#c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

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--

A gathering of the council, in its entirety, had never been so much as attempted. It was generally understood between each of its members that at least one of them was always going to be unavailable, and that their colleagues would simply have to make do without them. After all, their work often took them abroad, or else kept them sequestered in study.

So when all thirty-odd of them showed up, some without needing to be summoned, Dreamweaver didn’t quite know what to do with themself.

“As promised,” Betelgeuse said.

“Excellent work,” Dreamweaver replied numbly, their eyes scanning the crowded table in quick, darting glances. “You may sit.”

Betelgeuse bowed, and claimed his seat between Tau and Isaiah. The uncomfortable murmur that had swept across the assembly while Dreamweaver considered their next words quieted. Someone coughed; another shifted awkwardly.

Dreamweaver began: “By now, I am certain you have all noticed that something is amiss.”

“That’s an understatement,” Isaiah said through a barely-stifled yawn.

“Hush,” Solaire chided.

“I wish that I could offer you more,” Dreamweaver went on, “more than vague assurances, more than theories and hypotheses--but I cannot. Like you, Banrai and I have slept; truth be told, I wonder if we are not sleeping still. All I know for certain is that whatever magic befell us four eons ago spared our coven.”

“Four eons...” Junior slumped in his seat, and his father placed a bracing hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad Telos went into exaltation when she did, because if she’d been here to see this mess, I think she might kill me.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Bellerophon tried to soothe, but couldn’t help but to add a muttered, “this time.”

“Maybe not,” Junior said, “but Zo would have been in Aphaster if not for me.”

“Junior’s right,” Rue agreed with a baleful sigh, “I can only imagine what my mother’s going to do with four eons of pent-up anxiety...”

Betelgeuse looked like he had something to say, something none of them would like. However, he must have decided that now was not the time, because the next moment, his expression was once more impassive. “I understand the gravity of the situation at hand,” he said instead, “but I must ask that you keep your heads until after you’ve been given a proper explanation.”

“You’ve got one then?” Crucis asked, leaning so far forward that Dreamweaver feared he may actually climb onto the table. His eyes were shimmering with insatiable Arcanite curiosity, his fingers drumming an impatient tune. “It’s that, isn’t it?”

“Wh-what?” Dawn stammered.

For the first time in anyone’s memory, Crucis smiled--not just smiled, in fact, but outright grinned. “Well,” he started hastily, not wanting to give his clanmates the chance to stop him, “among scholars, there are a number of theories pertaining to the makeup of the universe, and one such theory posits that our universe is but one of many within a multiverse--”

Isaiah clapped a hand over Crucis’ mouth. “Betelgeuse,” he said, “before he really gets going, in plain Draconic, if it’s not too much trouble--and stop smiling, Crucis, you’re scaring Junior.”

“Philistine,” Crucis grumbled between Isaiah’s fingers.

“In plain draconic,” Betelgeuse continued, “we, or rather you, have been the victims of a time anomaly--a loop, in which time moves neither forward nor back, but repeats the same span endlessly until it is broken.”

“We’d gathered that much,” Priyanka said, and pressed a knuckle to her lips in thought. “What I find strange is not that such magic exists, but that none of our seers, myself included, foresaw such a major catastrophe. This will have had a devastating effect on foreign affairs, not to mention Feldspar’s economy; an event such as this should not have escaped our Sight.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” said Crucis, shoving Isaiah’s hand away, “you didn’t see it, because it’s Other!”

At the head of the table, Dreamweaver paled. There had been an unpleasantness gathering behind their rib cage for some time, and with Crucis’ declaration, it was released, sending jolts of panic racing up their spine. They tried in vain to hold their form, but with each cold shock of fear, their grasp on it slipped the slightest bit more.

Banrai squeezed their hand. “It’s ok, Dreamy,” he murmured, “it’s over.”

“But I--” Dreamweaver blinked the cosmos from their eyes-- “I don’t have any answers. I’m the only Other here, and I--I can’t--”

“It is not a well-understood phenomenon,” Betelgeuse said, “but I believe you have some knowledge of it. You have heard your people speak of it in fearful whispers, as a rumor, a bedtime story to frighten hatchlings.”

Dreamweaver searched the furthest reaches of their memory, but it was a long one, complicated, and some of it was not strictly their own. Separating themself from the dreams of their people seemed an insurmountable task in that brief moment, perhaps because they had spent four eons tending them.

They saw themself standing in a crowded square as Banrai, so young and naive it made them quake, begged them for so much as a look, a smile, a single word. In a few short weeks, he would beg again, this time for their hand, but they would tell him that they were as the moon, fleeting and distant.

“Then if I capture the moon, will you marry me?” he would reply, and they would be his.

They saw Feldspar in its infancy, the skeletons of buildings jutting out of the fog like the teeth of some great beast. Winter was little more than a hatchling, clinging forlornly to their robes. He had been so terribly fragile then. So had they.

They saw everything, all of the many eons they had spent beneath their Patron’s banner--a part of dragonkind, and yet always somehow separate. Their clan grew, and spread, and lived, and loved. The ocean came for them, and then the nightmare. Sirius fell to earth in a shower of stars. Telos cloaked herself in fuchsia light.

Then they saw a mane of wild raspberry hair.

Dreamweaver caught Betelgeuse’s gaze. They knew his answer before they asked: “You believe the tales?”

“Yes,” Betelgeuse replied, “I do.”

“What tales?” Lestat demanded. “You’re both so awfully cryptic; it drives me mad!”

“You’re already mad,” Mímir jeered.

“You’ve heard them too,” Silhouette said, so softly that they almost went unheard. The council turned as one to face them, seeking answers from the swirling forms within their shroud. “We all have, sometime or another. Dragons whose minds have flown, entire clans locked in a single moment, some that have disappeared altogether, vanished without a trace.”

Henrie pressed his hands over his trembling lips. “You mean--” He looked to the others for reassurance, but found only wide-eyed disbelief-- “dead lairs?” he concluded in a choked whisper.

“I don’t feel dead,” Myrtle mused, and patted himself for good measure.

“It isn’t a literal death,” Betelgeuse explained, “but, in a sense, a living death. Dead lairs do not grow, or change, and they cannot be influenced by the world beyond their borders. It is thought that they are the result of their Patron abandoning them.”

“The Lightweaver would never!” Solaire cried.

“Not the Lightweaver,” Betelgeuse said, “something else, something far older than the Eleven. The gods answer to Them, or so it is said.”

“The gods answer to no one,” Phobos insisted.

“That is only what is said,” Betelgeuse reiterated, “perhaps not what is. Whatever the cause of the phenomenon, Feldspar was subject to it--and now it is not. We have nothing more to fear.”

“Except that it may happen again,” Caesar piped up, then immediately fell quiet when he saw the looks of abject terror on his colleagues’ faces.

Crucis started to speak, but Isaiah wrestled him back into silence. “Whatever you’re about to say,” he growled, “it’s nothing good, so keep your loud mouth shut.”

“Dead lairs rarely remain dead,” Betelgeuse reassured. “I pray that you do not sleep again, but if you should, it will not be forever--and the coven will guard you with our lives.”

“Oh,” Caesar squeaked, eyelids fluttering, “oh my.”

“However,” Betelgeuse was quick to add, “I do not feel it shall be necessary.”

The council exchanged a flurry of uncertain glances and even less certain chatter. Betelgeuse was seldom wrong about such things, and he was the only one of them present who had not spent nearly half a cycle sleeping. If they could not trust his word, there was no one’s they could.

At least, that was what Dreamweaver hoped they were saying to one another, with heads together and voices low. Grief was not unwarranted, but it was unproductive--and they could not afford to be unproductive at such a delicate juncture. Already, Dreamweaver was beginning to feel restless; this meeting had worn on too long.

“If there is nothing further to discuss,” they cut in, “I suggest we get to work.”

“What about the Dominions?” Juneau asked. “He may not have been able to influence me, but I doubt Penitence would have left my side while I slept for anything less than the end of the world.”

“Yes,” Tau agreed, “Copernicus as well.”

“Ah--” Betelgeuse sighed-- “I had hoped you would not ask.”

Dreamweaver sagged, the stars in their hair winking out one by one. There was not a face at the table they wished to see then, and so they dropped their head into their hands, to find reprieve in darkness. “They haven’t woken,” they said, “have they?”

“What do you...?” Junior’s chair toppled back as he staggered out of it, and blindness did not protect Dreamweaver from his anguish. It oozed into every word, every syllable one closer to a sob. “No,” he gasped, “not them too. I c--I can--” Abaddon stood, and Junior all but collapsed against him-- “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose them again.”

“You won’t,” Abaddon said, “you haven’t.”

“I have been in contact with those among them who, like myself, were unaffected,” Betelgeuse interjected, “and we are all in agreement that someday, hopefully within the next cycle, our allies will wake as well.”

“The next cycle?” Tau clenched his fists, so tightly that the skin drew thin and white, and joined Junior on his feet. “My mate is there. You can’t expect us to sit idly by while our families lie vulnerable beneath some deific spell.”

“There is nothing more to be done,” Betelgeuse replied simply.

No one spoke. Amun, a Dragonhome Ridgeback who had spent scarcely an eon with the clan before its slumber, placed a hand on Tau’s shoulder, guiding him gingerly back into his seat.

“I should have been with him,” Tau mumbled. “Why wasn’t I with him?”

“Mother,” Rue said, the rare hitch in her breath causing even Betelgeuse a strange discomfort, “and my siblings--it doesn’t seem possible.”

“My brother as well,” Yọmí added as his head sank miserably into his hands. “I saw him only yesterday it seems. At least...perhaps Rántí will have been spared...”

“What am I going to tell Zo?” Junior moaned. “What am I going to tell Sirius?”

At last, Dreamweaver rose, and clasped their hands in front of them in the way their people had seen them do so many times before. “If you need time to collect yourselves,” they said, “you shall have it. Once you have done so, return to me, and receive your orders.”

The congregation trickled out slowly. Those with loved ones in Aphaster lingered together; they touched one another as if each of them might break, their fingers whispering hoarsely over skin and fabric. It would be they who told Atsushi, and Xerxes, and Asura, and all the many others who would soon wake to find their families beyond their reach.

From their place at the head of the meeting table, Dreamweaver watched.

“Betelgeuse,” they said.

Betelgeuse gave another bow. “Your Majesty.”

“I want the coven working on this ‘round the clock,” they commanded. “If magic can be done, it can be undone--even that which is divine. Meet with Faded; I am certain they will have some insight.”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: everyone else i guess

[spiteweaver]

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--

It was dark when Dreamweaver awoke, and they sensed at once that something was not quite right. Dawn had been nearing by the time Banrai had managed to coax them from the archives; they recalled that the sky had been tinged a pale pink when they had parted with Junior in the village square, and streaked with blue when they had at last stumbled to bed. Their final memory was of crawling, exhausted, into their husband’s waiting arms...

...and there he lay still, sleeping soundly where they had left him.

It would have been a comforting sight to wake to, had they not known that the sun should have been high, the morning creeping toward noon, and that Banrai should have been out tending to his duties. Instead, a cold tingling blossomed in the pit of their stomach, which had already lurched up into their parched throat.

This was wrong, utterly and deeply, in a way that they had thought nothing possibly could be. There was a humming in their bones, so profound that they ached in every corner, every crevice of their physical form. For a moment, it wavered, and they were starlight. Then they felt everything all at once, each of their senses exploding with the color of their mate’s hair, the scent of rain on the horizon--

--the sound of fabric rustling in the dark.

“Who--?” Dreamweaver began, but the word burned like fire on their tongue. They choked and gasped, and scrambled for the glass of stale water at their bedside, downing it in a single gulp.

“Your Majesty,” said a low, familiar voice.

Panting heavily, Dreamweaver set the empty cup aside. “I’ve told you not to call me that, Betelgeuse.”

“I believe we have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with,” Betelgeuse replied as he stepped from the shadows into the wan light of the crescent moon.

He looked haggard, what little that could be seen of his face beneath his hood sallow and thin. Only the rich, amber color of his eyes assured Dreamweaver that he was not some apparition that had followed them out of their people’s dreams, and even it had dulled to a sullen simmer.

“What in Lightweaver’s name has happened?” Dreamweaver whispered hoarsely.

“You’ve been asleep,” Betelgeuse informed, “for four eons.”

Dreamweaver was on their feet in an instant, and falling into Betelgeuse’s arms the next. Their legs shook like gelatin underneath them, their head spinning with the sudden rush of movement, but their grip was fierce on the witch’s tattered cloak.

“My children,” they began, “my clan, are they--?”

“They have slept as well,” Betelgeuse said. “All of Feldspar has, save myself and a handful of others. It would seem that witches are largely immune to whatever magic has fallen over the territories.”

“Then--” Dreamweaver exhaled a long, ragged breath-- “then they’re safe.”

“Yes,” said Betelgeuse, “the Lightweaver saw to that. She has guarded your lands zealously in your absence, as have your allies.”

There would be time for extravagant displays of gratitude once clan matters had been seen to, so an uttered prayer was all their Patron would receive this evening. Shaking off the remnants of their lengthy slumber, Dreamweaver sat on the edge of the bed, and placed a tentative hand upon Banrai’s shoulder. The gentle rise and fall of his side beneath their fingers brought stinging tears to their eyes.

“My love,” they murmured, “you must wake up.”

“Dreamy,” Banrai groaned, “the sun isn’t even up yet, so why should we be?”

A moment passed, and Dreamweaver let it. Banrai rolled to face them, searching for their form to pull against his chest, their cheek to cup, but found their pillow cold and empty. Then, with a jolt, he surged upright. “The sun isn’t up yet,” he said again, “why isn’t the sun up?”

“Something--”

“Something’s happened.”

Dreamweaver started to bow their head, but Banrai caught them by the chin. Looking into his eyes, losing themself in their deep, golden hue, they were certain that what Betelgeuse had told them was true, for it felt as though they had not seen their husband’s face in an eternity.

“Don’t,” Banrai said, “don’t blame yourself. Whatever’s happened, it couldn’t possibly be your fault, because you’ve been here with me.”

“It’s--” Dreamweaver swallowed thickly-- “it’s bad, Banrai.”

“Is the clan safe?” Banrai asked.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

Their foreheads met, and then their lips--only briefly, as there was work to be done. “You’re getting good at this,” Dreamweaver said.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Banrai replied.

Betelgeuse cleared his throat, and the founders rose as one, each leaning on the other for support. “If you are awake,” he said, “then it is only a matter of time until the clan wakes as well. At your word, I will gather the Council to discuss a course of action.”

“You have it,” said Dreamweaver. “Go, and be quick about it. Banrai and I will join you shortly.”

“Dreamy--” Banrai watched Betelgeuse melt back into the shadows, but his gaze was quick to return to his mate-- “if it’s all that serious, shouldn’t we help him? I only need a moment to get my legs back under me.”

Dreamweaver kissed him. This time, their lips lingered against his, desperate, trying in vain to close the gap that eons of sleep had built between them. They had almost forgotten how he tasted, of black tea, and pine needles, and warm summer sunlight--things they had taken for granted, things they would never forget again.

“I love you,” they told him.

“I love you too,” he replied, breathless.

“Come.” Their fingers twined together, and Dreamweaver forced a weary smile. “I want to see our children.”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: betelgeuse #c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

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--

Finding unexpected visitors on their front stoop was no longer an unusual occurrence for Dreamweaver, so when they answered their door on a chilly spring evening, they were not surprised when it was not Vladimir who greeted them, but Prince Aurelius and his Captain of the Guard. Each of them was wearing a shy smile that suggested mischief, and their clothes were threadbare from travelling—travelling far further than the relatively meager distance between the Kingdom of Aurum and Feldspar lands, Dreamweaver noted.

“Breathe deep, Your Highness,” Dreamweaver said with a polite dip of their head.

“Seek peace, Sovereign Dreamweaver,” Prince Aurelius replied in turn.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Dreamweaver inquired.

Behind them, Banrai had already risen to put the kettle on, sensing, as he often did, that his mate would need a strong cup of tea before the night was out.

“I do hope that you and your father haven’t had another disagreement,” they went on, and chuckled at the thought. “I remember once, when you were young, you had Halcyon accompany you all the way here in the pouring rain, all because King Aeternus refused to allow you to take fencing lessons!”

The prince and his guard exchanged a look. “You could call it a disagreement,” Prince Aurelius said, “though it’s quite a bit more serious than fencing lessons.”

“Oh dear…” Dreamweaver stood aside to allow the pair into the warmth of the foyer, and before Halcyon could do it himself, quickly took their traveling cloaks from them. “Come and sit then,” they insisted. “You look like you’ve been all over the Ruins!”

Prince Aurelius hunched his shoulders, bracing himself. “We have,” he admitted in hardly more than a whisper, “since February.”

“February?!” Dreamweaver cried. “Your parents must be worried sick! They do know where you are, don’t they?” Prince Aurelius averted his gaze, the tips of his ears turning red with shame. “Your Highness, tell me that your mother and father know where you are!”

“I’ll explain everything,” Prince Aurelius promised, “but I’d rather you be sitting.”

As a parent themself, Dreamweaver’s first instinct was to pen a letter to King Aeternus and Queen Aurelia straight away. Something gave them pause, however, as they turned toward their study. Aurelius had run off before, but never for more than a few days, and always to one of his allied clans. If he had been on the road for over an eon...

Well, it certainly must have been more serious than fencing lessons.

“Very well,” Dreamweaver relented, and led their guests into the den. “You must know,” they went on, “that if I find your explanation dissatisfactory, I shall have no choice but to write to your parents.”

“I believe you will find it satisfactory, Your Majesty,” Halcyon replied.

They were just as Dreamweaver remembered them--Halcyon, ever the loyal knight, bound to his master’s side by love and duty, and Aurelius, his flighty prince, whose propensity for stumbling headlong into trouble was unmatched among his peers. It was almost enough to make Dreamweaver forget that they were about to make enemies with a very powerful, very temperamental drake.

Almost, but not quite. With a beleaguered sigh, they practically fell into their seat by the fire, and motioned for the two to begin their sordid tale.

“Putting it simply,” Prince Aurelius began, “we’ve eloped.”

Fortunately, Banrai had just set the tea tray on the table between them; if he hadn’t, Dreamweaver’s good china would surely have been in pieces at his feet. “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to embrace them. “I never thought I’d see the day!”

“His Highness--” Halcyon rubbed his neck sheepishly-- “Aura is the one who proposed. I’d been planning something romantic, but he came out and asked before I could.”

“I suppose I’d grown tired of waiting,” Prince Aurelius confessed.

Dreamweaver raised a hand to call for silence. “No one is happier for you than I,” they assured, “but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing in Feldspar. You should be at home, planning a royal wedding, not gallivanting all ‘round the Ruins looking for trouble.”

Prince Aurelius sat, sinking into Halcyon’s arms when they encircled him. The both of them were exhausted, from travel and the weight of their burden, which Dreamweaver was beginning to suspect they knew the name of. An insidious name it was, for a vicious and cruel cargo; they had known it all their life.

“Your father doesn’t approve,” Dreamweaver said.

“No,” said the prince.

“You’ve spoken with him?”

“Once, when he was in a good mood, I asked him how he might feel if I fell for someone other than my betrothed, a drake not of noble blood.” Feeling tears begin to gather in his eyes, Prince Aurelius hid his face in his mate’s chest. “His reaction was less than reassuring.”

“I told Aura that I would be happy simply remaining at his side,” Halcyon said.

“That wouldn’t be fair to either of you,” Banrai insisted. “You can’t think that way, Halcyon. You’ve come this far for him.”

“I have,” Halcyon agreed, “and I would go further still, to the ends of the earth.”

“You see why I couldn’t live that way?” Prince Aurelius asked, and the barest hint of a smile graced his lips. “He’s too wonderful; I could never convince anyone that I wasn’t madly in love with him. That’s why--” Halcyon pulled him closer, squeezed his arm-- “That’s why we had to leave, and that’s why you can’t tell father we’re here.”

“I would never,” Dreamweaver was quick to reassure, “but, dear one, you must know he will learn of your whereabouts eventually.”

“We only need time to get our affairs in order,” Prince Aurelius replied, “and to be properly wed before the Lightweaver. Once we have received Her approval, not even father will be able to object. Until then--”

“Until then, you will have our complete and utter secrecy,” Dreamweaver vowed, “and you will be welcome among our people.”

“I know we’re asking much of you, Your Majesty,” Halcyon said. “Considering Feldspar’s recent troubles, and those ongoing in the Analemma Dominions, I can’t help but to feel that we’ve come at an inopportune time.”

Dreamweaver waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense,” they scoffed, “there’s no better time for a wedding, in fact. The people are restless after sleeping for so long, and we haven’t had a celebration since the Riot of Rot. This will give us all something positive to focus on.”

“Well,” Prince Aurelius mused, “I’d thought we might sneak off to the Beacon and have a private ceremony, but--” He flashed his mate a sly grin, which Halcyon returned with the look of a drake who knew he could not protest-- “perhaps we shall have a royal wedding after all!”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: aurelius #c: halcyon #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #halcyon is a private man #but for aurelius #he will throw the bash of the century

[spiteweaver]

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“Come on, hurry up!”

“If you go any slower, you’ll miss it.”

“It’s on the beach!”

“Myrtle says it’s important.”

“Slow down!” Dreamweaver shouted over the rush of wind in their ears, but neither Morpheus nor Phobetor relented. The twins had been flying for mere months, and yet they could outpace even Phantasos, who was struggling to keep them in sight among low-hanging spring rain clouds. “You’re going to pull a muscle!” Dreamweaver tried again. “You’re going to strain, er, something-or-other!”

Beside them, Banrai chuckled, and maneuvered closer, so that his broad wings cast them in shadow. “You’re worrying too much, dear,” he said. “They’ve never flown this far before. Let them stretch their legs--or, rather, wings.”

“It’s all right, dede!” Phantasos called back. “I can fly faster than they can fall!”

Dreamweaver only groaned in response.

“There it is!” Morpheus squealed. “Look, look, you can see it from here!”

As the royal family dipped down below the cloudline, Dreamweaver thought at first that Danu had risen from the depths to speak with them, and that this must be what was so very important. Only when they drew nearer to the shore did they realize that what they were looking at was not a dragon, but an airship, larger and more magnificent than any they had ever imagined. It was Lightning-make, if the sophistication of its machinations was any indication...

...and it was docking just outside of Seaside.

“This is either really good,” Phantasos said, “or really bad.”

The twins were the first to arrive. Morpheus’ landing was clumsy, and Phobetor had to catch them as they stumbled, but they were off the very next moment. Myrtle greeted them with a warm smile. “We brought da and dede!” Morpheus informed brightly. “Can we go and see the airship now?!”

“You promised to let them see the airship?” Dreamweaver said as they alighted in the sand beside their children. “Myrtle, what have I told you about spoiling them?”

“I didn’t think there would be any harm in it,” said Myrtle in his dreamy voice. “It’s not a warship; we examined it thoroughly before clearing it for landing.”

“Then what’s it doing here?” Dreamweaver asked.

“Dreamy, they’re tourists,” Banrai said, squeezing his mate’s shoulder bracingly. “We get them all the time. A clan as large as ours, in as central a location as ours, with as many resources and local attractions as ours--well, it’s bound to attract sightseers.”

“I know that,” Dreamweaver mumbled.

“Then let’s go and watch the landing.”

Unable to find a flaw in their husband’s logic, Dreamweaver dismissed the twins with a reluctant wave of their hand. Before they could charge forward, however, Phantasos had scooped them both up in his arms. “Me and Ozy will keep an eye on ‘em,” he offered, “and I reckon Thal’ll show up soon enough, seeing as his boyfriend’s here and all.”

“Let’s go,” Ozymandias said, and, grabbing his young ward by the scruff of his neck, propelled him forward. “I’ll keep an eye on them--all of them.”

“Thank you, Ozymandias,” Dreamweaver replied.

“It looks like the vendors are already setting up shop at the landing site,” Banrai said, squinting against the harsh midday sun. “We had best go along and make sure they don’t try to swindle anyone out of anything. I’d hate to gain a reputation as a tourist trap.”

So the pair, along with Myrtle, made their way up the shore to where the ship was just beginning to touch down. Its propellers kicked up a cloud of sand in their wake, but this didn’t seem to deter any of the curious onlookers--nor the merchants hoping to make quick coin. Dreamweaver scanned the craft for Lightning weaponry, but saw only smooth, glimmering copper. If it was a warship, it was unlike any they had ever encountered.

“It’s very pretty,” Myrtle said.

“It’s very impressive,” Banrai added. “I’ve never seen one so large.”

“That’s because the big ones are always warships,” Dreamweaver reiterated. “Dragons have little need of them outside of conflict. If they don’t fly, they walk.”

“Don’t be that way, Dreamy.” Banrai pulled them close, and pressed a kiss to their temple. “Even Snappers can grow weary of walking everywhere.”

“I know,” Dreamweaver conceded, “I just can’t stand the smell.”

Finally, with a resounding boom that shook the earth beneath their feet, the airship came to rest in the sand. Banrai took the lead, parting the crowd so that Dreamweaver and Myrtle could pass, and soon, they stood before the gangway, already thronging with eager passengers. As Banrai had predicted, they were tourists, many with children, and Dreamweaver heaved a sigh of relief when they caught sight of the newcomers gawking at them.

“There,” said Banrai, “you see? You worried yourself for nothing--again.”

“Yes,” Dreamweaver agreed, “but that’s my job, isn’t it? Ah, I’ve never been happier to be stared at by so many strange eyes.”

“They think you’re beautiful,” Banrai said.

“They think I’m unusual,” Dreamweaver replied.

“Can’t it be both?” Myrtle asked.

“Welcome to Clan Feldspar and the Analemma Dominions! Enjoy your stay!”

Dreamweaver pursed their lips. “It would seem our son is already making friends.”

Indeed, Phantasos had taken to greeting their guests with perhaps a mite too much enthusiasm. He shook each hand that was offered to him, and was able to point out every last place of interest on every single map he was shown. Meanwhile, the ship’s younger passengers, buzzing with pent-up energy from their long voyage, joined Morpheus and Phobetor in a romp up and down the shore--under Ozymandias’ watchful eye.

“He’s better at this than us,” Banrai said.

“Well,” said Dreamweaver, flashing their husband a nasty grin, “we’ll see how he feels about it when we make him the official welcome wagon.”

Banrai was about to rib them for their mean streak when a call of, “Hey down there!” rang out above the clamor. Dreamweaver’s head snapped up, their ears flicking forward inquisitively. The voice was a familiar one, but the memory of its owner slipped between their fingers like the fine sand under their feet. He stood above them on the ship’s railing, hanging precariously with one arm outstretched, his features obscured by the sun at his back.

Then a cloud bank moved across it, and Dreamweaver gasped.

“Lutece?”

@nostlenne  @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @reanimatedfr @jollyroger-fr @megane-pigeon @griminal-rising @windkissesfr

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: myrtle #c: morpheus #c: phobetor #c: phantasos #c: lutece

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“Lutece!” Banrai cried.

“Banrai!”

“Lutece?” Dreamweaver said again.

“Dreamweaver!”

“Lutece!” Myrtle exclaimed.

“Myrtle!”

“Lutece!” Phantasos declared.

“All right,” said Dreamweaver, “that’s enough of that.”

Lutece laughed, and to a crowd of cheering bystanders, leapt from the side of the ship. Dreamweaver clutched Banrai’s arm tightly, their hair growing wild with panic, but Lutece landed before them with all the grace of his lovely mother. (Although they thought he more closely resembled his reckless father, in a number of ways.)

“Delphine and Corentin’s boy,” Dreamweaver said, and immediately pulled Lutece into an embrace equal parts warm and crushing. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see you again, dear one. It’s been far too long.”

“I wanted to come back sooner,” Lutece insisted, “but I thought I ought to get established first--augh!”

“You--didn’t--visit!” Phantasos chided, lifting Lutece off his feet with ease. “You--didn’t--write! You were my first love, you know? You said you’d never forget me, and then you ran off to the Shifting Expanse for two cycles!”

“Am I still your one and only?” Lutece asked.

“Eh, you were taller than me then,” Phantasos replied (Dreamweaver could tell that Lutece wanted to point out Phantasos’ ability to change his height at will, but wisely kept it to himself), “and you could beat me in a wrestling match. I’m pretty sure I’d wipe the floor with you now.” He swung Lutece around, then set him back on his feet. “Case in point.”

“So that’s how you choose your drakes,” Lutece teased.

Looking at him now, Dreamweaver could hardly believe he was the same little Lutece they had known so long ago. He’d grown into a fine young drake, with wild eyes and calloused hands. They recalled him as quiet and shy, always found in the shadows of his peers, but now he kissed Phantasos’ cheeks without a hint of bashfulness, almost seeming to revel in the attention.

Their expression softened, and they guided Lutece back to them (much to their son’s chagrin), brushing the hair out of his face. “You’ve come into your own,” they said. “The Shifting Expanse did you some good, I see.”

“You’re not really allowed to be timid over there,” Lutece replied with another laugh.

“What brings you back?” Banrai asked. “Not that we aren’t thrilled to have you, but I hope it isn’t anything serious.”

“Not at all!” Lutece assured. “I’d always meant to come back! Maman and papa have gone into exaltation, my siblings all have lives of their own, business is booming, and so I thought now was the perfect time!”

Lutece cleared his throat, and Dreamweaver saw a shard of the boy he’d once been in the way he cast his gaze downward. “I wanted to come home once I’d made something of myself,” he confessed. “I couldn’t show my face if I had nothing to offer...”

“Oh!” Dreamweaver took his hand in theirs. “That doesn’t matter,” they said, “we’re just happy to have you back!”

“Stop,” Lutece whined, “you’ll make me cry.”

“We’re the ones who should be crying,” Banrai said, and slung an arm around Lutece’s shoulders. “When we last saw you, you were no bigger than Morpheus and Phobetor.”

“Speaking of...”

Phantasos gave a shrill whistle, and the twins came to him--Morpheus tumbling head-over-heels, Phobetor with their hands shoved in their pockets. Phobetor gave Lutece a thorough examination before asking, “Who’s he supposed to be?” in just about the rudest tone they could manage.

“Brat,” Phantasos jeered, but before he could tug on his younger sibling’s ear, Phobetor had scurried out of reach. “He’s your elder, so show some respect.”

“Respect is earned,” Phobetor retorted.

Dreamweaver smirked. “You’ve taught them to be a bit too independent, haven’t you, Phantasos?”

“Hullo, Mr. Lutece!” Morpheus said, and thrust out their hand for Lutece to shake--which he did, very graciously. “I’m Morpheus, and that’s Phobetor! We’re Phanny’s little siblings!”

“Th-they’re yours, founder?” Lutece stammered. “But I thought...”

“They were even more of a happy accident than Phantasos,” Dreamweaver replied. “We never expected to have another successful pregnancy, let alone twins. Morpheus, Phobetor, Lutece was born in the territories, and now he’s come back; you can trust him.”

“Why’d he leave in the first place?” Phobetor asked, crossing their arms over their chest and jutting out their chin.

“My father was a mechanic.” Lutece squatted, and Phobetor’s bravado wavered. They took a step back, dragging Morpheus with them. “Feldspar wasn’t exactly technologically inclined in those days,” Lutece elaborated, “so him and my maman--that’s my ma--picked up the whole family and moved us out near the Lightning Farm.”

“Don’t let Phobetor’s cold welcome get to you,” Banrai said, “they just take Dreamy’s lessons about ‘stranger danger’ to heart!”

“Bet a ride on Cloud Nine’ll change their tune.”

Phobetor crinkled their nose, but Morpheus peered from behind their sibling’s shoulder with wide eyes. “What’s Cloud Nine?” they asked, their little fingers fidgeting with Phobetor’s shirt.

“My illustrious and esteemed vessel.” Lutece winked. “Want a tour?”

“Really?! I can go aboard?!” Their uncertainty all but forgotten, Morpheus bounded forward to yank on Dreamweaver’s sleeve. “Dede, please, please let us go!”

“What ‘us?’” Phobetor grumbled.

“You’re coming and you’re gonna like it!”

“That’s what you meant by ‘established?’” Dreamweaver turned to survey the airship, once more marveling at its great size and immaculate artistry. Now that they looked closer, they could see its name carved into its side in bold letters: Cloud Nine. “You’re a pilot?”

“Pilot,” Lutece replied, “and captain, and navigator, and mechanic--although I leave most of the technical stuff to my business partner!”

“Business partner?”

“You didn’t think I did all this on my own, did you?” Lutece snorted and rolled his eyes. “Shasta’d kill me if I didn’t give her equal credit--or, actually, majority credit, seeing as she’s the one who designed ol’ Nines. We’ve been working together for, oh, a full cycle now, I’d reckon.”

“Is she cute?” Phantasos asked, nudging Lutece playfully in the ribs.

“Sure,” Lutece replied, “but I’m not really her type. She’d date Dreamweaver before she dated me.” Grinning mischievously, he nudged Phantasos in return, hard enough to make the young heir double over. “We’re thinking about nesting, though, since we both want kids ‘n all. That’s another reason I came back; no better place than Feldspar to raise a family.”

“My spleen,” Phantasos wheezed, “my gallbladder.”

“Those aren’t on the same side, Phantasos,” Myrtle said. “Isaiah would be very disappointed.”

“Hey, you lazy son of a bitch!” As one, the group looked up to where another figure now stood, leaning over the very railing Lutece had leapt from. Judging by the blue-green feathers along her neck, she was a Coatl--and not a happy one. “I know you like playing at being a rogue without a cause,” she spat, “but we need every hand we can get up here!”

“Shasta,” Lutece hollered back, “these are the founders and their children! You should come and greet them!”

“Are you off your fuckin’ block?!”

“Well,” Lutece said, “if she won’t come to you, I suppose I’ll have to bring you to her.” Timidly, painfully so, he offered his arm to Dreamweaver, and they were struck again by how much he had grown, and yet how little had changed. “If you’re amenable,” he went on, “I’d like it if I could give all of you the grand tour.”

Dreamweaver smiled. “I would like that too.”

@nostlenne  @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @reanimatedfr @jollyroger-fr @megane-pigeon @griminal-rising @windkissesfr

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: lutece #c: shasta #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: myrtle #c: phantasos #c: morpheus #c: phobetor

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“You’re certain it can’t wait?”

Phantasos looked to Ozymandias, who shook his head. “Positive.”

“Well--” Sighing, Dreamweaver dropped the boxes of scrolls they’d been carrying on the front stoop, then turned to give the pair their full attention-- “best get on with it, boys. This is an inconvenient time for another catastrophe.”

“It’s not a catastrophe,” Phantasos said.

“Yet,” Ozymandias added.

Phantasos looked like he wanted to cuff Ozymandias ‘round the ears, but thought better of it, settling instead for a withering glance. “Ozy's noticed an unusual presence in Aphaster,” he went on, “and thought you ought to know about it.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Dreamweaver, “but that’s par for the course for both our clan and theirs.” They motioned to the three of them with raised brows. “Exhibits A, B, and C.”

“It isn’t Other,” Ozymandias said, “but it is like no being I have ever met. I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of it. It keeps close to the boy, ah...”

“Invigilavi?”

Ozymandias cursed under his breath. “I can never remember their names...”

“If there’s something weird interested in Lavi,” Phantasos persisted, “we should look into it. I don’t doubt that he and Rebis are capable, but they’re still learning. They need a catastrophe about as much as we do.”

“Dede!”

Morpheus’ cry carried across the busy square, high and shrill with panic. Even before they reached them, red-faced and panting, the trio could see that they were distressed. Had they not been running so hard, they would have been in tears, and collapsed into a shuddering heap the moment Dreamweaver’s arms closed around them.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Dreamweaver said to Phantasos, who gave a stiff nod and knelt at his sibling’s side.

“Hey, Morph,” he said, “what’s up? Where’s Pho?”

“S-s-something’s w-w-wrong with th-th-them!” Morpheus sobbed.

Neither Dreamweaver nor Phantasos wasted time seeking clarification. Phantasos started off in the direction Morpheus had come from at once, with Ozymandias hot on his heels, while Dreamweaver called for Banrai.

Their husband’s head appeared out of one of the upstairs windows. “What’s happened?” he asked. When he caught sight of Morpheus weeping in Dreamweaver’s arms, he added, “Don’t tell me Phobetor’s been picking on Morpheus again.”

“No,” Dreamweaver replied, “something’s wrong with Phobetor.”

It wasn’t hard to guess what Morpheus meant by “wrong.” Phantasos arrived to chaos at the south gate. A group had gathered and were attempting to intervene, but no one dared draw too near. There was blood on the air, and a pitiful whimpering from somewhere in the crowd.

It wasn’t Phobetor’s voice.

“Move!” Phantasos shouted. “If you aren’t going to help me, then get out of my way!”

“You heard the boy,” Ozymandias said, “step aside, or be tossed.”

“Phantasos!” A wild head of pink hair appeared above the throng. Phantasos made for it, nudging aside his stunned clanmates until he could grasp Sirius’ outstretched hand. “Phantasos,” Sirius gasped, “I tried to stop them--t-to pull them off, but--”

“What happened?” Phantasos asked.

“One of the older fledglings called Morpheus--” Sirius cast his gaze down. “He called them something nasty. Next thing we knew, Phobetor was on him.”

“Oh hell!”

By now, Ozymandias had cleared a path for them, and Phantasos charged ahead into the fray. Phobetor’s knuckles were caked in blood, but they showed no signs of slowing. The fledgling beneath them was barely conscious; he’d had the sense to cover his face, though it would offer little resistance against a dragon of Phobetor’s ilk. It wouldn’t be long before Phobetor found their mark.

“You--” Slam. “--stupid--” Crack. “--bastard!”

The sound of bone shattering spurred Phantasos back into action. Steeling himself for the worst, he rolled up his sleeves, looped his arms under Phobetor’s, and pulled. His sibling came up easily, as he was older and stronger than them, but their fists continued to flail wildly, their eyes never leaving their target.

“I’ll teach you a lesson!” they screamed. “I’ll make you pay!”

“Phobetor!” Phantasos hauled them backwards, reaching up to cover their eyes as he did so. This seemed to calm them, or perhaps they had merely exhausted themself. “Phobetor,” Phantasos said again, “can you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“...Yeah.”

“Good.” Phantasos looked to Ozymandias, and then to the injured fledgling, writhing in a pool of his own blood. “Get him to Isaiah,” he ordered, “I’ll take care of things here until da and dede arrive.”

“He called Morpheus...” Phobetor’s voice was lost in the thunderous rush of Ozymandias’ take off, but Phantasos felt their fingers grasping at his sleeves. Their breathing had grown ragged again, their teeth clenched hard enough to groan. “He called Morpheus a half-breed.”

“Easy,” Phantasos soothed, “don’t get yourself riled up again. Pho, you can’t beat someone ‘cause they called you a name.”

“He didn’t call me anything,” Phobetor said. “He called Morpheus a half-breed.”

“Excuse us. Sorry, it’s an emergency.”

Phantasos was relieved to feel his father’s hand close around his shoulder, and then Dreamweaver’s palm against his cheek. He leaned into it as they stroked his face. “Are you all right?” they asked.

“Fine,” Phantasos replied, “it’s not our blood.”

“Oh goodness.”

“He called Morpheus a half-breed!” Phobetor wrenched themself free of their brother’s grasp, so that they could look Dreamweaver in the eye. “He deserved what he got! He insulted Morpheus, he insulted Phantasos, and he insulted you! He thinks your blood is dirty, dede!”

“Be still,” Dreamweaver commanded. The sternness of their tone ensured Phobetor’s compliance, and they bowed their head low. “Phobetor, cruel words are to be dealt with diplomatically, not with violence.”

“But--”

“You did nothing but prove his point,” Dreamweaver continued. “You became the beast he thinks we are.”

“He’s a bully!” Phobetor insisted.

“Now you’re a worse one.”

“Dreamy...” Banrai touched his mate’s arm gently, and the anger drained from their face. Phobetor’s eyes were full of frustrated tears. Banrai moved to wipe them away, but Phobetor turned their head. “Standing up to bullies is admirable,” Banrai said, “but there’s a right way to do it, and there’s a wrong way to do it.”

“Yes,” Dreamweaver agreed, “that’s what I was trying to get at.”

“I know,” Phobetor mumbled, “but I was just so...”

“Dede,” Phantasos said, noting the slight furrow of Dreamweaver’s brow, “what are you thinking?”

“What did it feel like, Phobetor?” Dreamweaver asked. “Do you remember what you felt when he called Morpheus that word?”

“Um...” Phobetor rubbed their face with the heels of their hands, the only clean parts left with which to dry their tears. “I’ve never been so mad,” they replied. “I hated him. All I could think about was hurting him.” Suddenly, they looked up, their eyes wide. “I wanted to kill him, dede.”

“Phantasos--” Dreamweaver met their eldest son’s gaze, and Phantasos felt something heavy drop into his gut-- “did you notice anything odd about them when you arrived?”

“It’s that, isn’t it?”

“What did you see?”

Phantasos bit his lip, rolled his shoulders, looked anywhere but at his dede. His insides felt like molten metal, sloughing out of a forge, only to miss its mark and fall impotently to the ground. He brought a hand to his lips. His fingers were red. He couldn’t stop staring.

“It was black...” Morpheus shuffled to Dreamweaver’s side, but shied away behind their progenitor when Phobetor’s eyes fell on them. “It was black like smoke,” they murmured, “and I could hear it saying things in Pho’s voice. Pho didn’t want to hurt him; it was the other Pho.”

“No,” Phobetor said, “it was me. Don’t make up stories to keep me out of trouble.”

“You’re both right.” Dreamweaver stood, pulling Phobetor up and into their arms. Morpheus clung to their robes as they strode forward. “Come,” they said, “I have something to tell you both.”

@nostlenne​ @sophiellum-fr @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @jaxxem @reanimatedfr @jollyroger-fr @megane-pigeon @griminal-rising​ @windkissesfr​

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: phobetor #c: morpheus #c: phantasos #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

I’ve decided to add a reference page to this blog again, but the problem is that there’s a “notable friends” section and, like, everyone. Banrai is friends with everyone.

He’s Clan Dad.

#c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

@cork-fr (who I cannot tag for some reason) shared this nifty RPG text generator, so I thought I’d play around with it!

Here’s the royal family!

#flight rising #fr #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: phantasos #c: winter #c: silas and samuel

[spiteweaver]

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Phantasos’ birth had been a tumultuous one. The union of a dreamwalker and a being of the material plane had never, to anyone’s knowledge, resulted in viable offspring, and so none of them had known what might happen. The entire affair had taken fourteen hours, by Isaiah’s count, and Dreamweaver had been left exhausted, physically, magically, and mentally, afterward.

One had been bad enough, the people thought as they gathered in the square, how in the name of the Eleven was their dear founder meant to manage two?

Dreamweaver’s eyes fluttered open. There was a cool, damp rag pressed against their forehead. Their vision was blurry, but they could just make out Banrai’s smiling face above them. “You did it, Dreamy,” he murmured. “It’s over.”

“Are they...?”

“Perfectly healthy,” Isaiah said, “both of them.”

“And sooooo cute!” Phantasos gushed.

Dreamweaver lolled their head to the side, and Phantasos sat on the edge of the bed, turning so that they could get a better look at the fruits of their labor. Wrapped in his arms were his siblings, their children, yet to take on draconic form--fleshy, and soft, and cranky from all the commotion. The eldest cracked one pale yellow eye open, before rolling in Phantasos’ lap to shield themselves from the dim lamplight.

Tears sprang to Dreamweaver’s eyes, and they let out a strangled sob. “They’re beautiful,” they rasped. “Oh, Banrai, look at them...”

“You’re beautiful,” Banrai replied.

“You did great, dede,” Winter said, for once appearing tender. Phantasos would likely never let him live it down, but for now, they were both preoccupied with their newborn siblings.

“Can I keep holding them?” Phantasos asked. “J-just until you’ve got your strength back!”

“Of course,” Dreamweaver said. “You’ve been training for brotherhood since the news broke; I know they’re in good hands.” Then they sighed. “I want to hold them so badly, though.”

“Once you’ve rested,” Isaiah chided. “You pushed yourself too hard with Phantasos. This time, I’m not leaving your side until I’m satisfied you’re operating at full capacity. That means no getting out of bed, no sacrificing yourself to save your people, no fighting demons from anyone’s pasts, and no--”

“Can we come in?” Junior asked, his head the only part of him visible through the crack in the door. When he caught sight of the twins, his concerned expression brightened. “Oh! They’re so cute!”

“That’s what I said!” Phantasos exclaimed. “They’re the cutest, the most adorable, the most precious--”

“Come in,” Dreamweaver said, “but be gentle with them--and me.”

“--commotion,” Isaiah concluded flatly.

Soon, the founders’ cozy bedroom was full to bursting with guests. Junior and Zo exchanged quiet, sweet words as they cooed over the twins; perhaps, Dreamweaver mused, they were considering finding a younger sibling for Jorah, who was equally taken. Abaddon would have scooped them both up then and there had Phantasos not promised to fight him over it, and Solaire and Hollyhock, who were desperate for little ones of their own, could hardly contain themselves (even though neither of them could actually see the newborns).

Telos only took Dreamweaver’s hand. “You had us worried for a bit,” she said. “That was a very long wait.”

“Was it worth it?” they asked.

“More than.”

Dreamweaver gripped her hand tightly. “I’m so glad that you were here for this,” they said, “and that you’ll be here to watch them grow. I want you to be a part of their life.”

“I will be,” Telos assured, “though I don’t expect you’ll feel the same come Starfall.”

“I will,” Dreamweaver promised. “I could never feel otherwise.”

“Y’know, dede,” Phantasos said, “I never got a formal introduction! You’re supposed to walk out onto the balcony of your palace and announce the birth of your royal children!”

“We don’t have a palace,” Banrai pointed out, “but we do have a balcony. It’s a bit small, but, well, maybe you have a point.”

“You should see the crowd gathered in the square!” Solaire said, then chuckled. “Not that I could, but you catch my meaning! The whole clan’s come out for the occasion!”

“It’s a madhouse,” Abaddon agreed. “I had to beat Europa back with a stick.”

“As if you could beat Europa back with anything,” Phantasos quipped.

“All that can wait,” Isaiah insisted. “I swear, it’s like I’m talking to a bunch of brick walls--Dreamweaver needs rest. Tomorrow, if they’re feeling up to it, you can do whatever you’d like, but today, they’re not leaving this room--no, this bed. Not on my watch.”

“What’s wrong with that one’s eyes?” Junior asked.

Before anyone could even think to calm them, Dreamweaver had scrambled upright, reaching frantically for their children. Phantasos handed the eldest over tentatively. Their eyes were open fully now, their gaze lingering on each face present, as wickedly intelligent as their progenitor’s. However, rather than the warm champagne color of a typical Light dragon’s, their eyes were almost white.

“Isaiah...?”

Dreamweaver looked to the doctor for an explanation, but he could offer none. “They’re perfectly healthy,” he reiterated. “Whatever’s caused their eye color to differ from the norm, it doesn’t appear to have harmed them at all.”

“What about Phobetor?”

“You’ve named them already?” Junior asked.

“Morpheus and Phobetor,” Phantasos replied proudly. “I helped pick the names! Um, Pho’s eyes look normal...”

“It could be a naturally occurring variation,” Telos suggested, giving Dreamweaver’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” Dreamweaver said. They sank back into their pillows, but kept their protective hold on Morpheus. “Yes, of course. I suppose I--I overreacted. My, that certainly takes me back.”

“You just wanted to hold them,” Winter accused.

Dreamweaver smiled, and offered Morpheus to him. “Your turn, big brother,” they teased.

“I-I’ll mess it up,” Winter mumbled. When Dreamweaver insisted, he had no choice but to accept Morpheus from them. His posture was awkward, but he supported them well. “Ugh,” he said, “they really are cute, but aren’t I too old to be a big brother?”

“You’re never too old,” Junior replied.

“Then where’s my little sibling?” Jorah asked, as deadpan as ever.

Junior’s cheeks flushed, and the assembly burst into laughter--all except Isaiah, who still thought this was far too much excitement for someone who’d just spent the past day in labor. Clucking his tongue, he moved to the window, peering out at the crowd in the square. It was as Abaddon had said; he could hardly see the ground beneath so many shuffling feet.

What he could see was Atsushi pushing through the throng toward them, looking like the Shade was on his heels. “Uh oh,” he said, “that can’t be good.”

“What’s wrong?”

Isaiah winced. He’d hoped Dreamweaver was too distracted to hear him. “Nothing,” he replied, but now Phantasos and Junior had joined him at the window. “Nothing Dreamweaver needs to worry about, right, boys?” he clarified.

“Right,” Phantasos agreed. “Here, take Pho. Junior, you’re with me.”

“What is it?” Dreamweaver asked. “Phantasos, what--?”

“It’s probably just some Arcanite business,” Phantasos soothed, kissing his parent’s cheek sweetly as he passed. “Junior and I can handle it. I’m the heir to the throne, and he’s the smartest Arcanite in the clan; we’ll be back in, like, ten minutes.”

“Maybe twenty,” Junior added meekly.

“Be safe,” Zo said.

Junior touched his fiance’s hand fleetingly, before Phantasos ushered him from the room. No one wanted to say it, not in front of Dreamweaver, but they were all wondering the same thing: what did Atsushi’s sudden arrival have to do with Morpheus’ abnormality, and how were they going to fix it?

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: phantasos #c: junior #c: morpheus #c: phobetor

[spiteweaver]

Which describes Dreamweaver's punishment / ruling style more, in your opinion: Justice, Mercy, or Revenge? How about Banrai?

For Dreamweaver, justice. They can certainly be vengeful, but never without cause. They seek justice for those wronged, and fairness in their judgment. If it is just to punish someone, then they shall; if it is just to show them mercy, then they shall.

Banrai is much more on the side of mercy. There are certain crimes that he cannot forgive so easily, but he believes much more so in reformation than his mate. Showing mercy to a criminal can be a life-altering act of kindness that ultimately results in reformation, and he chooses this path above punishment in most cases.

#anonymous #asks #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

Banrai: Hey, Dreamy, what do you want to eat?

The Nightmare: The souls of the innocent!

Dreamweaver: A bagel.

The Nightmare: NO!

Dreamweaver: Two bagels.

#c: banrai #c: dreamweaver #c: the nightmare

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

A new cycle begins, and Feldspar celebrates in spite of everything.

The entire city, parts of it still under heavy renovation, is decorated with paper lanterns in the colors of each of the Eleven Flights. Those loyal to deities seek out lanterns in their Flight’s color, and whisper wishes and resolutions into them, to be released into the night sky at festival’s end in the hope that the gods will grant them strength for the coming year.

There is food, and entertainment, and talk of the future--but mostly, there are quiet moments between loved ones, who mere hours earlier feared they may never see one another again.

Dreamweaver and Banrai sit together in the square. Phantasos has gone to Aphaster lands, only to ensure that his friends are well (and to steal kisses from them at midnight), but Winter remains loyally at his parents’ sides. He leans against Silas, who seeks solace in the crook of his neck.

Dreamweaver looks peaceful. It has been many eons since anyone has seen them smile so softly. The bags beneath their eyes have grown faint, and the air around them seems somehow healthier. Banrai kisses them. “You’re supposed to wait until midnight,” they chide, with a mischievous smile upon their lips.

“I could never wait that long,” he replies, and kisses them again.

Junior is not far away. He has done nothing but buy food for Zo all evening long. “You must be exhausted!” he keeps insisting. “If you’re going to make it to midnight, you’ll need sugar! Although, really, you should be in bed!”

“Already playing the role of the doting husband?” Abaddon teases. “You haven’t even set a date for the wedding yet!”

However, no one pampers Zo as much as Jorah. He keeps a tight hold on his father’s hand, and a strange warmth seeps from him. His mere presence is radiant, soft and loving; he does not take his eyes off of Zo for even a moment, and there is wonderment swirling in their dark, otherworldly depths. Tonight, though he has grown much, he is a child in awe of his parent.

In Aphaster, Tau spends the evening professing his love to Copernicus in every way his addled mind can conjure. He buys him sweets, and kisses his face, and whispers, “I love you,” until his voice is hoarse with emotion and his stomach is tied in knots.

“You are everything to me,” he assures. “You are all I have in this world, and I cherish you with all of me. I would defy the gods for you.”

One day, he may have to, but tonight, he will rest easy with Copernicus in his arms.

Atsushi leaves Carnelian’s side only to assure Dreamweaver of his safety. Once he has done so, he returns to Aphaster lands, and showers Carnelian in equal parts affection and outrage. It may not be his place, but he cannot stop himself from telling Carnelian how worried he was, how he has not slept in days, how truly, sincerely glad he is to see him well.

“I care about very few people,” he reminds, “so, please, don’t do anything that may trim an already very sparse list. Oh, I need a drink--where did Arcanus go? I’m sure he could use one too.”

He will end the night in Carnelian’s home, sound asleep on whatever piece of furniture he fell into, having been awake for nearly a week and having had more than his fair share of champagne. It will be the first time he has slept peacefully since his youth; all of his dreams are of Carnelian, and Seaglass, and Mergo.

Xerxes is with Lamium for much of the night. He has become undeniably taken with his new friend, and Crucis wonders if that broken heart of his might be on the mend. Lamium is good to him, like Rubedo was, but unexpectedly, they understand one another even more intimately, despite Lamium’s affliction being of a very different sort. Seeing them together gives Crucis an odd feeling of sadness.

Being a caretaker is difficult, he decides, and leaves them to their devices. He has a date with Lutia regarding the day’s events. An Arcanite never rests.

Xerxes remains with Lamium, and some small part of him hopes that he, like Phantasos, might be able to steal just the barest, most innocent kiss at night’s end.

Juneau was the first to know of Aphaster’s plight and the last to arrive in its lands. He approaches Penitence not with desperation, but shyly, his eyes downcast and his hands fidgeting with some trinket tucked away in his pocket.

He reveals it to be a small, black box. His cheeks color as Penitence examines it. “I’m not trying to steal Zo’s thunder,” he mumbles. “I just--I’ve had this for a while, and, no matter what, I want you to have it now. It’s something that says you’re mine and I’m yours.”

Then he smiles, and tears spill down his cheeks. “I thought I’d never get the chance to give it to you,” he says. “Happy New Year.”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: junior #c: jorah #c: tau #c: atsushi #c: xerxes #c: crucis #c: juneau #POPPIN THE BIGGEST BOTTLES FOR 2018

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“What in the eleven hells was that?”

Tarragon thought he had been asking that question an awful lot lately; too often for his liking, if he was being perfectly honest. If it was worldly magic, he could tell you everything there was to know, from conception to technique. The problem was that no one in Clan Feldspar seemed to use worldly magic; or if they did, it was of the impossible sort that never should have been placed in the hands of the common folk.

So when he felt a surge of distinctly unworldly energy, he at first thought nothing of it. He merely asked the question he always did, to no one in particular, and then continued on toward the market.

It wasn’t until everyone around him began to react, flocking toward the town center like rats fleeing floodwaters, that he realized something was amiss...

...and quickened his pace.

The square was already full to bursting when he arrived, and above it all was Dreamweaver, barking orders from the steps of their own home. It was a poor stage; their voice was barely audible underneath hundreds of others, growing weaker by the second. “Please,” they called hoarsely, “please, everyone, calm yourselves! We won’t get anything done by panicking!”

“What was that surge?!”

“It came from the Hewn City!”

“Have you heard anything from the Wardens?!”

“It’s those Arcanites, I’d wager! They’re the ones in charge of Thunder’s March!”

“They closed it down, you know? What a mess that was!”

“I heard Omen was there! My cousin saw her with his own two eyes!”

“Your cousin’s a drunkard, he didn’t see anything but the bottom of a bottle!”

“Be silent!” Dreamweaver demanded, and for a brief, blessed moment, all was still. Then another surge rolled over the square, and the clamor began anew. “Solaire,” they groaned, “will you please see to it that the Wardens begin their evacuation procedures, if they haven’t already? I want every settlement east of Weaver’s Crown emptied.”

“I’ll see to it,” Solaire assured. “Shall I route them here?”

“Yes. Feldspar Proper is the safest place for them.”

“I’ll go,” Abaddon offered. “You need Solaire here to oversee our defenses. They could use a bit of shoring up.”

“Junior--”

“I can’t sit on my ass to keep Junior happy.” Abaddon spread his wings wide, pushing back the throng around them, and lowered his immense head to meet Dreamweaver’s gaze. “Just watch after him,” he requested. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. If Aphaster’s involved, he’s liable to go running off in search of Zo.”

“Very well.” Dreamweaver placed a hand against Abaddon’s cheek. With furrowed brows, they drew the symbol of the Lightweaver upon his forehead, blessing his mission. “Be careful.”

“When am I ever anything but?”

“Solaire, I want a tight watch on the borders,” Dreamweaver commanded over the roar of Abaddon’s take-off. “No one leaves. If Aphaster citizens must flee the territory, I want them brought directly here. Prioritize the sick or wounded.”

“Do you think it’s another exodus?” Solaire asked.

“I certainly hope not,” Dreamweaver replied, but they didn’t sound convinced. Solaire did not press them for their theories; he had his orders. “Winter,” Dreamweaver went on, “find Juneau. If push comes to shove, we may need his black ice. Come straight home once you’ve found him.”

“I’m not Phantasos,” Winter scoffed. “I don’t go looking for new and inventive ways to die.”

“Eat me,” Phantasos spat.

“Only if whatever’s out there doesn’t do it first.”

“Ozymandias...” Dreamweaver inhaled deeply, and Ozymandias, who was far more accustomed to their temper than even their own mate and children, took a cautionary step back. “Does this have anything to do with you abandoning your post?” they asked. “Because, if it does, I’m going to--”

“It may,” Ozymandias answered honestly, bowing his head in contrition, “but the fault does not fall to me alone. There are other forces at work; dark ones. They may have taken advantage of my noted absence to enact this plot.”

“Don’t say that,” Phantasos pleaded, “it’s my fault you’re here in the first place!”

“I learned long ago never to lie to your progenitor,” Ozymandias replied. “The fact remains that had I not abandoned my post, this very likely would not be happening. I would have never allowed anyone black of heart into the Hewn City.”

“We could always go and smoke them out,” Thalassinus suggested, “like old times, yes, oh, how nostalgic it would be!”

“Absolutely not,” Dreamweaver said. “As if I’d let the two of you go gallivanting off at a time like this. Thalassinus, you’re with Seaglass. I want our border with the Sea of a Thousand Currents secure and prepped for--for--”

“For the worst case scenario,” Banrai concluded.

“Yes.” Dreamweaver toyed absently with the raised gold patterns in their robes. There was noise all around them; they couldn’t think clearly with so many voices speaking all at once. “The worst case scenario,” they whispered, “another exodus, our clan uprooted, my pact with the Lightweaver dissolved--”

“Dede.” Phantasos took their hand in his and squeezed. “It’s fine,” he said firmly. “We’re going to be fine.”

Somehow, his conviction was soothing to Dreamweaver. They gave a stiff nod. “I have an important job for you,” they said. “I need you to gather those among us with strong ties to Aphaster. Specifically, I want Tau, Junior and Jorah, Asura, Xerxes, Almond, Yọmí, Rue, and Atsushi brought to me. None of them can be allowed to leave, least of all alone.”

“So you’re gonna play babysitter?” Phantasos snorted with laughter. “Sounds about right. How do you know I’m not gonna run off, though?”

“You know where you are needed most,” Dreamweaver replied, “and I trust you.” They turned to their son then, clasping his hand in both of their own. “I know you’re worried about your friends; but you must know that Telos will protect her people, and that I will be there to aid her should she falter. Trust us as I trust you.”

“I do,” Phantasos said, “I do trust you, dede--and Telos, too.”

“Then go.”

Before Phantasos could leave, however, Delucius arrived, out of breath and very red in the face. He was a rare sight this far west, especially after the unwitting part he’d played in the nightmare’s schemes, so Dreamweaver gave him their undivided attention.

“What’s happened?” they asked. “Do you have news from the east?”

“No,” Delucius panted, “nothing out of the ordinary to report on my end. But, Dreamweaver, Atsushi’s--he’s gone to Aphaster--”

“What?!” Dreamweaver’s hair unfurled around them, their eyes beginning to take on a tell-tale golden glow. They seemed to close the distance between themself and Delucius in a single step; the Wildclaw shrank back against the crowd behind him. “When?!” Dreamweaver cried. “When did he leave?! Why has he gone?!”

“C-Carnelian’s been MIA for two eons,” Delucius stammered. “He went to talk to Arcanus, not--not long before the surge--”

“I’ll go and fetch him,” Dreamweaver said.

“That would be unwise.” Ozymandias swept his arm out over the square, over the hundreds of dragons gathered there in search of guidance. “The nature of this threat remains unknown,” he reminded. “Additionally, you have duties to tend to here.”

Much as they wanted to, Dreamweaver could not argue. The square was still packed with panicked faces, all of them turned upward in anticipation of their founder’s next decree. The fact of the matter was, Atsushi was one, and the people of Feldspar were many--and although it pained them greatly, they could not abandon their post for the sake of a single dragon.

“No one tells Seaglass,” they said, “and that’s an order. We’ll just have to trust that Telos will ensure Atsushi’s safety. I’m not going to risk any of you, and I cannot go myself--”

“I could do it,” Phantasos said. “Dede, you know I could.”

“I need you here,” Dreamweaver insisted. “You and I are dreamwalkers, Phantasos. We have power beyond that of our people. We must remain. We must preserve the integrity of these walls. It is our duty as leaders.”

Phantasos opened his mouth to respond, then cursed under his breath. In a flash of golden light, he was transformed. “I’m going to find the others,” he said. “Ozymandias will be with me, so I can’t talk myself into doing anything reckless.”

“Do not let him out of your sight,” Dreamweaver said to Ozymandias. “If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible.”

“As will I,” Ozymandias replied.

“Now...” Dreamweaver took in another deep breath, and returned their full attention to the crowd at their feet. “Listen!” they shouted. “Listen, all of you! As of this moment, I am declaring a state of emergency! Those who wish to leave the territories must do so by way of our western borders--but I encourage you to remain in Feldspar Proper, where I can ensure your safety! Those who wish to remain, be ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice! Have essentials packed and transportation organized!

“Healers, report to the hospital! Magic-workers, accompany Isolde and Petros; you will aid them in strengthening the magical barriers around the city! I want our Flight Representatives front and center! Everyone else, remain in your homes! Do not go beyond the walls!”

“Dreamweaver,” a voice hollered out, “what is it? What’s happening?”

“I...” Another surge of magic engulfed the square. Dreamweaver let out a hiss of pain; their temples were throbbing from the noise and the magical pollution. “I don’t know,” they confessed, “I haven’t the foggiest. That’s why, until I can ascertain the source of the surge, I need you all to remain calm.”

There was a murmur of uncertainty and a great many skeptical glances exchanged; but perhaps the sight of their founder in such great pain, and their worry for their people despite it, was a strange comfort. The crowd began to disperse, and soon, they were welcoming evacuees from the eastern settlements into their homes.

“It’s humbling,” Banrai said, “the goodness of dragons in times of crisis.”

“Banrai...” Dreamweaver stumbled and collapsed into their husband’s arms. “Banrai, whatever happens, promise me you’ll watch after them all; our people, our children, Telos.”

“You’re talking like you’re going to try and sacrifice yourself again,” Banrai noted. “I don’t like that.”

“I’m not,” Dreamweaver said, “but you know that’s always my last resort. Besides that, I feel like my head may just split in two, and not even I could survive that.”

“You should rest.”

“Don’t start that again.”

Another small crowd had begun to form around the pair. Each of the eleven Representatives had arrived, and while their founders sought solace in one another, they exchanged farfetched theories. Levi suggested aliens; Silhouette countered with mole-people; Dahlia insisted that it was somehow Crucis’ fault, to which Crucis took great offense.

They were all so busy joking that none of them noticed Isaiah shoving past them. “Hate to interrupt,” he said when he caught sight of Dreamweaver cradled in Banrai’s arms, “but I thought you ought to know that Penumbra’s woken up--and you’re going to want to hear what they have to say.”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: phantasos #c: ozymandias #c: banrai

[spiteweaver]

what would you do if you got more than one egg? would you exalt the rest, and if so would you incorporate it into your lore? I'm just curious bc I love banrai and dreamweaver (and especially ur lore!)

Being my progens, they actually have a MASSIVE offspring list–but the only child I consider canon is Phantasos. In-lore, Phantasos was Dreamweaver and Banrai’s first and only child; in fact, they struggled to conceive for a long time due to Dreamweaver being a non-dragon.

So if I had more than one egg in a clutch, unless I liked more than one of the offspring, I’d just name, exalt, and pretend they never existed. As far as my lore is concerned, they wouldn’t.

If I like more than one of the kids, though, I might make Banrai and Dreamweaver suffer by giving them a multi-egg clutch. They would freak the fuck out, but, also, they’d love their fifty children to death, because they’re extremely doting parents and are very sad that Phantasos will be leaving the nest soon. (Sure, he’s only moving down the road a ways, but their nest will still feel so empty…)

(AND ALSO THANK YOU SO MUCH??? I’m honored! ;w;/)

#eggjuice #asks #c: banrai #c: dreamweaver

[spiteweaver]

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Dreamweaver struggles.

Each passing day, the shadows beneath their eyes darken. Their magical strength is returning, but their physical condition has waned these past nine eons. They are worn thin, and holes are beginning to form in their cloth.

Inside of them is a terrible burden, one that only they can bear. There is no help their people can give, save a kind word and continued loyalty. Already, Dreamweaver has grown weary of it--the stares, the pity, and the burden itself, so heavy now on their chest that they can hardly breathe. It toys with their thoughts, turns them toward madness.

They are tired, and they are afraid.

Banrai keeps his silent vigil. He says what he has always said: “You should rest.” He says it with a soft and caring smile, but there are clenched teeth behind his lips. He is angry. He is murderous. That his beloved mate must suffer in such a way is cruel and unfair and intolerable, and he would cut the throat of whatever unloving god cursed them with this weighty responsibility.

He does not say any of this, though. He says only, “You should rest,” and he says it with a soft and caring smile.

Phantasos sinks into a bed of straw with a local farmhand. He is young, and every drake he meets, he loves unconditionally. His world is saccharine, tinted mauve with the naivety of youth. Hardship is something he has yet to know, something he has experienced only vicariously through others.

The farmhand’s fingers are calloused with experience, and Phantasos believes then that he will never be happier than he is in this moment. He always believes this, when he lies with a drake, whether he has done so a dozen times or never once. He idolizes the way their shoulders dip, the strong curvature of their muscles, the sharp edges and rough corners.

Even when his breath comes short and his eyes are clouded by ecstasy, he thinks of Feldspar. He kisses, and wonders how he might help his people, and touches, and ponders how best to prove his worth, and sighs his lovers’ names, and considers his next course of action as clan heir.

He is no longer a boy. He must do what he can.

The days grow shorter, and Abaddon’s nights grow longer. He spends many of them at Sitri’s tavern, drowning his sorrows in a stiff ale. Some nights, he is joined by Monroe and Castor. Other nights, he sits alone at the bar, staring into his mug with eyes red from tears yet to be shed. Sitri gives him his privacy, and the tavern patrons know better than to approach.

He is thinking of the Radiant, and how he let true love slip away from him.

Starfall Celebration looms over his head like a dark cloud--passed now, but still fresh in his mind. He looks to the west more often than he used to, more often than he should, and whispers the Radiant’s name in reverence. The name makes him sick. It tastes like honey on his tongue, then abruptly turns to ash when he remembers that he is whispering it to a drake who will not come home to him.

He thinks, “I should have gone with him.” He thinks, “I want to go with him.”

But he does not return to the Starfall Isles. Instead, he orders another ale and remembers his son’s smile. He would miss it if he were ever to leave. As long as Junior is smiling, he will remain at his side.

One day, he will be nothing more than a memory in Junior’s head. He must ensure that he is a good one.

Between his studies, his lessons, and his duties as a parent, Junior isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His hair is always disheveled, and he is always late for something or other, and he is always worrying about whether Jorah is getting enough to eat, if perhaps he might be too skinny for a lad his age, if he is tall enough, strong enough, well enough.

Yet, he is happy. His clanmates know, because he never stops smiling. There is a vibrant color to his cheeks that he has never possessed, the reds and pinks of exhilaration. He is busier now than he ever has been, but, oh, he loves his child, and he loves his mate, and he loves the life they are building together.

There are times, still, when he, like his father, looks away to the west, and a great sadness steals the smile from his face. Starfall Celebration looms over him as well, and his chest grows tight with guilt at observing it without the twin Shards. He wonders, briefly, if they blame him at all.

Then Jorah tugs at his sleeve, and he says goodbye to them all over again. He is the last of them, the last of a trio of young fools, and he has mercifully been granted life and love. He will not squander his time. He will live for them as well as himself.

Tau toils, day in, day out, in the same way he has since his youth. The Lightweaver’s All-Seeing Eye has grown obsessive of late. She doubts his loyalty to Her. She worries that he may betray Her, for the drake he loves. She will tolerate no such slight.

He knows this, and so he works harder. He works harder to prove to Her that he is loyal, and that Her worries are unfounded--not because he admires Her, not because he cares for Her, but because, should She so choose it, She can take from him again. She can take, and take, and take, until he has nothing left but Her and Her word.

He fears that quiet and terrible loneliness, but more than anything, he fears what part he might play in another’s suffering. He fears betrayal shimmering in Copernicus’ eyes, the slightest quiver of his young love’s lower lip, and the knowledge that he could one day be the cause.

So he works, and he begins to distance himself.

Crucis is starting to wonder if he will ever be who he once was, before Xerxes came to him. When he looks at his patient, the emotions they shared come rushing back. Their connection was brief, but it has scarred the landscape of his psyche irreparably. He cannot stop thinking about that deep well of sadness, and how it never, ever seems to empty.

It exists within him now, and he sees images of a drake with marigolds in his hair at night when he sleeps. That man is beautiful, and benevolent, and he holds Crucis as if he is the most precious person in all the world.

When Crucis awakes and finds that he is alone, he is devastated. He realizes more and more each day that he is too much like Xerxes. He is too close. He is too alone. He is too afraid of being alone.

He insists that it will pass.

It has been five eons.

It still has not passed.

Emir is becoming frustrated. Every moment he spends practicing is a moment that could be spent searching. He assures himself that this is where he should be, listening for news in a land overflowing with it, and that mastering his magic is just as important as seeking those he has lost. Without his magic, he cannot help them.

That is what he tells himself.

He thinks of that day in the archives, when he and Light were at odds. He wonders if Light was right, and if he was wrong, if he was cowardly, afraid to leave a place that has offered him safety and warmth, while Light was brave and ready to strike out in search of his comrades.

Then he remembers their faces, and knows that he is not a coward--for he feels the same drive in his heart to be reunited with them that he always has.

Penumbra sleeps soundly under Isaiah’s care. What they dream of, if anything, not even Dreamweaver can say. Their mind is lost in a black miasma. They stir only unconsciously, when their limbs begin to ache from lying still for so long.

Isaiah watches over them. He keeps long hours to do so. His subordinates at the hospital tend to most patients now. He remains steadfastly at Penumbra’s side. Often, he sleeps there, slumped in his chair, the beeping of Lightning medical tech weaving into a mechanical lullaby.

They have no kin, so he does what no one else will.

Ozymandias is loyal--far more so than anyone thought he could be, after abandoning his post. He guards Phantasos zealously, as a parent would their offspring, and accompanies him wherever his young and wild heart leads him.

(Blessedly, he opts not to join Phantasos in the empty barns and secluded woodland fields he brings his lovers to--but he is always nearby.)

He returns to the Hewn City at times. There are things that must be done there that only he can do, and so he splits his life between the new and the old. Something sinister is growing within, and it is as unfamiliar to him as the lands beyond the city gates.

Secretly, he is glad to be free of it. Let this darkness be someone else’s responsibility. He is old and weary, and he has served Her Radiance for all of his many years.

Let his own mind be at peace.

Mergo does not speak. His voice is held captive still by the fear that he may yet betray Dreamweaver to their enemy, a constant companion even in his sleeping hours. He often wakes in tears, screaming a name that no one knows. It is the only time he utters even a single word--except for when Argus holds him, and he whispers, “Thank you,” until his throat is raw with gratitude.

Argus feels he deserves no thanks, but he is happy to pepper Mergo’s face with kisses, each one a reminder that he is not alone in this, that there is someone who understands him.

Mergo wishes so fiercely, in those quiet, tender moments, that he could speak Argus’ name--but terror grips his heart, and so he can only return Argus’ affection with kisses of his own.

Juneau stares at the ring in his hands, turning it over and over again, as if searching for imperfections, an excuse to send it back and wait another eon. There are none. It is flawless, made by Magus’ own two hands. Silver, like the moon, and engraved with words he has been too cowardly to say out loud.

His people had no marriage customs of their own. He knows only of those he has learned from other cultures. “Perhaps he has his own customs,” he reasons. “Perhaps I should wait. Perhaps it is too soon.”

He tucks the ring back into his pocket.

Xerxes spends more and more of his time in Aphaster lands. With Rubedo and Alala’s first clutch soon to depart for the Lightweaver’s Grace, he wishes to know them as best as he possibly can. When they go, they will go with fond memories of both parents and uncle.

(He calls himself their uncle. He hopes Rubedo does not mind.)

However, he goes also for another. He is undeniably taken with Lamium. There are things they understand that no one else does, and he feels that same connection he once did with Rubedo (still does with Rubedo). Lamium is a comforting presence in his life, neither judgmental nor ignorant. When they are together, he can forget.

He can forget, for just a short while, a face framed with marigolds, and gentle, loving hands upon his cheeks.

Seaglass can be found on the shore. For many eons, he dared not traverse the Sea Path, to where he left, so long ago, for his homeland. He would, instead, stand upon the cliffs overlooking the sea, and gaze desperately into the darkening sky.

Always, he was waiting to see Jìng there, smiling at him.

Now, he has returned to the sea, and his hair has grown long again. He spends his afternoons in ankle-deep water, teaching Emir the things Jìng taught him--and when he speaks his mentor’s name, it is with happiness at having known him, not misery at having lost him.

There is no one he loves more, and he will never love another as he loved Jìng--but he will love others, and he will love the life Jìng left him to live.

Atsushi sees his master in Dreamweaver now and again. It’s only in flashes, that darkness, but he sees him. He wonders what memories Dreamweaver possesses of the nightmare’s time with him.

Did his master care for him?

Love him?

Does Dreamweaver struggle, as he does? With the knowledge that what they had was rotten and bitter, but the closest thing to love Atsushi had experienced in so many cycles?

It is sick, but sometimes, Atsushi misses him. He hates himself for missing him, but when he lies alone in bed at night, the space beside him empty, he does. He tries to think of other things, other people that he now loves, but the nightmare was close to him, something he could have, and they are all so far away.

But each night, it is not the nightmare who sends him to sleep. It is Carnelian, and Seaglass, and Mergo--and when he dreams, he dreams of them.

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai #c: phantasos #c: abaddon #c: junior #c: tau #c: crucis #c: emir #c: penumbra #c: isaiah #c: ozymandias #c: mergo #c: juneau #c: xerxes #c: seaglass #c: atsushi

[spiteweaver]

Phantasos: We should make our own family name!

Dreamweaver: Well, what about something meaningful? Something with a great deal of personal significance to us all?

Banrai: Feldspar.

Phantasos: Yeah!

Dreamweaver: No.

Banrai: Banrai Feldspar, Dreamweaver Feldspar, Phantasos Feldspar.

Dreamweaver: ABSOLUTELY NOT.

#c: banrai #c: dreamweaver #c: phantasos