𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍.

✢⁎. INFERNISO — an affiliated roleplay blog for idunn of fire emblem: the binding blade, WITH THEMES OF — identity & self, lasting peace, humanity, found freedom, the stillness of life, divinity & demons, healing, the will to live on.

misericordel​:

“what?” the voice of another out of no where startles her, her shoulders flinching as she looks up at the voice’s owner with wide eyes. her heart tells her, at the sight of idunn, that she has no reason to be afraid. that they are alike— another dragon? she can’t be sure.

“oh, thank you. i agree but—” she starts, only to be stopped mid sentence as the woman brings another person into the mix. veyle worries to herself with her hands clutched to her chest— now she was bringing too many people into her problems.

they don’t seem to be very bothered over helping her, though. she forces the thought from her mind with a sigh. “well, i’m making this bouquet for my brother, so i really want him to enjoy it.” she admits, looking from merric back to her creation. “i don’t want him to say it’s pretty just because he’s trying to be nice to me…”

her creation is indeed a mess, all sorts of colors— but a noticeable amount of reds and blues and no regards to meaning except for one single flower. “i really want to put emphasis on the sunflower because he’s always been like the sun to me. what kinds of flowers should i use for that?” she looks between merric and idunn.

@inferniso​

“Yes,” Idunn answers, as though she is reading the weather, “Roy is my friend.” 

To be able to say such a thing in confidence, the dragon considers herself blessed. Just last year she had no one, had nothing--save for the dream of another man dragging her through a nightmare. 

She nods at Merric, affirming that if he knows Roy, he is also a friend of hers. Any who nurture the lion are free to receive her care: it’s her way of spreading kindness back to where it was sent to her.

“I like these ones,” she announces, turning back to Veyle. Her finger points to a pair of yellow tulips not yet added to Veyle’s bouquet. “They bloom in spring. They’re very pretty... And they make me feel warm.” She knows not the name of the plant, but can recount the sensation it gives as easily as glancing at the back of her hand. Idunn’s knowledge is thus tactile: yet to grasp words and semantics, but covering things rooted in senses like touch or smell. She’s seen them in spring, watched bugs crawl inside their petals to take shelter. Their scent is pretty, too--something she demonstrates by veering closer for a quick sniff.

“I think your brother would like these... If he likes the warm sun. What do you think, Professor Merric?” 

freedomarrow​:

Leonardo smiles warmly, nodding to Idunn’s question. Of course, they can go and decorate the cards; were it not an option, he would not have mentioned it, after all, leaving it behind and not bothering to explain it to her. He is aware that he could have done that, of course. A noble, a politician, a cunning leader - he knows plenty of situations where one would neglect to mention information they wanted hidden. It applies to situations both big and small, from withholding crucial facts about the state of a country to the activities you are willing to indulge in with a companion.

Though Leonardo may not know much of Idunn’s past, he has by now figured out she is someone who needs some explanations and guidance - something that does open her up to easily being exploited… He pushes the thought back for now, cataloguing it for later to perhaps consider. It is not as though he has intentions to do so.

“Alright! I know which office to go to. Follow me.”

The walk is not long, with the building situated right near the bulletin board associated with its announcements and requests. An official greets them, nods and smiles as Leonardo explains their intentions, and leads them into a room. A large table sits in the center, ready to be covered with all supplies necessary to make the most beautiful dance and stamp cards; chairs around it invite volunteers. And finally, on the shelves around them - boxes of plain cards, papers of all colors and textures, colorful tubes of glitter glue, pens, whatever they could think of.

“Anything and everything in this room is free game for you to use. Here you go. Have fun!” The clerk smiles and takes his leave, as Leonardo turns to Idunn, nods, and from the shelf, retrieves a box of plain stamp cards. Outside of vague markings for the five stamp spots, they are blank, ready to be decorated for the occasion.

“Let’s get started, then.” The blond sets the box on the table. “As you heard, we can use any supplies here that we want. Would you like me to find something specific? Or take a look around yourself, of course.”

With hurried steps, Idunn follows close behind. She trusts Leonardo to lead to her to where they need to go--believes in the good nature of his intentions, opens herself up to following his instruction. It’s easy for her to feel guilty being such a follower, but in the presence of friends, trust is what grabs her first.

They arrive, and her first instinct is so look around the room. Eyes scan the tables, the chairs, the supplies--even the ceiling for anything of note. As the staff member leaves them with instructions she turns to nod, offering a faint “Thank you...” after they turn to leave. It’s just her and the archer--and the large swath of supplies at their disposal.

Idunn hears his words, and first tries to look at some of the materials herself. She plucks the first beige card from its pile, holding it between her fingers as she peers at all the other buckets and piles of decorations. Yet over-choice is quick to snake round and bite her. The more things she looks at, the faster Idunn begins to freeze up. Hands which once waved her card ambiently through the air by her chest lock in place. Eyes of mismatched red and green dart between different objects. It’s all so much. There are plenty of things to keep up with, and as part of her natural goodwill, Idunn wishes to provide only the best of them.

“I think... I want to be shown what to do,” she answers, formulating her thoughts on the fly. The idea is still fresh in her mind but she knows, as she tries to reach for a stack of colored pens, that it is one she doesn’t regret voicing. Her fingers curl and retract before they can even touch anything--almost like pulling one’s own hand back from an open fire. “Do you know how to make stamp cards beautiful, Leonardo? I don’t want to hand out any bad ones.” 

Status: Passed

Skill Points Gained: 1

Activity Check > Any +1 > Allocated to gauntlets +1

Skill Changes:

RULES: bold what applies - italicize sometimes. Repost, don’t reblog !

𝙍𝙊𝙎𝙀𝙎   -   true romantic, loving the classics, pricked fingers, perfect makeup done to impress, bruises easily, beloved but unknown, soul as old as time, overused and under-appreciated.

𝘿𝘼𝙄𝙎𝙄𝙀𝙎   -   clean linens, youthful naivety, family, wide open spaces, running barefoot, moving towards instead of away, trying to forget about death, sun blindness.

𝙎𝙐𝙉𝙁𝙇𝙊𝙒𝙀𝙍𝙎   -   standing tall, strong roots, a home to always return to, warm summer air, holding onto lost hope, belief in growth, painted overalls, split ends.

𝘽𝙇𝙐𝙀𝘽𝙀𝙇𝙇𝙎   -   the end of spring, determination for the truth, cold and cautious, moonlight on windowsills, the taste of ice, unnecessary shyness, quiet belief in the extraordinary, complicated morals.

𝘿𝘼𝙁𝙁𝙊𝘿𝙄𝙇𝙎   -   mom friend, sweets, the smell of baking, riverbanks, leaving behind a toxic situation, being happy with your reflection, believing in luck, moving in a pack.

𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎𝙀𝙎   -   sour candies, unappreciated elegance, valour, crystals projecting rainbows on white walls, unintended organization, old royalty, refusal to bow, learning a new language for the fun of it.

𝙇𝙄𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙎   -   secret poison, perfect handwriting, crisp consonants, pressed and ironed sheets,   open windows,  infinite persistence, thick skin, colder hands.

misericordel​:

veyle stares at the bouquet she’s made with a frown. all manners of flowers sit nestled between each other, without rhyme or reason as to why. she really wanted to make a bouquet that alear would appreciate, but this one hardly inspires any confidence in her. she can’t imagine anyone receiving this bouquet and feeling appreciative of it.

she takes a glance at the others in the seminar to see how they’re coming along and they all have absolutely beautiful bouquets. she doesn’t have the greatest aesthetic sense even she can see how all the flowers compliment themselves. 

sure she could just copy someone, but then that wouldn’t be born from her genuine feelings. there was no point in a bouquet like that either.

“ugh, i don’t know what i’m doing wrong…” she mutters to herself with a frown while idly playing with the flowers’ placements. if only there was someone who was better at this that could help her out here, but everyone else seemed busy with their own creations.

“I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong.”

Enter Idunn, whose boughs of freedom are starting to sprout from a sundered soul. Little by little, she’s been learning about the great world outside her village, and flowers are among her greatest joys. She’ll go on walks just to see all the monastery’s gardens, spend her mornings in the greenhouse to provide for its foliage--blow dandelion seeds whenever she wants to make a wish. They are such precious things when they aren’t being trampled by the boots of soldiers or embers of dragon-breath. It’s no surprise that she’s signed up for a seminar on making bouquets, and has been enjoying herself to the fullest.

But her heightened senses--half demon, half divine--have alerted her to the presence of another. Idunn can feel when dragons are near, and in turn, her presence is large enough to be felt even by halflings and skilled human mages. This one, with the head of white and stygian black, feels odd. Dark and foreboding, but warm all the same... Like a spot of shade on a sunny day, or a lantern at the center of a shadowy library.

The feeling is a lot like her hair, actually. Neither fully white nor wholly black.

“All flowers are very beautiful, and I quite like yours...” She peers over the other manakete’s shoulder, sticking her head closer to the gift Veyle had crafted. A closer inspection backs her words with some more truth--especially when Idunn gives an affirming nod. And her eyes aren’t dull like normal, nor is the line drawn over her mouth. Both carry with them a hint of positivity, inspired partly by being surrounded by gorgeous blossoms, and partly by the chance to meet another of her kind. Idunn is sure that the energy she feels is Veyle’s--it’s so strong now that she’s gotten close! And watching a manakete fall into distress spurs her to action.

If there’s anything Idunn knows about kindness, it’s that it ought to be shared. Rather than letting Veyle simply take her word for it, she briefly breaks her gaze to look at some of the other participants. And of the crowd, she picks out one green-haired sage. “Excuse me...” spoken with a gentle tap to his shoulder, hopeful that he would turn around, “You are an instructor. I think you teach Roy...” She recalls having seen the lion in a class led by this man. She waited for it to end, so that she could tell him something afterward.

“What do you think of her flowers? Are they... nice?” 

freedomarrow​:

Leonardo has by now recognized aptly that many of Idunn’s responses much be seen and felt, rather than heard from her lips. But that does not pose much problem; the silent shake of her head in response to his question, and the frown of disapproval at the thought of killing animals to prepare the feast, tell him everything that he would need to know; and that is more than enough for the idea to be abandoned and scrapped on the spot.

The mention of cards and decorating them, however, sparks an interest in her by the looks of it. At her question, Leonardo takes a brief pause, wondering how to explain while hopefully using only words she will understand.

“Dance cards are for balls, especially formal ones. They’re used to write down who you danced with for each music piece during the ball. So you can keep track of your interactions, and of course later they make for a nice memento. They can be very decorative, with ornaments, pictures… some like even to put jewels on them. As for stamp cards…”

He takes a pause to rummage through one of his pockets, producing his stamp card from last year and showing it to her; in shades of brown, with golden edges and flower-shaped ornaments, and a white heron depicted on the left side. On the right, there are spaces for five stamps.

“Nobles would use the Ethereal Ball as a chance to make contacts and connections - but that’s not important to you, right? You hope to make friends, I imagine.” He smiles lightly. “When you interact with someone - dance, chat, eat something together, anything - you can exchange stamps with them. You give them yours, and they give you theirs. If you can collect five, the Academy lets you get certification for a Dancer… But I personally think the friendships are more important.” It is as he says these words that he realizes the clean state of his card kind of contradicts them, and he chuckles sheepishly. “If you’re wondering why mine’s empty… I arrived to Fódlan near the end of last year’s ball, so I just didn’t have the time to participate much.”

His expression is warm as he adds, having not forgotten her last question. “You can give the cards you made to your friends before the ball. I’m sure that if they see you put in the effort and made those just for them, they will smile and appreciate it a lot.”

“Oh! That sounds wonderful...” 

Making new friends and immediately having something precious to give them, what is there to lose? Idunn nods along to Leonardo’s explanation of the Ethereal Ball, gaining a greater understanding of its significance in the process. It’s as she thought: not just a dance, but something much more. A chance to forge bonds, a stage for threads and tangled roots to intertwine. All the fussing about to make sure it is prepared properly is indicative of its ability to create long-lasting memories. Memories that, in Idunn’s mind, may far outlive those who participate with her.

In that way, she can extend the lives of her human friends. When they pass on they won’t be gone, so long as they live inside her heart. Her features ease up, allowing the excitement she feels deep within to finally shine on her face. 

“I would like to make friends, yes,” another nod, “And I think I’ve seen a dancer before...” It was following the collapse of the Dragon Temple. When she was ushered out from its ruins, Demon Dragon sealed and bound away, she briefly encountered one. She had hair the color of the sun and a veil made of silken lilac. Idunn only caught a glimpse, but she was very pretty. The villagers later explained her role as the army’s dancer.

Maybe, if she collects all her stamps, Idunn can be just like that girl...

“Leonardo. Can we decorate the Dance Cards? And the Stamp Cards? I want to give something nice to all my new friends, and see them smile and laugh.” And though she keeps it in a secret compartment in her chest, Idunn hatches a tiny plot: she’ll gift Leonardo a new set of cards for this year. She looks closely at the one in her hands, making note of all the design elements he seems to like. There are flowers and earthy colors, and a great white bird. He must also like birds--maybe they can watch some fly away one day.

But for now, her mind is set on becoming a card-maker. Orthography isn’t a strong suit of one on the cusp of adapting to human customs, but nature--and art--can be replicated regardless of one’s culture. Creating pretty things for people to enjoy is how she’ll give back kindness to the world.

She returns the archer’s belongings, fingers careful not to bend or scuff his card. And then her head begins to turn, scanning the horizon for her objective. Watchful ruby and observant emerald spot a line of students leading to a table, with small objects that resemble Leonardo’s unfinished stamp collection. To its left are a number of wooden bins: some stuffed with glitter, some piled with pens, others a rainbow of dyed paper or shiny trimmings. That must be it. All those supplies are surely there for the purpose of decorating cards.

lycianlynx​:

She meets him at eye-level to take what is offered. The water broils, merrily. It’s not threatening, not like the heat of fire, the kind that consumes house and home and innocence along with it— Because water boils most often when kept safe in pots and pans, in preparation for soups, broths, meats, vegetables. Another promise of warmth and nurturing, the mild threat of careless burns so much more worth the fulfillment it brings.

(But isn’t that just being human, really? Crowding around eachother like porcupines, risking hurt for warmth, trying desperately not to prick. He worried about pricking her, sure; But it looks like he’s just as worried about being stung in turn. She’s tucked away her spines though, all the fire he feared. Or perhaps she’s shucked them off, to fly farther than these wishes, far, far, far…)

Her wish cements it, that warmth, makes sure winter stays away a while longer, giving the soldier a hearth to sit at. Brown eyes follow her in unfiltered surprise, then briefly scrunching shut to shield from the seeds floating their way; Their nose tickles, they think they might sneeze, but it never comes, and they bat the stray bit of fluff off, duck their head bashfully.

“C’mon, you didn’t have to go and do that…” he mumbles— But, oh, he appreciates, twirling his own dandelion gently between his fingers even now.

“But… Thanks. I appreciate it.” Can’t let this kinda stuff go unsaid. His own wish was childish enough— Indulgent, but childish, useless. It makes her wholehearted, earnest support of it all that more embarrassing; But it’s just as good a measure of her, that that’s what she decides to do.

He has her measure, he thinks, for now, for today. It’s… sweet. How else do you say it? It’s sweet. So he lets the warmth stay, puts his hesitance aside to stoke the fire, to help keep it that way, even into fall. His eyes squeeze shut in another wish, half-baked, before his resolve rises though.

Another puff of breath, of wind; Seeds sent a-scattering one more time, near and far. An offering to the earth and sky, an offering…

“And… I guess I wish there’s enough cookies to share.”

… A bit roundabout, like a key left under the doormat with a note, if she wanted to reach.

A hymn of thanks is a song sung to her heart. She cares not that their voice is a little less than angelic, just that the verse of thank you can reach her heaven. Her lips widen, and the crack in her outer mantle splits open to reveal a gaping hole. And light filters through; she laughs, quiet but carefree. Hearing praise and gratitude from a human--that she has made their short life more enjoyable to some degree--sears in her eyes a delicious warmth. 

With no flowers to hold, Idunn is free to fall on the palms of her hands. She lets the full weight of her body rest on them, light tittering pushing her back and pulling her eyes shut. They each had a wish to themselves, and the manakete adores how they reserved them for each other. In the end they’re both getting something they could have wished for, but to give something to another and receive something in return...

That is life. Give, receive; ebb, flow--like foamy waves rolling across bars of sand.

“Chad...” spoken through tiny fits of giggles--a pearl amidst a stream of blown bubbles. “You are always thinking of others, aren’t you? It’s very kind...” Defrosted and with her heart facing the world, Idunn is bathed in Araphen’s gentle care. Everything the orphan does, from handmade pockets to sandwiches with the crusts cut off to seeds set upon the wind, carries with it a fostering feeling. Idunn feels protected by them, and nurtured. She knows it must be hard to look upon the Demon Dragon and see anything resembling a soul--that there are probably loved ones or loved ones of loved ones that they lost to Bern’s black wings, and that Idunn doesn’t remember their names or know their faces. Yet she feels as though Chad has chosen to stare at parts she’s trying to mend--the stitching of golden thread lining her fingers.

A clockwork doll only has so much string to work with, but if Idunn borrows some from others, maybe one day she can sew together something more beautiful for humanity to see.

At any rate, Chad’s fire is enough to power Idunn’s loom. She spins, and spins, and spins--working hurriedly to put helping hands over her war-torn claws, so that she might reach for the thief’s key. 

freedomarrow​:

It has been a long time since Leonardo last attended a ball quite like this. The closest he can think of from after he joined the Dawn Brigade would have been Pelleas’ coronation, and even that was more a ceremony and a feast than a fancy ball for dancing and all this jolly fancy entertainment.

The ones from his old life, meanwhile, were… okay. He does not recall them very happily and willingly, but they were okay.

There is some novelty for sure, however, to be found in helping arrange the occasion, instead of merely taking it for granted as it is already prepared for stuffy nobles to take advantage of. That combined with Leonardo’s natural eagerness to help out with all sorts of tasks has him checking out the bulletin board to see what he could perhaps volunteer for; and it is there that he runs into a familiar face, one that brings a light, warm smile in greeting to his own.

“Idunn. Hello there.”

He nods in response to her observation, then again as she explains the unusual ordeal that she had found herself in. As she does, he can see her entire expression fall, akin to that moment when the last ray of the setting sun disappears behind the horizon, drowning the still warm landscape in cold darkness.

And he realizes quickly that he cannot let that happen.

“Of course. We can definitely do something together. I take it you don’t… have a lot of experience with balls like this?” Though he dislikes making assumptions about people, he must admit this one feels relatively safe, given the confusion he had noticed on her face previously as she was looking at the board. “Let me see…”

With that, he walks over to read for himself. Flower decorations sound like they would fit her well, but surely she has already seen it on the list - there must be a reason why she has decided against it, so he looks at the other options instead. “Kitchen help, well… I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’m a great chef,” he admits openly, a brief, embarrassed chuckle audible through the words. “We could maybe help hunt some game, but I don’t know if you’d want to do that… Maybe you’d enjoy painting the dance cards, and making stamp cards? You can make those pretty decorative and get creative if you like.” He looks at her, waiting for an opinion from her on the idea. “We can also help decorate the ballroom. There will be lamps, garlands and other decorations to arrange and hang up… What do you think? I’m happy to help out with anything you like.”

There are many things the dragon can communicate to the archer with simple bodily motions. A small shake of her head answers his rhetoric question; this ball is as new an experience for her as traveling or studying in a school. A deep frown explains how she is uncomfortable taking another life, and to some extent, preparing its corpse. She understands that things must eat, and for some, the hunt is what keeps them alive. But she doesn’t want to do any killing with her own hands, not anymore. Idunn adores birds and squirrels, is struck with awe at butterflies and all the monastery’s cats--and above all, clutches in bloodstained hands a deep love for humanity. She would sooner reach out in friendship than dig a claw into mortal flesh.

But at the next batch of proposals, she takes to giving serious thought. Each is an item she saw on the grand list of tasks, made easier to digest by hearing them through Leonardo’s filter. Curious eyes stare off into the ground to the blonde’s right. There isn’t anything she looks at, per se, her eyes are just focusing on an arbitrary point in her vision as her mind wanders. Which to do, which to do...? 

“Dance cards... Stamp cards...” Repeated so she might better absorb them into her vocabulary. They didn’t have these sorts of things in Arcadia. People would sometimes gather in small circles and do folk dances around a nighttime fire, but much of the village is old now. They hadn’t the energy to continue for long, so Idunn used to watch them in short spurts with her chin tucked behind her knees. And not one held a card, not one waved a stamp. This ball--with all its intricate little details and fancy formalities--is going to be a completely different world.

Softness returns to her eyes. She’d like to see more.

“What are they? Can I give them to my friends? ...Will they make them smile?” She hitches her breath on Leonardo’s answer. The short descriptors he gave--painting them, decorating them--sound enticing to her. They are the sorts of activities she can do with enough dedication, and she hopes that they can make people happy, too. The gift of giving is one Idunn treasures. She considers a day well-lived if she can help someone smile, a sky beautiful if she can share it with another--a meal satisfying, if it feeds more than one. 

Maybe cards, too, can be a way of spreading joy. Her love for humans and all the precious things they do with their short lives can seldom be communicated with her vocabulary alone. A repertoire of words takes months to build, sometimes years. But effort can be exhausted in any walk of life: in smiling, in picking flowers, in pouring one’s soul into an art or craft. These cards, pending Leonardo’s answer, can be an expression of fondness. 

It is her habit to be among the last awake. It was so in Arcadia, it was so during the long marches with Roy's army, and it remains so at the academy. Igrene finds herself coming to rest in some shared circle or another, as knights and professors streamed off to bed, and tonight is no different as the last of her comrades have filtered away.

She misses her home. Of course she does. She has been away from it before, and for rather more dire reasons, but it is a cloak that she wears in this foreign land.

She contemplates the mug of tea that had been pressed into her hands - ever-present here, and in such abundance of variety - and after a moment, unbidden, she feels from her throat the words to an old Arcadian lullaby. Her voice is deep, and rough from the mountain air, but the words come easily, though they are not a tongue she speaks all that often. It is a song of love, of hope, and of family.

Igrene does not have the time to finish, for she hears the creak of floorboards behind her and she starts, on her feet in an instant.

"Ah," she says, relaxing. "Idunn. Should you not be abed? Come, I will walk with you." And as she comes up beside the dragon, she presses a gentle kiss against a moist cheek.

For every salted tear against her cheek, there is a drop of horror in her eyes. Idunn had been crying. Not the ugly, childlike kind of crying, with reddened cheeks and a sniffling nose and whimpers between a quivered lip. But the empty kind. The kind that drains from her all emotion, where the tears themselves and Idunn's gaping mouth are the only signs of her recent struggle.

"I had a nightmare."

It had been a long time since she dreamed of something unpleasant. Ever since she was sealed by the Binding Blade, her nights have been filled with soft-drifting grace against eyes laid rest. She dreams of happy things. Squirrels run along tree branches, birds sing from their nests--the chorus of nature, complete with sights sounds and feelings, lulls her until the dawn's early light. But not tonight.

No, tonight was a lot like that other dream. With fire and shadow, boots stomping over lush soil and spears carving through hallowed ground. A dream of war, with little Idunn at its center. Only in this one, she played a more active role in the story: directing brigades by her own hand, barking orders from her own mouth. Nobody to tug her string this time. When she woke with a start, she questioned whether she could really do such a thing.

Whether the demon was inside her from the beginning.

And the tears followed, with feet shuffling out of bed and across the monastery not long after. She can't explain with words why she trusts Igrene--she just knows it's a feeling she has. Maybe it's because she has seen more than the dragon has, yet stayed in the village most of her life. Maybe it's her easygoing nature, or the fierce protector that comes out when her people are threatened harm. Whatever it is, Idunn is here now, her hair slightly disheveled and bed unmade. She needs guidance.

Following her answer to Igrene's question, she winces. The kiss--a thing she knows well--doesn't comfort her in the way she had hoped. There is still a longing to right her wrongs lodged in the branches of her heart. It hurts, the way it twists and digs following that nightmare. Sometimes she can ignore it, or learn to grow in ways that won't cut her. But after everything Bern had done to Elibe, it might never go away. It's here now, mocking her for having the makings of a monster.

"I'm sorry..." A hesitant hand tugs at the woman's shoulder, before pulling her close enough for the manakete to latch onto. She needs to feel her warmth against her skin--her heart beat against hers. Without it, Idunn may not be able to remember the kindness shared by humanity.

She finds her steps come lighter, too, no longer sinking through sand as she makes a circuit about the monastery – a habit, one she cannot abandon, to be the sentinel, ever watchful of pilgrims, students, clergy. Their energy is low so early in the morning, and she greets a few with a singular nod before moving on.

No longer surrounded by a glut of arcane energy, Igrene finds that it is easy to pinpoint her charges where they are, as though they are vibrant imprints upon the landscape -

Others, too – perhaps the girls are not so lonely here as I thought.

 - and she finds herself, with her lighter steps than usual, moving down through the monastery, to the warmth of the nursery. It is lush with verdant life and the change in atmosphere sticks against her skin immediately, and as her eyes alight on Idunn, Igrene gives a small smile.

"I see you are acclimating," she says in greeting, making her presence known before approaching, taking a seat on the low wall. "I am glad of it."

The dragon drops her pen, allowing the progress of her schoolwork to come to a halt. It clatters softly against the notebook spread over her lap, with answers scribbled under assigned questions. Some are wrong, some left blank, and a precious few are genuinely, truly correct. But none of them matter now. The Guardian has arrived, and the warm desert wind of home blows at her back.

"Igrene..."

Idunn hadn't met her long ago, yet everyone with Arcadian heritage is considered family. She is part of the few that built her something from nothing. Together they tilled her fields and sowed in her a seed. One day, with enough care and love--warmth and light--it will grow to bear fruit.

Some say the desert is barren: Idunn has found it teeming with life.

She tilts an eager head the woman's way. The tiniest of smiles--lips drawn crooked and eyes lifting a fraction of an inch--shines on her face. It isn't much, but Idunn hopes it's enough. It's progress, more than anything else. It tells the world that her heart is beginning to open up to it--that joy can radiate outwards, after so many years of wearing a sullen frown.

"I've learned a lot." Spoken as a stilted answer to the other's question and nothing more. "I can read and write, and I get along better with humans. I know how to spar now... And kiss."

Perhaps an odd pair of skills, but they are some of her most treasured achievements. They bring smiles to people's faces--laughter to their mouths. She understands their worth as tools for her goal, and keeps them close by for the day humans and dragons can live in harmony.

And that would've been the end of it, had Idunn not remembered perhaps her greatest feat yet. She breaks her statue-stance to dig through the satchel at her side, flipping its flaps and pushing effects around with her fingers until she retrieves a tiny envelope.

(

(the sorrow's mostly embers, nowadays. funny they're doing this for someone who...)

rough squint, gentle hands. they fuss over the tear in her pants and the skinned bit of knee — procuring a little thing of salve from somewhere under their cloak, cleaning and bandaging the scrape.

he doesn't even know if things like this really hurt her — doesn't know if he forgives her fully, doesn't know if she's really aware of what she's done in full. but it's the principle of the whole thing, damn it. he cant ignore someone who's so...

ugh. someone who's so warm, y'know?

so this, too, is a kind of wish, the same way she'd wished on his behalf, pressed featherlight on the skin above the bandage. even if it's not real, even if it doesn't work, the wish is set afloat either way; a wishy-washy prayer of healing. for her, maybe for more than just her knee. (maybe for himself, for where the grief used to char...)

they huff. this is ridiculous. (this is only the human thing to do.)

"there, all better.")

Idunn didn't mean to cause any trouble. She had decided to busy herself with a few tasks to help out some of her fellow students. Fetch a few supplies here, carry a few documents there--simple things, that require not any sort of talent but the hard work and commitment she tries to foster in herself. It was going well, too, until she took a sudden fall. A snag in the road got the better of her, while eyes of ruby and shining emerald were distracted by a crowd of her peers.

They move like fish whenever they're busy. She finds it hard not to be captivated by the lives humans lead.

Lucky for her, Chad was nearby. Chad who taught her wishmaking, who showed her that every one of the world's flowers has a purpose. Some give off lovely scents for her to smell on the way to class, others lend their vibrant colors to dyemakers so they can weave beauty into silk--and dandelion seeds are the hands of heaven, carrying wishes wherever they go.

She winces. She looks like she's about to cry.

Idunn's manakete form is delicate by draconic standards. Chained and alone for centuries, it had ample time for its hide to soften. With nothing to sate her hunger, nothing to replenish her spirit for so long, she had to make accommodations to conserve strength. Miracle it may be that she survived with no intake of energy, she has grown weaker as a result. Factor in the strength it took to hold up the Dragon Temple before she collapsed, and one could understand why pain is a very real sensation to her.

"...Thank you." Muttered just beneath a breath. Hackles raised and scales primed, her body tenses up to their touch, yet her mind and soul know better--that the thief means her no harm. There is an unsure look in their eyes which she isn't ignorant of, but that they press on is proof their hearts are connected. Idunn finds the will to hold firm, to not budge when the cool sensation of their salve stings her open wound. They're already a saint to her, nevermind the fact that she hasn't earned any of her blessings. To trouble them any further wouldn't be fair.

"I wasn't looking. I'll pay attention next time." Said as though reciting a passage of text in class. The dragon peers down at her now-bandaged wound, twisting her ankle to view the entire scar. The blood might've frightened her, if it wasn't a reminder that she has a heart to send it coursing through her body. That she is alive.

The kiss comes next, and her mouth opens wide in reaction. "Chad...!" she nearly wants to shout, asking how they could offer so much kindness. But experiences are proving that this is simply human nature, to walk hand-in-hand. People are like seeds. They aren't born with ugly roots or fetid stems. The darkness in humanity grows in barren soil, away from light and water and care. Need creates struggle, struggle creates anger, anger creates hate. If the world had enough beauty for everyone, then malice would be traded for smiles--sorrow for joy.

(Then the wish of His Highness would have stayed pure. He wasn't a bad person, just a desperate one--with a dagger twisted into his heart by the world.)

So she sighs, and her face shields itself with a dusted pink. She allows Chad's thoughts and actions and hope to touch more than just her skin. The hand that rose up to cover her gasp falls, along with its twin, to lift the thief by the shoulders. "You have a beautiful heart," again, spoken as fact, "...Don't let anything happen to it."

Using what delicate force this form can muster, Idunn pulls them to their feet. With her chin held high and eyes squeezed shut, she returns a kiss to their forehead--mindful not to ruffle their hair. Maybe, had she said these words to the king long ago, things could have been different.

//au; idunn is on the brink of degeneration. features heavy themes, notably body horror