Dulcamara
(#31235600)
Level 1 Fae
Familiar
Serthis Loremaster
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Male Fae
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
1.32 m
Wingspan
0.79 m
Weight
0.75 kg
Genetics
Thicket
Basic
Basic
Purple
Basic
Basic
Sanddollar
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Fae
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
6
INT
8
VIT
5
MND
8
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
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___________________Dulcamara___________________
The Storyteller |
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The Golden Ribbon The arrival of the Strangers, meoms and mata-cats and all, had been quite a shock to the Hidden Haven. Suddenly there were nearly a hundred small, catlike creatures bouncing everywhere, and more seemed to arrive every day. Indeed, there now seemed to be more than a hundred of them, and that wasn’t counting the other, more curious Strangers with their narrow noses, spindly limbs, and their eerie, whispery voices. In his quest for eldritch knowledge, young Alek had opened a door to another world. He had been unable to complete the ritual properly, and so the door had remained open. Cinnamon, Vernal, and Quentin had found the cave where he’d first collapsed. They had shuddered at the blood Alek had left behind and had carefully collected the materials he’d used. The megameom that had healed him had hinted that his “door” had allowed other things—possibly some very bad things—to come through. Cipher of the Cathedral of Eyes had agreed, and that didn’t bode well. After Alek’s “accident”, a thick, clinging fog had settled over the lair. It had dissipated fully with the arrival of the megameom. The Hidden Haven had soon determined that anyone who’d breathed in the vapors was now able to see and interact with Strangers. Even Gizelle, who normally lived in the Plaguelands, hadn’t escaped this; she had been summoned to help tend Alek and had inadvertently breathed in the fog. The clan was now wondering if other dragons who’d come near the lair during the “Strangers Incident” had breathed in the fog and acquired the same ability. Perhaps soon, they would start hearing stories and encounter other clans with the same concern, much as they’d done with the Pearlsnatcher and the Disillusionists. As far as they all knew, nothing like this had ever happened before. Onoind had been feeling uneasy and fatigued for the past few weeks, but the recent incident had rekindled his curiosity and given him an energy boost. Most of the Strangers clustered around or within the lair as if reluctant to leave their new home, but Onoind wanted to explore further afield and see how the incident had affected the surrounding lands. Perhaps he would meet dragons he could subtly question as well. The Ghostlight Ruins were nearby. They seethed with magical energy, and Onoind would try exploring there. He did hesitate at first—he’d noticed that every time he went out to visit the Ruins, he came back with various aches and pains and huge gaps in his memory. He was guessing that one of the fiends dwelling there had cursed them, but he couldn’t be sure.... He decided not to go alone. Although many dragons were willing and able to accompany him, for this venture he requested the assistance of Taurvin, a Longneck Medium. Most mediums tended to be gloomy, doom-laden folk, but not Taurvin. He was as clinical and unflappable as a physician, and not likely to be rattled by any of the Ghostlight specters. He had in fact explored the Ruins almost as much as Onoind had. If anything had been changed by the Strangers Incident, it was a fair bet he’d notice it right away. Off they went, the tall Fae with his simple cloak and Taurvin clip-clopping beside him. They made it safely out of the lair and threaded their way among the gnarled gray trees of the Tangled Wood. As they walked along, Onoind confided his concerns to Taurvin, about how he’d been losing his memory. The Longneck considered it gravely, one hand stroking his furry chin. “There are some enemies that can inflict memory loss,” he said. “Those Aer Phantoms, for example: They can severely disorient some dragons, enough so that they never find their way out of the Ruins again. At least that’s how the stories go.” “You think I might’ve run afoul of an Aer Phantom?” Onoind asked. He couldn’t help feeling a little bit offended. Surely he was tougher than that! “An Aer Phantom...or something else.” Taurvin’s eyes glinted beneath his fringe of rough hair. “As the Strangers have shown us, we cannot be completely sure about the creatures we share our space with.” That was true. Onoind decided to hold his tongue for now. They soon arrived at the Ghostlight Ruins. Onoind was already a familiar face there, and most of the ruin-dwellers knew better than to take him on. The few that were foolish enough to do so found themselves bashed by a staff or flung away by one of Taurvin’s spells. They were quickly sent packing. Together, Onoind and Taurvin moved deeper into Ghostlight. They thought they glimpsed evidence of Stranger activity, but they could not be sure. There was, however, definitely something strange about the flower they discovered that day. They entered one of the Ruins’ many chambers. Onoind was sure they had explored this one many times before, but now there was something new: a part of the roof had fallen in, and a column of pale light leaked in from outside, illuminating the large purple flower that had taken root among the stones. It was nearly as high as Onoind’s knees and had many petals like a lotus, all of them clasped over the large, dark form faintly visible at its heart. “What is this?” Onoind asked in wonder. He looked back, expecting an answer from Taurvin, but there was none—the Longneck had gone on ahead and didn’t notice Onoind had branched off. So it was Onoind alone who edged closer to the vibrant bloom. It emitted a sweet, enticing scent, and he found himself reaching a slender hand towards it. He pressed his palm against the petals. A vibration rushed through the flower and up his arm—almost, but not quite, like static electricity. As Onoind watched, the flower opened, its petals peeling back in perfect synchronicity. Rising from the center was a small boy, his violet wings blending into the flower, still damp with morning dew. A perfect, miniature copy of a Fae. “I greet you,” he breathed, and his voice was like the tinkle of wind chimes. Onoind stared. He had definitely not been expecting this. Not knowing what else to say, he mumbled, “Hullo. Uh, what’s your name?” “Dulcamara,” the child replied. He stood on tiptoe, looking up into Onoind’s face. His eyes sparkled as he murmured, “I can tell stories. Do you want to hear one?” No, not really....But the child’s violet eyes were so deep and pure, and his smile was so cheerful...so guileless.... “What harm would it do?” a soft voice seemed to whisper in Onoind’s ear. “He isn’t threatening. Surely it wouldn’t hurt....” “Certainly,” Onoind said out loud. “Tell me a story.” Dulcamara’s lips parted, and he began to speak. His words spilled out, soft and fluid, like water purling over stones. The column of light he stood in seemed to grow brighter. Shapes moved in it, and Onoind found his eyes drawn to them even as his ears remained anchored to the sound of Dulcamara’s voice. And then with a sharp, clapping sound, the shapes dissolved. Onoind blinked in surprise. The clapping noises continued, and he realized it was Taurvin’s hooves clicking against the floor. The Longneck was doubling back, looking for him. “The end,” Dulcamara whispered. He was smiling sweetly. Onoind felt he should comment on the story, maybe say how wonderful it was, but no words came to mind. Neither did any memories—he could not remember a single word Dulcamara had narrated to him. The boy turned, orienting on the source of a noise. With a sigh, he folded his wings around himself and sank back to sleep in his flowery bed. The petals closed around him like a blanket. And Taurvin appeared in the doorway. “Onoind? I didn’t notice I’d left you behind....Great Talona! What is that?” “It’s a flower,” Onoind said slowly. Yes, it was a flower—but it was also something else. Taurvin was a clever Longneck; he understood immediately. “Is it a Stranger?” he asked Onoind, his dark eyes narrowing. “I don’t think so. It looks a bit like a Fae.” “It...does?” Taurvin stared at the large purple bulb, the tightly-furled petals. It certainly didn’t look like a Fae now. Onoind shook his mind as if to clear it of cobwebs. He reached out and grasped Taurvin’s sleeve. “I think we should leave it alone for now.” “You think it will still be here if we come back?” “Yes. It can take care of itself." Taurvin looked curiously at him, but he didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to: Onoind filled him in on what had happened, as nearly as he could remember it. “There’s a gap in my memory again,” he concluded with a sheepish laugh. “Maybe I’ve met him before.” Taurvin didn’t point out that this was the first time Onoind had mentioned Dulcamara. If the two of them had indeed met before, why was Dulcamara being mentioned only now? Onoind was having the same thoughts. He decided to talk to Tharwalda and Tairialis when he got home....But it turned out the mother and her son were both busy in the garden. It seemed they were trying to protect their plants from being trampled by the Strangers, particularly the cats, who were of course curious and determined to be everywhere at once. In the end, Onoind didn’t find the chance to talk with them. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and he headed off to bed. The book of the daytime closed... And then another tale began. ~ ~ ~ Dulcamara rose from his flower, smiling up at Onoind. He began to spin his tale as confidently as a spider spins its web, brilliant images flecking it like dewdrops on the silken strands. “There once was a young boy,” he recited, “and he lived in a great house with his aunt....” The aunt was a rich woman with thick, wavy brown hair. She shared her nephew’s violet eyes and she wore a dress of bright yellow cloth. She was confident and strong, and she spoke with Araziela’s voice. Her nephew looked just like Onoind: tall, kind of thin. He clasped his hands behind his back and listened meekly to his aunt. “You have been a good boy,” she said to him. “You are studious and kind and you play nicely with the other children. So I have decided to buy you the toy which you’ve asked for.” She held out her hands, and cradled in them was the most beautiful puppet Onoind had ever seen: a slender magician, his pale green hair flecked with starry crystals. His eyes were of bright green glass. He was clothed in shimmering violet silk, though his splendid outfit was somewhat ruined by the floppy golden ribbon fastened round his neck. Onoind prodded it, and his aunt pushed away his fingers. “No, child,” she chided. “The puppet will play nicely with you as long as the ribbon stays around his neck. You must never take it off.” Onoind nodded dutifully. When he was not playing with the other children, he played with his puppet. He made it dance and clap, but he did not like the golden bow, for it was ugly, and it flopped gracelessly with every move the puppet made. Yet he resisted the urge to take it off. His aunt was always there, watching carefully, and Onoind knew he should not disobey her. Weeks passed. One day, Aunt Araziela received an invitation from a very important clan. She had done them a service before, and they wished to invite her to a grand banquet. Onoind would not be coming, of course—it was for grown-ups only. But Araziela knew he would behave, as he always did. She twisted up her long hair and traded her dress for a gown of golden brocade. She tucked a jeweled dagger into the sash at her hip and started out the door. And then she was gone, her strong wings beating, on her way to a night full of gaiety. Onoind waited until she was gone. And then he rushed to the playroom where his puppet waited. He pulled at the ends of the bow, undoing it, and the gold ribbon fluttered to the floor. The puppet shifted in his grasp. Slowly, it began to grow. Onoind gasped and released it as its feet touched the floor, and he stood back as it straightened up, stretching till it was taller than he was. The puppet’s violet cloak swirled around himself, and then he opened his bright green eyes. “Greetings,” he purred, smiling down at Onoind. His eyes twinkled beneath his soft green hair. “I am happy to see you, Master, and you have my utmost thanks.” He sank down on one knee as he spoke, his hands pressing against the floor. Onoind stared at him in surprise. “I am the Prince of the Puppet Masters,” the former puppet explained. “My people and I mastered the art of puppetry: we crafted marionettes so lifelike, they could even dance on their own—but other craftsmen grew jealous of us, and they set a sorcerer against me. I was captured and transformed into a puppet as well, and my people were scattered to the winds. For many years I remained in my enchanted form, trapped by that accursed ribbon—which you removed, young Master, and you have my deepest thanks for that.” Onoind recovered enough control to speak: “My name is Onoind.” “Onoind? What a strong-sounding name.” The Puppet Prince smiled. His hand brushed the floor as he stood up, and he slipped the golden ribbon into his pocket. “It suits one such as you, for you were heroic in your release of me. As a prince, it is my duty to reward you to the best of my ability. I have been driven from my kingdom and am sadly penniless, but I have retained some of my magic, and under the right conditions, I can conjure whatever you desire.” Onoind’s imagination caught fire. He envisioned himself gamboling among mounds of cake and playing with the most expensive toys (for he was, after all, only a young boy), and he asked, “What does ‘under the right conditions’ mean?” The Puppet Prince extended his hand. He pointed out the window. “My magic works best when I am surrounded by trees. You see, I was born in a Kingdom caressed by the Wind, and I draw much of my strength from it. The farther we are from the walls of this building, the better. It will not take long.” He bent his head peaceably. “We can be back before your aunt knows you’re gone.” And so Onoind reached out and took the Puppet Prince’s slender hand. The tall man led him outside and into the gathering dusk, across the meadows and round the hedges till the trees towered over their heads. Long vines hung from the branches, weighing heavily against Onoind’s limbs, but the prince tugged him on, and he followed. They came to a glade lit by glowing blue mushrooms. There, the Prince pressed a hand to his heart and spoke a word. In a rush of frigid air, a pile of toys appeared: hobbyhorses, pogo sticks, bouncing balls that glittered with light, chattering clockwork dolls, and more. The Prince had kept his word. Onoind squealed and delight and ran towards the treasure trove. There were so many things to play with, and he would enjoy them all! And enjoy them he did. He raced around on the hobbyhorses, he bounced back and forth on the pogo sticks. He tossed the balls into the air and caught them as they came down. He wound the clockwork dolls and set them to war against each other, tiny limbs flailing. He laughed and danced all on his own—and the Puppet Prince oversaw his every move, his eyes continuing to glitter even as the sun went down. Before Onoind knew it, many hours had passed. He realized it only when he saw his shadow stretching out before him, cast by the silver moon. “Prince!” he called out. The Puppet Prince was by his side in an instant. Onoind spoke to him: “We’ve stayed out too long. It’s really dark. My aunt will be coming home soon, and I don’t want her to worry.” “It hasn’t been that long,” the Prince objected. “She will not miss you for some hours yet. Why, there are still many toys you haven’t played with! Come and try the brass xylophone or the spinning tops of light. Many children love them, and I know you will, too.” But Onoind stood his ground. “It’s late,” he kept repeating. “My aunt will miss me. I have to go back home.” The Puppet Prince relented. “All right, then,” he said, “but as a sign of my favor, let me give you this.” He stepped forward. His hand dipped into his pocket and, as smoothly as a drawn dagger, he knotted the golden ribbon around Onoind’s neck. Onoind frowned. He lifted one hand, but then the Puppet Prince turned away. His cloak swirled around him as he strode towards the trees. “Follow me, and I will lead you home.” Onoind scrambled after him. The toys lay where he’d dropped them. They gleamed in the moonlight a moment longer, and then a cold breeze blew over them and they turned back into stones and bird skulls. The Puppet Prince stalked through the trees. His long legs carried him farther and farther away as Onoind struggled to keep up. “Prince!” he called at last. “Wait for me!” The Prince’s laugh drifted to him from among the trees. “Keep up, my little boy. Or are your legs too weak?” Onoind scowled. He struggled through the trees, ignoring the brambles tearing at his clothes. The vines looped around his arms, but he tugged hard, and they snapped and fell away. Still, he was tired. The vines continued to wrap around him. He called for the Prince to help him, but the Prince only urged him on. His voice grew fainter and fainter each time. At last the branches closed over Onoind’s head, and he found himself too tired to move. His limbs had turned weak and limp. Yet he did not flop to the ground, for the vines had wound around him, ensnaring him completely. He tried to cry out to the Prince again, but the gold bow around his neck seemed tighter, and he found he could not speak. With a rustle and a glitter of stars, the Puppet Prince reappeared, standing over him. “You came back!” Onoind thought gladly, for he could no longer say the words. The Prince reached out to the vines. He plucked them as easily as one picks a flower. Onoind came away with them, his wrists and ankles bound. The Prince held him up by the vines, and in the moonlight, they gleamed silver, as strong and cold as chains. “Now”, said the Puppet Prince, “you, too, will dance for me.” ~ ~ ~ The dream remained in Onoind’s mind, as uncomfortable as a bruise. He tried to shake it off as he left his chamber. He would talk to Tharwalda or Tairialis today. That flower...It wasn’t a Stranger, but it certainly was strange. He bustled off, but then the whisper snaked into his ear: “Onoind...Would you kindly wait?” He froze in midstep. His eyes widened, and his heart began to pound. The nightmare in his mind sank away, replaced by very real memories. Gleaming silver chains. People crying out for mercy before their blood drenched his clothes. “No,” he thought frantically. “No, no, no...!” But he couldn’t move. He could only watch, breathless, as Mismar slowly stepped into his view. “I have something for you,” he whispered. With his long, slender fingers, he drew a golden chain from among the folds of his cloak. His green eyes glittered over a deceptively soft smile, and he dropped the chain around Onoind’s neck. “Now you, too, will dance for me.” ~ written by Disillusionist (254672) by Ximena’s request, this was based on “A Wooden Cage” by Jennifer Potter (Echo’s Rift)
A collection of stories told by Dulcamara The Wooden Cage The Hole the Fox Did Make The Portrait of Sal Pullman O Whistle, And I'll Come to You, my Lad Behind You Those Marks on the Wall The girl and the soul No Such Thing  |
V Ignore every thing below this line
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________________________ Hummingbird__________________________
The Carver |
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Gently he chisels the image of the Plaguebringer on the yellowed bone. Ever so diligent and dedicated does he work on her carvings, his pride and joy. For him, every detail counts. Then finally, he is done. He places it beside the others, to be infused later with magic. For now, he does another one, this time on stone. It's the Earthshaker this time.
http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=28227969 gosh i was just looking at the little deity sculpture items and they all have qualities of the deity they resemble, yknow? and i started thinking like………..is there something special about the way those things were made,,or do all depictions of a deity carry some of its power? cause gosh i like that second option. there’s so much you could do with that; painting a mural of a deity would be like they’re watching over you. keeping an idol is the same way, or even just a tiny carving which is supposed to be reminiscent or the deity if you’re constantly on the move/secretly worshipping. not to mention if the deities live in every depiction of them then it just makes them more godlike?? sure, maybe they’re dragons who are just more powerful than other dragons, but maybe they’re omnipresent and Powerful enough to deserve the title of “god” more thoughts abt the images of deities sharing a part of their power……….. museums being chaotic and difficult to care for bc of warring elements. having to keep things in separate wings so the ice exhibits don’t get burned by the fire exhibits and whatnot hatchlings!!! playing with pictures of deities/replicas of them!!! aaa so cute murals drawn in specific locations to heat/cool/encourage plant growth/etc donning armor or outfits resembling deities to gain their power/courage/etc having to be Very Careful when putting on plays about deities because costumes can sometimes go a bit haywire and there’s no accounting for godly power (some dragons have superstitions similar to the Scottish Play toward saying deity names inside a theater) (obviously for dragons who don’t know/don’t share those superstitions it’s a bit confusing. where am i not allowed to say “oh my god?”) creators of certain relics carve deity outlines or names into their work to grant it power, like the windbound mask or other festival apparel with apparent magic. its just……….such a versatile thing………..and i love it so much………… |
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Exalting Dulcamara to the service of the Shadowbinder 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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