Wyrmlight's Clan

Note: Hatchlings are not canon.


This is an exalting lair. I do name every dragon that is exalted.

The world is an oyster and I am but the pearl compressed within it. Crystalline shapes fracture my vision, uncountable grains of sand reflecting off of the ebony tide: And yet when I am washed ashore, I walk along that tide, trailing my fingers along the shards flanking the horizon. The crystals sing, and the world before me is in a billion pieces, but I am whole and I will survive.

I am but a pearl, and the world is my oyster. I am made of sand and dirt, but I will come out even more beautiful for it.

---

The dragons own a school.

Or rather, two of them do. And what a school it is, nestled close to the boarder between the plaguelands east, where jagged pink crystals pierce the boarder most way down. The Star Wood Strand is a safe place for the hatchlings to come, and the nearby Mire a controlled environment to teach them to practice strength and self-control.

And it is that self-control that we curate here--here, in this place where flights can live and intermingle freely, wing under wing and paw in precious paw in blissful harmony. The Arcanist is perhaps kinder than most. There is no call to war here, no crockpot of disease soup to plunge your way into: All that your calling is resides in books, papers, and observation.

You're here to learn, not just for yourself, but for the world. Your mind is a beautiful, wonderful thing, and we will teach you how to explore your fascinations, as mundane as they may be. And if you don't find it here, well--hopefully, you'll be better equipped to find it elsewhere.

Welcome, hatchling, to our school. To our orphanage.

The Arcanist welcomes you. And so do we.

---

And yet beyond that school, there resides others.

In the foilage of the Star Wood Strand, there is a mirror. Mirrors are not known for self-reflecting, but ever since her injury, she has learned. She has no one to depend on except herself--herself, that is, and the food that always seems somehow ready just for her in the fringes of the forest.

In the fringes of the forest, there is a lair. In that lair, an old guardian sips his tea and awaits the arrival of a friend. He looks out toward the boneyard, miles away, and he thinks of where he came from, about where he is. And he finds himself, of all things, content.

In the corner of the boneyard is a spiral. The spiral is not like most spirals. He doesn't coil like a spring so much as a wave, and he doesn't fall asleep after restless fits of energy. He's learned self-control and self-evaluation from a friend who drinks tea. He holds the tea he doesn't really like in his paws now, nestled in his caravan, and he dreams.

And far away from the abiding boneyards, somewhere, there are three gaolers. Although one glistens with red shardflanks, covered in fur dappled like shimmering crystals, he's felt cold once before and dreads it. Although one is covered in the colors of an autumn wind and is blessed gently by the Lightweaver's eyes, he is not yet dead.

And although a hatchling lays there, curled up against their sides, sleeping, perhaps he isn't a child at all but instead a horrible lie.

The world does not exist in a pocket. The world is an oyster, and this one is mine. But there are many others like it, and their pearls are just as important.

---

# of dragons raised to Lv. 25: 6