Zarya
(#25708675)
SO DEARLY DO THE BOUGHS GUARD
Familiar
Enduring Goblin
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Wildclaw
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6 m
Wingspan
5.88 m
Weight
620.34 kg
Genetics
Crimson
Cherub
Cherub
Sanguine
Peregrine
Peregrine
Carmine
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Wildclaw
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
8
AGI
9
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
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 Z A R Y A W A R D E N 
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I.
A living nightmare.
The Wyrmwound’s red-gray earth scalded her frantic paws. She scrambled over pustules, hurtled over boulders, and still they came.
Her hatchmate’s gasps rang in her ears. “Run!”
She glanced over her shoulder, lungs burning.
The Shade-touched Mirrors were a seething mass of black-red. Their black eyes burned with hunger. As she watched, the nearest Mirror seized her sister’s leg in its jaws.
“No!”
She did an about-face, twisted her ankle, leapt toward the Mirrors. Her world shrank to whirling black and flashes of white teeth. She heard herself shrieking wildly above the others.
Something bony stabbed into her ribs. She gusted out wind and fell.
Then she stared upward at dripping maws, a blazing vermilion sun. It hung over everything, glaring down from the silver-clouded heavens like a baleful eye.
II.
…dead?
No, no, I don’t think so.
Reality shimmered, bubble-like. A gruff brown Tundra saw her coming around and offered her a paw.
Blinking, she cautiously took it. Her whole body ached. The pain was particularly fierce around her arms and shoulders. Pieces of her were missing.
Her words slurred. “Did anyone —“
“— make it?” The gruff Tundra’s brows knitted into a frown. “Why don’t you sit down, little one?”
She shoved past him. The Wyrmwound ground, mottled by red and gray, was hard to examine. But she could smell blood.
She fell to her knees.
“—to take down a pack like that? We need her aboard.”
“Hush.” The Tundra came and rested a paw on her shoulder.
III.
Mercenaries.
Wildclaws are swift. She didn’t care. The loss of her sister had hollowed her out, left her empty as the inside of a bell. Feelings, thoughts, emotions—distant, small.
Wildclaws are swift. At least she didn’t have to kill others. She robbed, mostly, and mostly under cover of night.
She stole gems, treasure, old parchments, exotic leaf bugs, spoiled pets, and scientific scriptures, with only the moon and glowing stars as witness. Soon, the faint, charred smell that hung over the Fire regions smelled of home.
There were times while waiting outside caravans that her thoughts wandered. Then loss assaulted her, just as painful as those other white teeth.
Then she moved and struck and tore valuables away from protesting hands.
She was never interested in what the objects were.
Well, save one: an old book cloaked in shimmering red silk. The pages were translucent as moth wings, the neat handwriting wrought in brushstrokes of liquid gold.
Standing in the Tundra’s office, she turned a couple pages:
he forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,
she’s not here, and I’d rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.
The gruff Tundra—Maddox—waited impatiently for her to finish reading, then took the book. She spent a long time awake that night, thinking of those words, then of the softness of the book’s covers.
IV.
Firelight was prettier than Plagueglow. The latter was flat red. The former, red and gold, sweetness and warmth.
She saw the firelight echoed in a dragon’s silks. She’d taken to spending time around the blacksmiths. They were quieter than the mercenaries. They thought. Sometimes they spoke in verse.
Now the forge was home to a visiting group of Light dragons, all of whom were watching the Fire dragons with great respect.
But Zarya couldn’t tear her eyes away from one in particular. The glorious apparition was in the center of the Light cluster. Her eyes watched appraisingly as the smith completed a sword.
Zarya strained to hear her melodious voice. The bellows pounded thunder to match her heart. And though all of those dragons were pretty in their own way, the one in the center bloomed with beauty, like a rose.
As hot blade met cool water, mist rose around the other’s wings.
And when it settled, she stood before Zarya, then touched her forehead with a claw.
“I see you watching me.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Surely this one had to be a princess. Zarya dropped in an awkward curtsy.
The other clucked her tongue and shook her head. Her face was kindly. “Arise. I need your help, mercenary. I’ve heard much about you on the tongues of the dragons here.”
Blinking, Zarya arose.
V.
Making their way through the Ashfall Waste, Zarya barely noticed the erupting volcanoes, or the ensuin lightning. Her eyes constantly traced Asmin’s path.
The other Wildclaw moved with such unhurried grace. Her scales glowed against the sulfurous, smoky sky.
And one night, Zarya spotted her reading that red-silk-covered book.
VI.
The keys to the keep,
The keys to her heart.
Zarya is a refugee from the Wyrmwound. Shade-touched dragons slew her family and chased her clear into the Ashfall Wastes, where she fell in with a band of mercenaries.
While she was good at her job, she found a life of thieving desperately lonely. As a result, she took to spending time with the skilled blacksmiths, who some say form poems from steel. Their thoughtful company was far preferable.
However, when a dragon who resided in Light, Asmin, offered her a job, Zarya eagerly took it as a way to escape. She protected Asmin’s detachment during a stroll through the Ashfall Wastes. It was during this time that Asmin began to hint that her clan needed someone to watch the prisoners. The prisoners were growing unrulier with no true warden to keep them.
Zarya, Asmin argued, was perfect. Not only was she strong, but she understood what went through dragons’ minds when they committed crimes. Asmin believed they weren’t bad—just misdirected.
More flattered than Asmin knew, Zarya took up the role of Warden.
Now, she guards her wayward charges with the strength of a warrior and the heart of an exasperated mother—something for which her charges are quietly grateful.
As for her and Asmin, the two are taking things slow. Asmin senses that beneath Zarya’s calm exterior, something darker and hotter roils. Sometimes, she can almost see the sanguine sun burning in Zarya’s gaze.
A living nightmare.
The Wyrmwound’s red-gray earth scalded her frantic paws. She scrambled over pustules, hurtled over boulders, and still they came.
Her hatchmate’s gasps rang in her ears. “Run!”
She glanced over her shoulder, lungs burning.
The Shade-touched Mirrors were a seething mass of black-red. Their black eyes burned with hunger. As she watched, the nearest Mirror seized her sister’s leg in its jaws.
“No!”
She did an about-face, twisted her ankle, leapt toward the Mirrors. Her world shrank to whirling black and flashes of white teeth. She heard herself shrieking wildly above the others.
Something bony stabbed into her ribs. She gusted out wind and fell.
Then she stared upward at dripping maws, a blazing vermilion sun. It hung over everything, glaring down from the silver-clouded heavens like a baleful eye.
II.
…dead?
No, no, I don’t think so.
Reality shimmered, bubble-like. A gruff brown Tundra saw her coming around and offered her a paw.
Blinking, she cautiously took it. Her whole body ached. The pain was particularly fierce around her arms and shoulders. Pieces of her were missing.
Her words slurred. “Did anyone —“
“— make it?” The gruff Tundra’s brows knitted into a frown. “Why don’t you sit down, little one?”
She shoved past him. The Wyrmwound ground, mottled by red and gray, was hard to examine. But she could smell blood.
She fell to her knees.
“—to take down a pack like that? We need her aboard.”
“Hush.” The Tundra came and rested a paw on her shoulder.
III.
Mercenaries.
Wildclaws are swift. She didn’t care. The loss of her sister had hollowed her out, left her empty as the inside of a bell. Feelings, thoughts, emotions—distant, small.
Wildclaws are swift. At least she didn’t have to kill others. She robbed, mostly, and mostly under cover of night.
She stole gems, treasure, old parchments, exotic leaf bugs, spoiled pets, and scientific scriptures, with only the moon and glowing stars as witness. Soon, the faint, charred smell that hung over the Fire regions smelled of home.
There were times while waiting outside caravans that her thoughts wandered. Then loss assaulted her, just as painful as those other white teeth.
Then she moved and struck and tore valuables away from protesting hands.
She was never interested in what the objects were.
Well, save one: an old book cloaked in shimmering red silk. The pages were translucent as moth wings, the neat handwriting wrought in brushstrokes of liquid gold.
Standing in the Tundra’s office, she turned a couple pages:
he forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,
she’s not here, and I’d rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.
The gruff Tundra—Maddox—waited impatiently for her to finish reading, then took the book. She spent a long time awake that night, thinking of those words, then of the softness of the book’s covers.
IV.
Firelight was prettier than Plagueglow. The latter was flat red. The former, red and gold, sweetness and warmth.
She saw the firelight echoed in a dragon’s silks. She’d taken to spending time around the blacksmiths. They were quieter than the mercenaries. They thought. Sometimes they spoke in verse.
Now the forge was home to a visiting group of Light dragons, all of whom were watching the Fire dragons with great respect.
But Zarya couldn’t tear her eyes away from one in particular. The glorious apparition was in the center of the Light cluster. Her eyes watched appraisingly as the smith completed a sword.
Zarya strained to hear her melodious voice. The bellows pounded thunder to match her heart. And though all of those dragons were pretty in their own way, the one in the center bloomed with beauty, like a rose.
As hot blade met cool water, mist rose around the other’s wings.
And when it settled, she stood before Zarya, then touched her forehead with a claw.
“I see you watching me.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Surely this one had to be a princess. Zarya dropped in an awkward curtsy.
The other clucked her tongue and shook her head. Her face was kindly. “Arise. I need your help, mercenary. I’ve heard much about you on the tongues of the dragons here.”
Blinking, Zarya arose.
V.
Making their way through the Ashfall Waste, Zarya barely noticed the erupting volcanoes, or the ensuin lightning. Her eyes constantly traced Asmin’s path.
The other Wildclaw moved with such unhurried grace. Her scales glowed against the sulfurous, smoky sky.
And one night, Zarya spotted her reading that red-silk-covered book.
VI.
The keys to the keep,
The keys to her heart.
Zarya is a refugee from the Wyrmwound. Shade-touched dragons slew her family and chased her clear into the Ashfall Wastes, where she fell in with a band of mercenaries.
While she was good at her job, she found a life of thieving desperately lonely. As a result, she took to spending time with the skilled blacksmiths, who some say form poems from steel. Their thoughtful company was far preferable.
However, when a dragon who resided in Light, Asmin, offered her a job, Zarya eagerly took it as a way to escape. She protected Asmin’s detachment during a stroll through the Ashfall Wastes. It was during this time that Asmin began to hint that her clan needed someone to watch the prisoners. The prisoners were growing unrulier with no true warden to keep them.
Zarya, Asmin argued, was perfect. Not only was she strong, but she understood what went through dragons’ minds when they committed crimes. Asmin believed they weren’t bad—just misdirected.
More flattered than Asmin knew, Zarya took up the role of Warden.
Now, she guards her wayward charges with the strength of a warrior and the heart of an exasperated mother—something for which her charges are quietly grateful.
As for her and Asmin, the two are taking things slow. Asmin senses that beneath Zarya’s calm exterior, something darker and hotter roils. Sometimes, she can almost see the sanguine sun burning in Zarya’s gaze.
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Meat stocks are currently depleted.
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Zarya to the service of the Gladekeeper will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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