#frlore

They’ve been duped, they’ve been tricked, and quite possibly bamboozled!

- some of my dragons had their home burnt down by a fire

-they all sruggled through the forest for a good while

-the four horsemen of the apocalypse offered “help” to the dragons

-the dragons didnt have much choice but to accept cause if they didnt they would die

-the food they were fed was cursed

-the curse meant they were forced to travel as a circus

- as the circus traveled they left a subtle trail of starvation, war, death and sickness

-the circus was basically alive and continuously grew    sometimes random tents would pop up on the circus land and they all just had to roll with it

-more dragons were cursed 

-they were cursed two ways

-first sometimes they would just get a strong undeniable urge to join the circus

-second sometimes they ate food from the “central fire”  (the same fire as from the start) and got cursed

Remember this old man? I finally have lore for him.

Hephaistion flinched and grit his teeth as Bisera's deft fingers worked more of the burning, fowl-smelling ointment into his latest wound. He'd think she made them particularly onerous in a silent expression of her disapproval of his trade, if it weren't for the unmatched gentility of her hands against his broken flesh. The healer habitually wore a fixed expression of professional distaste as she worked. As she considers the freshly-dressed wound, she clicks her tongue in irritation, fixing her charge with a stern blue-eyed glare. "It's killing you." Hephaistion didn't manage to stop his eyes from rolling before she caught him in the act, and her own all but sparked as she narrowed them. "It's all very well if you hold your own life in such low regard, but you eat through my stores like nothing else. These remedies are not cheap nor easy to make." This last was said with a sharp, irritable jab in the direction of her herb racks. The wealth of a healer: jars of powders and dried herbs; ointments; boughs and bundles hanging from every spare bit of roof. He follows the movement of her hand, but says nothing for a long while. "I can treat myself." He finds he does not want to meet her eyes, and with his free hand busies himself, tightening a strap on his boot. This elicits a scoff from the healer, who rises and crosses the small room to the hearth, ladling freshly boiled tea from the black iron kettle. "Fie, you old fool. Pain in my hide though you surely are, I will not abandon you to such an ill fate yet." Hephaistion starts from his feigned disinterest when a mug of brew is shoved under his nose; to his surprise it smells fragrant and delicious. He looks up at her, eyebrow quirked. "Peppermint," she explains. "To keep you here for talk." Her lips are pursed, but he knows her well enough to see the smile hidden beneath her stern look. Grateful, he takes a long swallow from the mug, letting the seating hot drink slide down his throat and settle satisfyingly in his stomach before he speaks. "There are more with every waxing and waning of the moon, Bisera. And only one of me. I can not stop, not if I care to keep this place safe." She sighs and is silent, considering the steam rising from her own drink. "I know. The signs are everywhere, to those of us who know where to look. But the shade, the curse..." She trails off and sips her tea. "They are too much for even you." He has nothing to say to that; he wore wraps over his tail to hide the rot that creeped across his flesh, and he felt it even now: the squirming tendrils of shade that sought always to worm their way into his heart. Bisera had been the one to wrap his hand when the dark magic had seared the flesh away, exposed his white bone to the air. They both eyed his glove now. 

The silence in the room is heavier than the scent of peppermint rising from their cups. "And yet there is no other who could last half as long," Hephaistion reminded her, his deep voice soft in the quiet herb-filled cavern. He looks up at her, his eyes yet clear, and his own. "You know this." With a last drink of the tea, he rises, stubbornly refusing to let how his wounds pained him show on his face. "You have your herbs, and I have my own talents. With you by my side, I will fight the darkness until the work is done." There is a depth of emotion in her eyes as she watches him go, one that neither one of them dared give name to. He is better at hiding it, but he feels it no less than she. He resists the urge to touch her cheek before he leaves, instead giving her a nod and the shadow of a smile. "I look forward to my next wounding, Bisera, as always." "You could always come for tea." His teeth gleam whitely as he grins at her. "Perhaps." With that he leaves, and they both know what will bring him back.

Joyous Flight From a land of sun bright cliffs, of sun-bleached, ancient monoliths, the heavy heart which my chest holds, has burst with treasures seen and sold. Lanterns held upon the past, naught but bones and relics cast, Knowledge gained is but a tool, While wisdom's light reforms the fool.

Once again, Aleru finds herself glaring at a yellowed sheaf of parchment by guttering candlelight. Why her boy had stopped replacing the candles in a timely matter she didn’t know, and she didn’t care to ask. If he was more concerned with his tinctures and potions than earning reliable coin, that wasn’t her problem. 

She ignores the candle’s pathetic guttering, and rereads the missive.

Regret to inform you of the cessation of our compact. This should not come as a surprise, as your hunters have been targeting caravans and ships within our territory. We do not live in such fear of you that we will allow such insults to stand. Dragons of Windfall and Kismet will be attacked on sight, and if captured, put to trial and execution for their crimes against our state, and others. 

Naturally, you also understand that we will not purchase another ounce of your ill-gotten cargo. 

Cooly, Aleru rises from her high-backed seat, heavy chair legs scraping noisily against the cold flagstone. She grabs her mantle before she leaves, her breath swirling visibly as she extinguishes the reluctant candle she’d read by. It was too cold in this fucking place. 

As she storms down to the docks, her slight form bright and colourful amongst the browns and reds of the tanned, work-soiled bodies of the clan’s sailors, the denizens of Windfall afford her a wide berth. Eyes and quiet follow her as she cuts directly toward Windfall’s most deadly ship; the trade boss’ presence at the docks was unusual, and never heralded well for whomever she’d sought to accost. 

Khaegris lounged on the quarterdeck of the Defiant as she often did, the smooth, soft sound of a whetstone against her blade rhythmic and audible even before Aleru hauled herself aboard the pirate vessel. 

The wildclaw doesn’t look up from her work, though a green eye turns to the younger woman for a moment before returning to the inspection of her bright and shining blade. “You again.” The pirate’s voice is deep and rich, unhurried as the tide. She still bears a slight accent from her birthplace, her words drawled. 

Aleru’s lip curls, revealing tidy white teeth. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at.” She stands directly in front of the captain, hands on her hips, looming over the powerfully built elder woman as best she can. 

The whetstone continues to whisper along the length of the blade. Twice, thrice more before it stops, and Khaegris’ scarred and weathered face turns upward. A tongue runs over fangs behind closed lips which yet bear the slightest hint of a smirk. “No?” 

Nostrils flare as the merchant queen of the pirate isles struggles to restrain herself. “Attacking our fucking allies, you belligerent shit.” Aleru takes a deep breath - she had never had a great handle on her temper, and she knew it. She can feel her eyelid twitching. 

The captain, damn her, barely moves, though perhaps her smirk becomes a little more pronounced, a scarred eyebrow twitching as she thinks. “That caravan was moving sixteen crates of Everbloom Port.” She smirks, sheathing her blade as she stands, deliberately turning the tables as she remains too close, now towering over Aleru. “I was thirsty, and so were my crew.” She snorts as she turns her back, making her way into the Defiant’s grand cabin. “You know how much that swill is worth in southern markets. A fucking shitload.” 

Aleru seethes in silence as she watches Khaegris’ retreating back. The captain still did not respect her as an equal; this was painfully clear. 

The door begins to shut, the wildclaw drawling something about being busy, something about having courses to chart and ships to hunt. And something snaps within the spiral. She bursts forward, a delicately manicured hand slamming against the closing wood, forcing the woman on the other side to stumble backward with her force.