Scuttle

Scuttle was always called by the sea. Despite his lightning flight eyes, and his parents own professions, he just kept feeling it tugging at his heart, singing the sweetest song. The poor boy wasn't able to follow his heart, though. The cards didn't align correctly.

He was sickly.

His parents worried about him, understandably, as each time he went out, in search of something, to feel the salty breeze on his wings, he came back in fits of sneezing, of hiccups sometimes. Perhaps the hiccups were just spawn of his frustrated cries. Time and time again, he tried. Clawed his way to even attempt a glimpse at the ocean that spoke his name so sweetly. Scuttle didn't spend much time in the Tempest Spire. He was determined to find what he wanted. After a particularly nasty spell of sickness, that was when Scuttle broke apart from his birthplace, for the last time. He wasn't going to let his sickness beat him, not this time.

It wasn't hard to find the ocean. It was the ‘what now’ that had him… confused, lost. It was everything he dreamed, but it was like it was the wrong water. The air wasn't as cool, there wasn't that crackling he heard that made his feathers stand up pleasantly. How was it, he was in the Tidelord’s domain, yet felt this ocean was wrong?

Scuttle didn't want to go home. He knew that, wherever this place was that was crying to him, asking him to join them, that would be his home.

To remember his time in the Water Flight, Scuttle took a small seashell; nothing anyone would miss, just a little round and white thing with an almost flowery imprint. Putting it in his knapsack, Scuttle took off once more.

The determined wildclaw pressed on, through the plague territory. It felt stifling, the dragons far too suspicious and battle ready for even a wildclaw’s tastes. He, again, took a little thing from their territory as well; a small rock of bright, red colors. Scuttle figured, as soon as he settled down in his real home, he'd be able to figure out what these things were.

Now the Arcanist’s home wasn't as uninviting to him as the Plaguebringer's was, but the ocean surrounding it wasn't right either. The sea wasn't as clear, as crisp. But he was getting close, he could feel it.

He'd spent a few days in the icy tundra, the cold pricking at his scales, playing with his feathers, but it felt more right than anything else he'd had in a long time. The air here was fresh, it was

Just as he remembered it to be.

He was home.

He didn't have a lair to his name, but that wasn't a concern to him anymore. He was home.

He would figure the rest out later.