Tytaer
Master never thought he could create something beautiful; he gave up on that long ago. Sure, he mixed and matched the others, mapped out bloodlines and magicked the genetics of his favorites into scintillating schemes. But since his first time on a nest, since he’d stared at his offspring in horror and sent them to the slab nameless, he hadn’t thought beauty could ever be a byproduct of his own body.
He wore many skins, opalescent and gold and a few brief things he ripped off almost instantly. Beneath those skins he quietly tinkered with his own genetics, crystalizing his hide and wings, embedding electric pathways throughout his body. He never let the rest of the lair hear his screams. He buried himself in UnNiacal’s furs or sank his teeth in Myraphim’s tail like a leather band. It was his secret - that he tortured himself the same as he tortured the rest of them.
He scattered his colors. Once. Again.
And when the egg hatched - the only egg, his great shame -
- - - something beautiful emerged.
He named her Tytaer - daughter - and ignored the looks from his other offspring.
How ironic, that he would finally create something worth loving, and having gone so long without, could not even do that.
She wound up like all the rest: for sale.