Francis

26.5m|16.38m| 7990.32kg 86.94ft|53.74ft| 17,615.64 lbs| 8.8t Purchased from Jaigalaar Through Imperious 35 thousand gold pieces Column Font From Font Meme Banner art by AngHuiQing Banner dividers by Georgianna Flight flags by Oseim [/center]

Francis Flame Mage. Quote about job. [img]Good Koji Bust resized in imgur to 150 on the narrow.[/img] Unpredictable. Cautious. Curious. We were at Jaigalaar’s again. Finding Blue Rose in their keeping had been a much needed stroke of luck and Alaman was more than eager to pounce on another opportunity. So much so that it made entering this ancient lair, deep in the heart of the Murkwood Bramble, worth the risk. Ehrde flanked us, being sure to keep between us and the eyes that glittered through the thorn walls. Every so often, she would shrug her shoulders to settle the heavy panniers that we had brought. They were bound tightly, both to keep them from shifting, and also to keep their contents from escaping. I heard the scrabble of claws from one, the gentle jingle of coins from another. “Gifts.” I said softly, unthinkingly. “Bribes.” Sauvignon said, startling me. The golden mirror chuckled, “Don’t be so jumpy. We know Jaigalaar, and they know us. Innusha did her duty as herald perfectly, like she always does.” She perked up a crest then, as we neared the end of the brambles, and darted forward, expertly slipping between Ehrde’s armored legs to meet the leaders of Imperious. The Wildclaw attendant smiled and raised the little silver hammer with a question writ across his face. At the mirror’s nod, he tapped the hammer skillfully against the brick, picked up the pebble-sized lump of sugar between two claws and slipped it into her cup. The lump fizzed for just a moment and then fell apart as touched the moisture at the bottom of her cup. Wrists bending elegantly, the wildclaw lifted the pot from the sands, the air above it shimmering with heat, and poured the coffee in a thin stream, lifting the spout to pour from the rim of the cup to waist-height in smooth, graceful motion. The liquid made the sugar hiss for a split second as the whole cheerfully frothed up to the rim of the cup. Pinching the slim silver stirrer between two of her foreclaws, Sauvignon stirred the cup twice and set the stirrer back on its rest. “We appreciate your visit.” The wildclaw said, and settled back onto his haunches. He prepared his own cup and with a mutual nod and seated bow, they both took a long sip from their cups. “We always appreciate the opportunity to visit.” Sauvignon said, “ As well as the coffee. Thank you for having us.” “We appreciate also the gifts you have brought us. The Wildclaw said, casting a glance at the pannier that was seated on the rug beside them. “But we see that you have brought two baskets, yet only have given us one. You have borne both on a very long journey.” “The other is possibly for you as well,” Sauvignon said. “We are here on Imperious matters.” “Ah, yes. We are much gratified that you appreciate the value of our living histories.” He steepled his claws together. “History should be cherished, let it be lost forever.” She finished the saying. Sauvignon set her cup down and reached beneath her collar. She slid the folded scrap of parchment across the rug to him. “This one.” The wildclaw unfolded the paper, the only betrayal was the faint lifting of the feathers along the back of his neck. “Ah yes…Him.” Partners Little Dragon icon of Parent 1 Name of Dragon Little Dragon Icon of Parent 2 Name of Dragon

He slithers more than he walks. He keeps his eyes downcast. He was shy and wary of looking other dragons directly in the eye for the first few months. Even now the most one will ever receive is a reserved glance from one the corner of one jewel-like eye. He was not pure and this fact shamed him.

It was not his Wildclaw heritage that made him feel less, having grown up in a lair that boasted nothing but imperial purity as far back as the Founders, blessed by the Lightweaver herself. Wildclaws were proud and beautiful mates, their fierceness a perfect balance to the introspection of Imperials.

It was his other heritage, of all Flights blended into one, Earth and Nature and Ice on his father’s side, who himself called the Plaguebringer, Mather. His mother’s gift was Arcane sight, muddied with Lightning and Light, with a faint pouf of Wind from some distant corner.

And he himself, born of Fire, with eyes that showed his impure heritage. One eye circled around the pupil with the Arcanist’s halo, a fleck of dark green in one corner, a mote of brown in another, the whole rimmed in Flamebringer’s bright orange. His other eye was split down the middle, one half of his iris flame-bright, edged in blue sparks, the other half glimmered in Plaguebringer’s red, shot through with green-edged flames.

If no one looked close, he looked like a Fire dragon with vibrant eyes. If they looked close enough, they saw he was the worst kind of Imperial mutt.


In a Clan that boasted of naught but the finest imperial purity, when it was finally impossible to find members who were naught of Wildclaw or Coatl pedigree, purity had to be found in a different way.

The purge was great, it cut vast swaths through the Clan, separating “Representatives” those whose eyes and colors matched perfectly, from their muddy-eyed kin. Clothing the former in silk, prodding what the heralds said was the gods desire into eternal service. Selling the rest for bait.

Francis had not waited for the Forge to call him. He bolted from his hollow when they started, flying across the Ash Field and Smoke Vents as best as he could. Never a keen flyer, his wings were strong but they were short. His tail trailed behind him as he flapped, his wingbeats were like thunderclaps, and it was only the chaos of the culling that let him escape without pursuit. His flight was hopping and short, with much landing to catch his breath, before heaving himself into the air again, ungainly and back-heavy.

When he could no longer fly, he ran. When he could no longer run, he crawled. And when he could no longer do that, he lay his bloody chin on the frozen, icy ground and prayed that whichever god his mismatched lineage was most aligned to would see him and give him refuge that left him living and not a slave…

He found brief succor in an Ice Clan, who bandaged his raw throat, spread salve on his singed wings and bound his torn paws in exchange for his services as a stud. And there he remained, cautious, helpful, causing no trouble or quarrel. Until that Clan too, marked which of their ranks was to be lightened. As Francis slept, the brokers were called and coins were exchanged and when he awoke he was sold.

A stroke of fortune saved him from the stewpots of the Gods, a world-weariness that made one broker pause and ask him when he had been born. And in listening to the response, the little fae pulled him out of the line and hid him in the thorns as she made her negotiations. The Wildclaw came them, all pale and smelling of sugar and bitter tea, nodded confirmation of something, handed the fae a bulging sack of coins and led Francis into the waiting arms of Imperious.

And there he waited. Watching others come and go, imperials all, and in the meantime he entertained himself quietly. He moved from making sculptures of flame dance between his claws to warming sand into glass, folding the pieces into each other to form twisting spirals and sturdy snappers, and passing them quietly to one of the Representatives of that Clan, earning his keep by crafting art.

And one day, a long time later, the Wildclaw came to him again, scented the same as before with sugar and bitter tea, gazed up at him with blood-red eyes and said he had been bought again.

Sprouting Goblin

Familiar

The eyes of the Gladekeeper. (Greenskeeper Gathering Holiday Familiar 2017.)

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