surveys several bone charms; her brow furrows as she does.

They look fresh. In fact, they look strange. She leans over the display, eyes narrowed. The clerk chatters but she ignores it, picking one of the charms up and turning it over in her hand. She runs a finger along the grooves in the bone. It’s odd, very odd. The end has been filed down, but it looks almost like it was cut from a live victim; and the bone is nothing she can identity by sight, no obvious metacarpal or phalange. A small thin spike of a thing instead, with a strange energy about it that tingles along the ends of her thumb. “Where did you get this?” she asks, finally looking up at the clerk. “It’s a rare artefact,” the clerk says, her eyes a bit too wide. Phi can feel her willpower of stoicism damaged immediately. “Like hell,” she says. “Where did you get it? From which part of the body?” The clerk shakes her head, the beads in her hair rattling with the movement. Phi looks back, to where Mahir is now hidden by the crowd of angry shouting clerks. She reaches over the grabs the clerk by the front of their patchwork shirt, dragging them halfway across the display. “Where. Did. You. Get. This?” she demands, each word punctuated with an implicit threat. The clerk shakes her head, clearly more fearful of telling than of being roughhoused. “Mahir!” she barks, loud enough that her voice carries. She hears bodies shoved aside, more angry shouting, and then Mahir is at her side. “Yeah?” he asks. “Search this one’s tent,” she orders. Mahir looks at the clerk, wide eyed and fearful- but not of Phi, and not of Mahir. “No, no, no need to do that!” the clerk says, voice rising an octave. Mahir bares his teeth. “Can do,” he says, going around the display and into the half-collapsed tent behind the stall. He can hear the clerk stuttering, but no words come out. “What could be so bad,” he mutters, blinking at the sudden darkness. It’s musty and reeks of rot and blood, more than it should, even out in the Boneyard as they are. There are more bones back here, laid out of leather rolls; he spies a bone saw, several bloodied rags and one clean one, and then a chain. His eyes narrow. Not that surprising, but usually bone charms are taken from dead victims. Taking them from live ones is more effort than it could ever be worth, for how common such charms are. There’s a bedroll, a chest of drawers with a flask of water on top, and then he hears something. He stops, frozen in place. A soft scratching sound, like something clinking against metal. His eyes scan the tiny room again, and settle on a pile of canvas. His steps are careful, weight splayed out between his digits with only the soft hiss of sand. He kneels down. There it is again. He lifts the canvas slowly, warily, before pulling it away completely. In a tiny cage, fit only for a bird, is a skydancer hatchling.

Outside, he hears someone yell something and then the same voice yelling in pain instead of indignation- someone’s thrown a punch at Phi. He pays them no mind, eyes focused entirely on the tiny shivering body in the cage. Its wings have been cramped in, stunted, and from where it is laid on its belly, half awake and half dead, he can see caked blood, and stumps of- “Bone,” he murmurs, and the hatchling shudders away from his puff of breath. He reaches out, and the hatchling desperately tries to move away, but there is not an inch of space left; his claws curl around the iron bars and break them. He opens the cage with a shriek of metal, tearing it open before he stands up. He takes the flask of water and the clean set of bandages, rolling them out onto the ground, making a small nest of linen before tearing it away and putting the rest on the bedroll. “It’s alright little one,” he murmurs. The sound of bone breaking outside is muffled, but he hears it all the same; half broken words and swearing, but no one has gotten past Phi. He lifts the hatchling and places it down on the linens. He takes a sip from the flask first to check it really is water- it tastes off, but is simply groundwater instead of poison- before pouring it on the hatchling’s back. There is a tiny hissed squeak. “I know,” he says, “I know.” The water soaks the linens, stained pink. He ends up draining the whole flask before it runs clear again. Leaning over to grab the bandages again, he uses a finger to nudge the hatchling’s hunched over wings. It whimpers pitifully, a scant pained breath all it can manage. Mahir has never counted himself among those who care for hatchlings; he’s walked past enough street rats with no hope, enough hatchlings who will not survive the next drought. But inside his chest, his heart makes an entirely involuntary, traitorous squeeze. “Sorry,” he whispers, folding them out with gentle nudging. He tears of a piece of bandage to wrap around the wing joints, forcing them open. “I know this hurts little one, I know. But you need to stretch them out, or you’ll never be able to fly,” he explains, like the young hatchling can understand. He’s not entirely sure if it can- he can’t give a good estimate on edge with its current state. Likely it’s older than it looks, simply stunted and small. He looks down at the nubs of bone, jutting from its spine. Little notches of off-white; he’s no doctor, but he knows that isn’t supposed to be there. He tears more of the bandages away but lacks the dexterity to do anything about it, instead using a wide strip to swaddle the small hatchling and lift it, holding it against his chest. The traitorous thing in between his ribs squeezes again. “You’re coming with us,” he says, half to the tiny bundle with lidded crimson eyes and half to himself. He opens the flap door of the tent and blinks at the harsh light, feeling the hatchling’s head duck into his shoulder.

Phi stands surrounded by bodies. Snowflakes dance around her, settling on her brilliantly plated gauntlets. She hasn’t even unsheathed her scythe. Her head snaps up when she sees Mahir, and what he’s holding. She steps over the bodies and stares down with intensity. “It’s a hatchling,” she says, obviously. “Yeah,” Mahir agrees. He moves some of the bandages aside to show the sawn-off spikes of bone. The hatchling quivers when he does. Phi snarls, the sound reverberating through her chest. She turns, scans the bodies, and picks out the clerk who owned this tent. “Cover it back up,” she says, and Mahir complies. As soon as the hatchling can’t see, Phi brings her foot down on the clerk’s neck with a sickening crunch of bone. The body jerks, spasms, and she brings it down again with a squelch, grinding her talons down until the head is severed. “Okay, let’s go,” she says, turning away and trailing bloody footprints. Mahir follows without a backwards glance, across the shifting sands and glare of the midday sun.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Tau says, surprisingly evenly. He’s stood shouldering against the wall of Eden’s room. Eden sits on the bed, leafing through papers with one hand, and petting Isaiah with the other. Phi stands in the doorway with her arms crossed; Mahir took the hatchling to the medical ward as soon as they got in, leaving Phi to deal with the aftermath- or, as it turns out, the argument. “We already have too many mouths to feed.” Phi shakes her head, and Isaiah chews on Eden’s dancing rings; the shiny steel has been partly obscured by drool as his tiny needle teeth gnaw at unrelenting metal without a care in the world. “Bullshit. We had far more before-“ “Before we were ruined, you mean. We’re rebuilding, sister. You can’t expect us to take in every sickly child that comes our way!” Tau shifts, standing up straight. He doesn’t look entirely convinced by his own words, one hand curled around his scythe for comfort. She can pretend she doesn’t understand how he feels, where he’s coming from, but all the same- “If we don’t, what does that make us?” “Smart?” Tau offers, looking her in the eye. “It makes us heartless.” Tau rolls his eyes, and shakes his head venomously. “Pah! I’d rather be alive and heartless than dead and compassionate.” “You’re already dead, brother.” “We need more people,” Eden says, without looking up. “They’ll be more sympathetic to our cause if we bring them up.” Tau stares as if Eden has grown two heads. Eden looks up from his work after he signs one of the forms, and adds it to a stack of papers. “We have enough resources now. We’re not starving. The Hall will be finished soon. Our contacts are coming back to us. We can take in new people,” he adds, looking at Tau and Phi in turn. “So it’s alright. You don’t need to worry about allocation, Tau.” Tau blinks. “Are you sure?” he offers, warily. Eden nods resolutely. “See?” Phi says, a little smug. Tau huffs, and leaves; and Phi follows a moment later, a flash of regret on her face. Now alone, Eden gently pokes Isaiah’s head. He squeaks shrilly before dropping the large rings, spinning around to pounce onto Eden. Eden winces a bit, but Isaiah settles curled around his neck, tail flicking to and fro. Eden stands, having to juggle the papers before he can dump them on his desk, and makes his way to the medical ward.

Mahir sits with his back stiff, jumping when he hears the door swing open. “Oh, hey Eden,” he says, visibly relaxing again. “Hey,” Eden hums, leaning over the once again occupied cot. “She’s going to be fine Mahir, I already told you,” Nasolamia scolds good-naturedly from where she’s cleaning off a pair of scissors. Mahir scowls and shrugs. The hatchling is small, even for a skydancer, malnourished and oddly stunted. Nasolamia has added splints to her curled in wings, but Eden sees the juts of bone and frowns. “What’s… that?” he asks. Isaiah squeaks, emphasising the question. “Well, it’s bone, but it’s not natural. It appears to be a mutation of some kind,” Nasolamia explains. Eden’s frown deepens. Isaiah attempts to crawl down from his perch and into the cot- Eden tries to catch him, manages it, but Isaiah jumps the last few inches into the cot. The sleeping hatchling stirs as the cot dips with the added weight. “Isa,” Eden hisses, trying to pick him back up; but Isaiah leans in close to the sleeping skydancer, cloudy eyes wide, before settling down around her. “Oh,” Eden says. Mahir leans over with a frown, but Isaiah has curled around the other hatchling and immediately fallen asleep. Eden winces, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight laugh; Nasolamia smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll keep an eye on them,” she says. Eden nods. “I have to get back to my work,” he says, taking Mahir’s arm. “Come on, you too. You should eat something.” Mahir protests but allows Eden to haul him away without physically resisting. The door doesn’t swing shut. Nasolamia clears away some of her equipment, checks to see if Isaiah has accidentally severed the drip, and washes her hands again. She sees a reflection in the cold steel of the sink, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone lean over the cot; an extended finger that hovers an inch from the sleeping hatchlings. “Evening, Koschei,” Nasolamia says evenly. “Can I help you with something?” Koschei doesn’t turn, but tilts his head to study the two sleeping hatchlings. He leans in closer, and grazes the beak of the skydancer with the edge of his bare index finger. His gloves are held in his other hand. “When this one is well, could you be a dear and let me know?” She turns to see the spymaster’s face; but his expression is entirely unreadable, if strangely intense. “Of course,” she murmurs, watching him. He simply brushes a stray reedy feather back from the sleeping skydancer’s face before standing up straight. “Much obliged,” he murmurs in turn, bowing to her and disappearing away once again, leaving Nasolamia feeling as if she has missed something very important.

[majestyrising]

Unfettered

Notes: This is 2 months overdue and I have no excuse. Warning for description of injuries, but nothing too severe. Pings: @jollyroger-fr, @fusefr, @dragonhomeclan, @kattafr, @hawlucha-fr, @mask-fr, @shadowdrac-rising, @hellkite-fr, @archaic-fr

The early morning is eerily still. Mist hangs in the air, stretching out and obscuring the already muddied horizon. Eden takes a moment to stand alone, his hands against the frosted glass that surrounds the top dome, the pinnacle of his home. If he strains, he can hear the building creaking around him. Wooden supports spun with rot and yet the tiles stay utterly impeccable; it’s unfinished and from here, you can tell. It moans like a pained creature, the noise clear without the drone of rabble overlapping it. It’s morning, and the Halls are quiet. He stares out as minutes tick by; until the sun rises and temporarily blinds him. He rubs his eyes with a frown, turning on heel with the soft chime of bells to make his way back down the stairs. Another day without word.

He sent a scouting party himself, led by Dawn and Dusk, to make their way west. Just search for something, he whispered, anything at all. And they had nodded, a solemn vow alongside the fists pressed to their hearts- a salute, he supposes with a flicker of pain in his gut, it’s a salute- and made their way into the withering plague heartlands. The absence of voices is akin to a physical ache- he shadows no one, and no one shadows him. There is no sound of steel boots following him, and no quiet reassurance within his mind. No arm around his shoulder, no subtle curve of a smile. He feels adrift, as if lost in a dream. No, his dreams have always felt more real than reality anyway. This is far too soft at the edges, his pain just a dull ache that has slowly become background noise to reality. And the reality is this. He is alone.

The spiral staircase whines low under his feet as he makes his way down the steps with light footed haste. With the worst of the infected now treated, the real problems have fallen to his feet. The clan’s structure has been shattered, their safety compromised, and their trust all but ruined. But they do trust him, because he is one of them. He is a commoner, now handed the crown. And so easily routine comes back. The able bodied tend to the sick, they mend and build the hall around them, they go and hunt and patrol the currently unmarked borders; they write letters, they drink and pat each other on the back- Eden does what he can; which is to say, all of those and more. Being handed the responsibilities of the crown prince- temporarily, he insists to himself as he turns a corner, temporarily- is quite a burden. Thanks to the Bloodborn’s help they are now stable, stable enough to seem less like the ruined wreck of a fire and more akin to the survivors of a disaster- which they are. Eden tends to those still injured- Okaaz’s host of broken ribs, Acies’ broken arm, the abating sickness Malice valiantly fends off- and all the while Negaprion sits next to him and talks him through every step, harsh, unforgiving even, but endlessly diligent. He wants to learn, and Negaprion will abide that. Even if it is difficult- he can’t stand to be still. He needs to help everyone he can. He still swims in nausea around the sight of blood; he just ignores the feeling. “You sure about this?” Woe asks as Eden carefully places replaces the splint on Acies’ arm. Acies doesn’t shift a muscle, shutting all four of his eyes to breath in slowly. In, out. He’s so tranquil that Eden almost wants to snap a finger in front of him, to see if he’s even awake. He might not be. “Yup,” Eden replies without looking away from his work. Woe shifts, tucking his legs beneath himself, and nods. “Alright,” Woe says tentatively. “Have you seen Gloom?” Eden stands and dusts himself off, bouncing on his heels. He has an ache that hasn’t shifted in days. It’s probably not physical. “Nope,” he says, frowning as the words come out. “Why?” “She’s… been off lately,” Woe replies, stroking his chin. “I can’t blame her, but you know what it’s like.” Eden pats him on the shoulder, looking off into the quiet chatter around them. There aren’t as many inhabitants as there once was. It feels strange. He feels like a ghost. “You worry,” he muses. Woe just nods, and that’s that.

There’s a call- a sharp whistle that cut through the lingering, slow air and forces Eden to turn, bolting down the halls steps and onto the dusty ground without a second thought. A forward scout waves at him in the distance, beckoning him over. He wastes no time, instead running straight for them, his heart in his mouth- and all the while, something whispers to him, infernal in his mind. What if it’s bad news? What if they- What if they’re d- “Report!” he barks, skidding to a halt. Red dust kicks up in a cloud, partly blown back until it coats his calves. “Nothing conclusive, sir,” the scout says, with only a slight waver in her voice. What he feels first is relief- second only to being awash with guilt for the relief. “And?” The scout wavers, but Dawn and Dusk quickly join her side with what Eden can only describe as barely concealed weariness. “I’m sorry Eden. There was-“ “Some blood. I think-“ “It was probably Bastion’s.” He bites his tongue hard enough that he can taste iron, forcing his shaking hands into tightly curled fists, shifting from foot to foot. “What else?” he asks, voice tight and sharp. Dusk shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I tested it and it was infected- he was never freed from the Shade, so likely it was his. It’s not enough to constitute as any more injuries, just from exhaustion-“ “So he was running?” Eden asks, interrupts, fighting the urge to be sick. Focus. Calm down. You’re supposed to be their rock. Dawn nods, her eyes downcast. Unable to meet his. Dusk fidgets with his tome, equally downcast. “Fuck,” Eden murmurs. Dawn reaches out to stabilise him, her brow furrowed with concern as she does meet his eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll find them. They’re both ridiculously tough, dad thinks they just needed time-“ “Eden.” His head snaps up when his name is called, back into the looming brambles of rot and roots, churning from the earth. Several metres away, half shadowed by a pulsating pile of branches that some may call a tree, stands Spite. She looks off into the distance, where the thickets grow, with a faraway look in her red eyes. Eden jogs over to her, swallowing hard. “Do you see something?” he asks, as she drops to her knees and her fingers trace lines in the earth, patterns he doesn’t understand. She drops bones as she etches symbol after symbol, one over the top of the next. Her fingernails scratch into the earth until liquid wells up. Eden knows better than to say the ground beneath them is bleeding- but it sure looks like it, the smell of iron cloying in his lungs within seconds. “Not them,” she murmurs, breathy, “Someone else.” Her long, spindle index finger raises towards the north. Eden steps forward, leaning, peering into the shadows when he sees a flash of crimson- crimson and black, black melting into crimson eyes, he sees a figure in the trees and a sharp cackle bursts through the air.

He hears Spite call his name but he’s already gone, sprinting away and after the figure in the trees. The thorns catch on his skin as he runs, immediately his whole body is alight with the ache of it, but he doesn’t stop, weaving around the growing forest and never taking his eyes from the shadow who laughs at him as she runs away, just a bit ahead but when he tries to reach out and grab her, demand something, his hand meets thin air. He runs and runs until the cackling grows to but a whisper, an echo on the breeze, and he finally careens to a stop, tripping on an uprooted branch that makes his knees hit the earth with a bone-shaking thud. The breath fully knocked out of him, he rolls onto his back. He gasps and wheezes for it, his soft hands making indents in soggy earth. Minutes tick by before he realises the sound of someone gasping for air isn’t just him. There is a quiet hiss in the air, a wet noise, and he hears a whimper. He rolls back up, looking around for the source- and there, caught under a root, is a tiny hatchling. “Hey little guy,” he coos breathlessly, scooting closer to the tiny form. He can’t see much whilst it stays hidden beneath the mesh of thick roots; what he can see is the bump on the forehead, the beginning of a horn, and a tiny sparkling gem he knows is a pearl. It must be a few weeks old at most. There isn’t time to think about it- he grabs the brambles and shoves them aside, pulling the hatchling free as carefully as he can, but it is only then that he realises the extent of the damage. With the hatchling cradled in his arms, he realises that it’s neck- It's neck is broken, and slit, a mess of pulp more than anything else and he feels bile rise in his throat with mounting panic; he kneels once again and forces his hands to stop shaking. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, though the hatchling is quiet now, still nearly. He bites back a hysterical noise, a shriek for help, and grits his teeth. His magic is feeble at best; he has only ever used it to keep the ache from his muscles when performing, to keep himself cool, and soothe headaches when hungover. It is not the kind of magic that can tie broken vertebrae together, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try. The magic is cool against his hands, cool against the blood that now pools in his palms and spills over onto his legs. He keeps his hands still, completely still as he tries to mend tissue. It is an achingly slow process. Sweat beads over his forehead, slipping down his neck and back. Minutes tick by. The air is heavy with moisture here, and it makes everything feel so slow. He can see the muscles mend, sinew by sinew. One. Two. Three. Four. He's nearly sick but then the hatchling peeps, a broken noise that makes him sob aloud. “Hey! Oh, hey little guy. I promise you’re not going to die, okay? Not today. No, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, mumbles almost to himself in a steady stream, crouched over until his own neck feels as if it’s on fire. The noise is what rouses him from his concentration, the feeble heartbeat beneath his hand flickering like an unsteady light.

Spite emerges without noise, but Dawn and Dusk crash through the forest with panic when they finally reach him. “Oh thank the Eleven,” Dusk pants. Dawn stops him before he steps forward to haul Eden up; Spite instead going around him. “Eden,” he says gently. “We need to go.” Eden bites his lip. His vision swims, but he doesn’t move. A fractured bone slots back together. “I can’t get up yet,” he grits out. “This one needs help.” Dawn and Dusk crane their necks to see the runt held in Eden’s hands. They trade glances with one another, seeing only the reddened form and splattered blood. “We don’t have the resources and it’s not going to survive. It will be a mercy-“ Eden looks up, and if Spite didn’t know better, she would call the expression on his face a snarl. It thrums through his gut like a foreign thing, low and dangerous. He bares his teeth, canines sharp and white against the muted forest embracing them all. “No one else dies,” he snarls. The hatchling whines, the noise nearly drowned out by the ambient noise around them. Spite looks at him with pity- at the both of them. Dawn shifts from foot to foot before she speaks, her tail dragging against the ground. “Let me go get the healers,” she says. “It won’t take long if I sprint.” Eden nods, looking back at the hatchling, nothing but resolute as he continues to work his thread-bare magic. Dawn backs away several paces, shifts, and takes off in a burst of speed- the sound of foliage thrown aside by the speed of her acceleration echoing through the forest. There is silence, save for Eden’s laboured breath. Dawn was right- she returns quickly with Negaprion who carries enough medical equipment that they can keep the hatchling truly still, with its neck bound. Eden refuses to let go. His arms and hands are practically locked anyway, so he keeps the hatchling cradled to him, glancing down every few seconds as they make the trek back home. It’s eyes open, and they are red- but cloudy, like obscured pools. He doesn’t speak to anyone else, simply repeating reassurances to the bundle in his arms, all the way home, as his feet meet cold stone and he moves on auto-pilot, back through the halls until Negaprion stops him, and leads him to their half-built medical ward.

Nasolamia touches his shoulder gently and her magic is like a beacon, bright and clean as it surges through the small hatchling’s body. Eden squints against the light. When it is done, the open wound is fixed, leaving a thick pink line that spans the whole width of its neck. Next, they insert a feeding tube and silently set up a blood transfusion; Mahir and Huit play rock paper scissors to see whose blood will be used. Having lost, Mahir chats to Nasolamia, but Eden can’t quite hear it. His hands have been pried away, and he washes them until the water runs pink, then clear. He stares at the open tap, clears his throat, and turns it off. He still can’t bring himself to leave. He has paperwork to do, so much, so many letters to write and things to decide, to sort out- It's all like a dream. He slumps into a chair and waits. The sun ghosts along the horizon. Mahir places a glass of water in his hands with a concerned, gruff noise. “We’ve done what we can, but he’s a frail little thing,” Nasolamia murmurs, rousing Eden from his stupor. He stands on shaky legs, planting himself next to the cot. It’s more of a basket- they don’t really have beds yet. With the blood and grime now washed away, he can see rippled skin- cracked and cry. He nods at her words, turning to rummage through a set of drawers. He knows that in here somewhere- He pulls out a scroll and opens it over the hatchling, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “This should help,” he says. The scroll glows, the patterns dance in the air and then etch onto the hatchling’s skin. Like blooming flowers, the sickly green is replaced with oranges and reds not unlike the setting sun. Nasolamia smiles gently. “Lovely,” she murmurs, removing some of the tubes. If anything, he looks even more fragile with them gone. “I’ll stay here tonight,” Eden says. “He can stay with me.” Nasolamia opens her mouth as if to ask ‘are you sure?’ but she shuts it with a good-natured shake of her head; she squeezes him with a one-armed hug before leaving, shutting the door behind her. There is a lone window that looks out into the settling night. Eden takes a seat at the bottom of the cot so he can look out of it; he stares into the misty night, and wills himself to stay awake. This time, his willpower isn’t enough. He drifts in and out, each time shaking himself awake, splashing freezing water on his face, but it doesn’t last for long.

He dreams of the cold, he dreams of snowstorms, and of- Twilight greets him when he wakes with a start. His eyes slowly adjust to the shapes, and he lets out a shaky sigh. His back hurts from falling asleep in a cold metal chair, but as he blinks rapidly, he sees movement in the cot. He stands and nearly drops like a stone, having to brace himself against the cot until it bends a little from the pressure- and then the hatchling stirs again, rolling from its side to stand on plump legs. It looks around and then at Eden with large, cloudy eyes, and opens its mouth to squeak proudly at him. He bursts into tears, immediately dropping to his knees with a resounding thud. The hatchling climbs to the edge of the cot on wary legs, one outstretched forepaw patting the edges of his hair as he sobs; he reaches up to let the hatchling happily crawl back into his arms with a high-pitched chirp. He can’t speak past the lump in his throat that has his chest in a vice grip- his sobs echo in the lonely room as the hatchling climbs up and nestles against his shoulder- all he can do is cry, with shuddering violent breathes, half formed apologies and gratitude dying on his lips with every intake. It is all he can do to hold the hatchling close, and feel the heartbeat against his own like the quick-pace march of a drum. He is so, immensely glad- And utterly, utterly ruined.