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Silverhame » Den » Ardor
Level 25
Tundra Female
Apr 01, 2018 (1 year)
Stats Growth
PrimarySable Poison
SecondaryDirt Toxin
TertiaryForest Capsule
Eye TypeWind Common
Energy: 50 / 50
Apparel & Skins

“I'll fix things, and that's a promise!”

The Champion




This is My World



Chaotic Hero • ENFP • Red-Souled • Gryffindor • Hawkridge
Ardor goes by many names. Mercenary, monk, artist and rebel, exploring the world with their senses. They take the guise of monk to win themselves the freedom to do what they want, and mercenary to support themselves without becoming tied down to any one place or thing. Though slower to ignite, they wield a temper rivaling their adoptive sister Astral’s in ferocity. And in the same way, a nasty hook — right and left — with a tongue as brutal.

Behind the claws and teeth, one might search for a dragon to remember and maybe to befriend. You will find none. Ardor is a matchless impersonator, to the degree that they can pick up any disguise with ease. But such a skill comes with pitfalls. Does a mirror have a face, really? Or is it only ever what it reflects?

Reserved by nature, they keep their emotions tight under wraps, but beneath the facade beats an intense, vehement heart. When prodded to speak, they are quick to spring into battle, and not until they are worn down, panting and sweating will they settle down to talk. Yet when they do, they have a stirring passion that longs to laugh and cry with reckless abandon — and with a friend.

Lost in a sea of faces and names, the one thing they have to hold onto is their determination to redeem, to make the world a better place. They will speak with the voices of others if they must, until they find a voice of their own. For they will prevail with the ardor the Ravagers named them for. Ardor will win, and Ardor will change the world.

“Everything changes. Including us. We're never the same, and we're all the better for it.”

Though Ardor is young, their origins began long before they were ever born, before their egg was ever laid and stolen and forgotten in the rotting mounds of the Labyrinthine Breach. For who knows how long the dirty, dusty egg lay dormant among hundreds, the spark of life within prepared to sleep till the end. But then the clans, Ravagers and Sekura and then-nameless wanderers, came bringing fresh magic and fresh air, and as the dry shell crackled and the tiny dragon stirred in its near-coffin, the magic seeped in at last. That trickle of movement was all it took.

On the other side of the breach, beyond the elements, souls floated in a hungry void. The Shade. Vaporized signatures of dragons long consumed, ghosts now lost and mindless. As the eggs of the breach lived and took form, the magic they drew out of the environment only widened the rift in the elements. Though the breach, the signatures escaped like moths to a candle, drawn to the brightest-burning flare of magic.

Luck was all there was to it. Once in a while a dragon is born with a double share of magic, but in most cases their draconian magic neutralizes the effects of the elemental. But here, so close to the void, the Shade was not the only threat. The hatchling was the candle, and the moths gathered thick and black. They latched onto the flame and in they burrowed. So many ghostly lives, layered one on top of another in a single body.

Ardor burst into the world, full of life with a squall and toothless jaws snapping at anyone who dared put a paw near them.

The Ravagers adopted them. Obfonteri and Astral called them sister not knowing that from the moment they were born they were no longer anyone any dragon has known. But in those early days, it was a fact of life, something they took for granted that they were someone one moment and somebody else the next, and sometimes they were everyone.

They were one of the first to hatch, and one of the lucky. So many more eggs to go that there was yet time for them to help the three clans tend the unborn and the born. The heartbreaking heaps of silent spheres grew, the eggs that had lain too long, too cracked never to live again. Ardor saw none of this until Lucian was born.

Lucian hatched weak and retching, a hair from death. Ardor watched him and touched his damp shivering shoulder with a small paw, letting out chirrups of distress. What's wrong with him? Fix him! Instead the adults convened amongst themselves with grave faces and somber voices. Ardor remained at the newborn’s side, protesting their predictions of his imminent death. But he didn't die. He clung stubbornly to life, fighting for every breath.

Like Ardor he was a fighter in a different way. As they grew together, step by step, Ardor romped at his side in their fierce and passionate manner, exhorting him when he coughed — though he would persevere even without their encouragement. Their heart twisted and throbbed to see him so weak yet so strong.

“Why? Why is he like this? Why can’t you heal him?”

Merle looked up, not laughing for once, and spat a black glob at their feet, the same filth Lucian hacked up at night. Despite her easy air her words bit like gangrene, and the pain she projected smote Ardor to the heart.

“That’s why. There is no cure. Not that we know of. But before you accuse me, you, you’re birthed from the same calamity that did this to him.”

“So you ... you and Lucian ... you're part of his infection? Did you do it to him?”

“Me? If this is my fault, well ...” Merle paused with a smirk that was not as wry as she intended. Her voice grew quiet. “That wouldn't be anything new, would it now?”

That night Ardor slipped away from Lu’s side to go seeking out into the darkness, nose first, muscles taut. There she lay propped up against a tree trunk, black bubbles forming on her lips. On soft paws Ardor approached her, but Merle stirred first. Dark nights like these, she slept only barely.


In response Ardor recoiled — slam — threw a cuff that snapped Merle's head clear to the side.

“Ow!” A clot of sludge cut her off. “What's the big idea?”

Sinking their claws into her shoulders, they shook her with the sound of tearing fur. “You deserved it, you sneak! Take it back, liar, or I’ll make you!”

“Take what back?” Dazed, Merle rubbed her jaw and wheezed. “Get off me. I’m not your personal mattress, nor your punching bag for that matter.”

“It isn’t my fault. I’m not like you! How dare you say such a thing?”

“I'm no liar,” interrupted Merle, “I speak nothing but truth — maybe bent a little sometimes. What are you pointing claws for? I didn’t ask to be an abomination, and neither did Lucian, and you didn’t ask to be born. And yet here we all are. What a surprise. Surprise! Go on, act surprised.” Still pinned against the tree, she prodded Ardor in the ribs with a foot.

Stony-faced, they glared back at her with a snarl. “This isn’t a laughing matter! Don’t you take anything seriously?” Ardor's face twitched. “And Lucian, if he’s going to die, that means you are too.” They paused, but the unspoken words hung at the tip of their tongue. Good riddance.

The grey Tundra shrugged. “Sticks and stones may break my bones ... shadows may consume all I own ... but I will not let words hurt me.”

I can hurt you,” reprimanded the younger dragon, brandishing their claws under her nose.

“So you can. Are you gonna act on that, or just swagger there?”

As they stared at each other through the darkness, Merle blinked at Ardor with half-shut eyes and a lopsided grin. Ardor sagged back, run out of fighting words, and braced for her victory gloat. But it never came. The Shade-touched remained slumped against the tree, and as they watched, she closed her eyes and another wet cough gurgled up in her throat. For a moment, they almost reached to touch her scratched-up shoulder, but then from somewhere behind came Lucian’s cough like an echo.

A small voice escaped them. “He’s my friend. And he hurts.” Whisking around, Ardor turned their back on Merle and left.

24742450.png Kraglin—Adoptive Father

Ruins all the fun.
38864115.png Astral—Sister

I beat her this time! One time!
38852944.png Obfonteri—Brother

I wonder if he ever wants to fix me, like he fixes a broken clock.
40588748.png Lucian—Friend

Don't baby him, okay? Tackle him! Just don't let him know you didn't do it that hard.



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