Naberius
(#643256)
The world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Familiar
Moonlight Fungi
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Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Wind.
Female Nocturne
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
0.86 m
Wingspan
1.27 m
Weight
1.02 kg
Genetics
Black
Skink
Skink
Black
Butterfly
Butterfly
Purple
Lace
Lace
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 8 Nocturne
EXP: 463 / 16009
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
44
Biography
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 Erlkönigen Naberius  Visitor to the Waters from the Wild ◼ Noticed, Notices Back ◼ |
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The angler does not often send changelings. It is not difficult. Water so easily is molded into shape, a little blue fae, so simple. It need not speak, nor breathe, for water is poor at both. So when changelings are made, they are made well. But they are not made frequently. Rarely enough, in fact, that when such a thing should occur, the greatest keeper of their ilk takes notice, and sends its regards, and its kin. There are things in the wind and the shadows with many eyes, as well, after all, and things born from it - woven from mist and dust - just as the trench-dweller weaves its shapes from bubbles and silt. Most things that could be called changelings are not from the depths - they are from bits of breeze and darkness, broken off and rolled into a ball between the palms of some unnamed god, until formed into the rough shape of a dragon egg. The being calling itself - themself, perhaps? - Naberius is old. They are not so old as the changeling, for when water makes such things it tends to reuse ancient parts, droplets torn asunder and re-molded into new shapes. Naberius has had the same shape for many years, though it was not the one they were born with. That one has been long forgotten. They are small. So very, very small. Not so small as the changeling, but lighter. Quicker. Swifter to flee. But they do not hide - in another place, perhaps, they would tuck themself into a nook or a cranny, under the floorboards as brownie-kin did. They get along very well with the fair folk and their spritely bretherin. In this place, however, they do not hide. They have made themself known as an outsider, and been welcomed into the clan, because of course they have. Because this clan would not know a danger if it raked its claws against their eyes and cried: "Woe! Woe! You dive too deep and the lacre creeps and the salt-water weeps and all color has bled from the light!" So they are here, now. It is odd. They are here to watch the changeling, and by extension, to ensure its creator does not overextend its reach. They are here as eldest-among-the-wind-and-shadow - as monarch, so to speak, of such things that go about in dragon-shape and speak the language of pixies and fae. They are not here to make friends. And yet. |
The Crew is... kind. They do not ask what they are, though they are too tiny to be what they appear in shape. Perhaps it is assumed they fell victim to some strange magic. Perhaps not. The Gravedigger bows to them when they pass, not a formal prostration but a nod of acknowledgement. So too does the Orchard-keeper. Hello, I see you, you are welcome here. So they are welcomed by the un-things, kin to the dead and west-north-west of themselves. But more to the point, they are welcomed also by the... well, the dragons. The ones who are only dragons. Mortal. Kind. Syzygy asked them to tea in her clocktower. Og showed them how the Crew keeps warm, the geothermal vents in the deepest caves. It was an excuse, really, for them to descend deeper, to try and make contact with the changeling's keeper - to no avail. But they saw the vents, and listened to the technician chatter in delight about igneous stone and the boiling points of various liquids, and felt something like peace. Almost. Close enough, at least. For all their years, the thing calling itself Naberius has so rarely allowed itself to be a person. Always they are first-among-kin, fairy-king, erl-queen, wisp spun of wind and shadow. A trickster, if you must, though the term always left an ill taste in their mouth. How often are the tricksters of stories coddled, flattened, made palatable, as if their machinations were hatchlings' games? The veneer of nobility hides a capriciousness that is not cruel, but neither is it playful. It only is. It is neither puck nor poltergeist. It is a gust of wind in the shade, cooling, gentle, flinging about paper and feathers and straw with no regard for consequence. It is the flap of a pixie's wing that can become a typhoon. It is also a dragon. How has it taken so many years for them to realize that?
ꙮ Fond of the color purple, velvet, vaudeville acts
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[*] Bought in celebration and to commemorate the day of my dissertation defense (7/17/23).
[*] The single most expensive dragon I've ever purchased (10kg), I will never have that kind of budget again but they are worth it.
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Exalting Naberius to the service of the Tidelord 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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