Tygiri's Brood

Tygiri had never felt the need to bond, or acquire a mate. It was not her style. She had been an elf for two hundred and thirty years, and never found either in that life. After the Shifting, she had adjusted to life as a dragon of a different sort.

She had been a healer, once. It was why she had been with Efellai and Alakamarth when the dragoness had prayed, and been answered. Tygiri had pledged that she would do anything to save the dragons of Lao Daemia.

The quiet elf-woman had not expected to be the model after which all new dragons were to be based. She was not ready to survive the plague as a dragon.

Alakamarth had been an elf, too, but Alakamarth was in the Lady's favor. They were friends, and more than friends. He was unbonded, but Tygiri wondered how long it would last. Alakamarth was a sociable sort, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

Tygiri had adapted, but she had never felt a bond with other dragons. She had no 'clutchmates' but Alakamarth, who basically ignored her. Nobody else was a core dragon, the first of the first, someone transmuted from their original pattern and placed in a draconic body. There was no one who understood.

Tygiri, the bold, brash, proud tawny-skinned Tygiri, was lonely.

There were other lonely dragons out there...

It had all started with Ceruklaret. The big burgundy-winged pale blue had simply shown up, shivering and cold, to deliver congratulations to the Theleond for the opening of Moire. But…he had never gone home. The young dragon had simply stayed, citing a difference of opinion with the Powers that Be at home, and he had started to get into mischief. It had been only natural for Tygiri to take charge. At that point, she had had very little else to do. She had been leading Eglado’s Hand at the time, but there had been a scant handful of dragons and riders to coordinate. And they had all had riders, then. There was no sense in her interfering in their dynamic. Everyone had been autonomous…except for this half-grown parti-colored creature. He was very much alone, just like Tygiri.

She had taken him in hand. He grew up by fits and starts, but she thought that he was very much grown-up now. He still treated her like a mother—afraid of her, respectful of her, and scornful of her all at one. She thought he wasn’t a bad specimen, all the same. He had become a big, brawny blue with dramatically colored burgundy wings. With the taste for rare blood nowadays, this no doubt helped him win what flights he chose.

Tygiri still thought that flights were barbaric to a certain extent, but she was not in charge. Ceruklaret was obviously of another opinion. Most of her charges were. Ceruk had never really grown out of his initial awkwardness, but he did have more than standard amounts of determination and stamina. He was also entirely willing to put himself through hell to get what he wanted. Unlike some of the abandoned dragons that she had taken care of later, he had a strong sense of self. He also had an almighty temper—something that she had never taught him, despite claims to the contrary by the rest of her charges. All of the younger dragons seemed to think that she was some sort of ogre.

She sighed, spreading her wings a little wider for the sun. That had been many years ago, before this had become a sort of reverse vocation. She had not been called, but someone to handle the job was needed, and Tygiri…needed to be needed.

They had all needed her, the unbonded. They seemed to pull the caring right out of her. But now…she was not sure that she was ready to handle what she saw coming.

Before, everyone had been young, coming to her. Young, malleable, mostly-innocent dragons from her own back yard had been first—Ravigh’aelo, Siroc, Elaphe-Taeniura and Parangalan. Some were from worlds so strange she had never even visited them. She had been wary of taking on one of her early charges, Derfegroeg, simply because she had no idea what would happen to him, if he would self-destruct or be destroyed by one half or the other of his heritage. The Hathians hated hydras, the hydras hated Hathians. It was as simple as that. How Derfegroeg had ever come about, she didn’t know. But she felt all the more inclined to take care of the confused “hathdra”.

She was not sure if tenderness had been a wise decision. Derfegroeg had turned out all right, if just as conflicted as she could have imagined, but he also had gone and created more confused offspring. Offspring that had not grown up inside her care. Offspring that had nevertheless come back to Moire.

The Wylds, that was where her trouble had started. Oh, some of the dragons she had ‘mothered’ over the years had grown up to be people that she did not entirely approve of—schemers and dark-natured creatures. Still, they have never challenged her outright. Then came the Wylds, brought back to Moire by force and coercion, largely the children of Tygiri’s ever-growing ‘brood’. They were already patterned, grown, their minds set. They did not need a caregiver or a mother. Sometimes they allowed her to be a friend, but that was all. She longed for the sheer mass of Kshantreath—the largest dragon, perhaps, to ever hatch on Lao Daemia—or the impressive powers of dragons like Shekaiolia or Corvethis. But she was just a normal Moirean, as far as size and power went. Compared to some of these fearsome mixes, she was…nothing.

Then, as if the situation had needed worsening, another vulpigon had shown up, a creature like Erro and Falch. But instead of being a young, fun-loving, clothes-wearing mischief-maker, this was Baelisaith. Tygiri knew that behind those enormous red eyes was a malevolence that even the hydra-mixes and the Beasts from Arx Artra Mons could not match. She had her suspicions that Bael had strange powers too… In any case, the unbondeds had begun to polarize, one group staying with Tygiri, the other drawing in around the black vulpigon. Tygiri had a feeling that these others might do more than merely ignore her once they finished cementing their group together. They made her afraid, these powerful dragons. She had not been afraid in a long time.

And now there was a new craziness, the addition of a vast number of dragons and riders who had defected from Alabaster and Blackstone. Thirty-nine new faces! Where they were going to fit them in the Hands, she didn’t know. More importantly, that brought the number of humanoid-bonded dragons far above the number of unbonded or dragon-bonded dragons. It made her whole operation less important to the Ytiam, and made her concerns that of a minority. Efellai was away, in any case, as was Alakamarth (the randy creature), and Csuverath Caelumpictor, who had such a skill with diplomacy and leadership that it was no wonder Efellai had nearly adopted the girl, was away too, all at the Victory Dance. It was all very well, Tygiri thought sourly, but that left Kazya to deal with things, and Kazya was not diplomatic. She was very nearly a terrorist, as far as Tygiri was concerned. Tygiri’s opinion of Tilimeth was not much better. Oh, she had a gift for commanding, but the commands were not always well-thought-out, and she was a very moody example of an Old World queen.

Wait, on second thought, /they/ were at the Victory Dance too.

Tygiri no longer wielded even a Hand at her disposal, assuming that all of them would be behind here. She had given up being Coronal, and settled for playing khayil instead—a Talon had been enough to organize, with all of her other duties. Korim was a good leader, but she had also been unavailable of late, thanks to ending up pregnant from one of Califath’s flights. Charm was an adorable little girl, but her presence required Korim to devote her time to being Mommy, not Coronal, until Charm grew up a little. And…both Califath and his rider had gone to the Victory Dance as well.

The tawny dragoness sighed again and rose to stretch. It was a long, drawn-out affair, not a mere cat-stretch but a true muscle warm-up. “I don’t blame them for wanting to celebrate,” she muttered, “but I do wish half the Ytiam wouldn’t leave at the same time.” She felt…old. “I don’t even know if I am old. What’s old for an elf turned into a new species of dragon? How long will I live? The gods should have given us manuals…” They probably would have told her to continue the species, she thought sourly. With Alakamarth, if they were feeling particularly irritable. She hoped that that was not what they intended, that Alakamarth’s sowing-of-wild-oats among other draconic species and the other species’ children who now resembled Moireans was enough.

“Are you all right?” said a soft, hesitant voice. Tygiri smiled as much as she could in this form—she would never be able to adjust to the lack of facial expressions available to her—and turned to face the other dragon. Now this was a Wyld she had never had any problems with. Inel was a beautiful dragoness, starry-colored with a double set of rainbowy wings, and she was as gentle and beautiful within as her coloring. She was Parangalan’s daughter with Ortaikimolth, a Danachan trio-wing—and Tygiri thought that she must have resembled her father. She certainly didn’t get her personality or coloration from Anga, that’s for sure. Inel liked children….

A thought came to her, and she frowned. “Yes, I’m all right. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Victory Dance?”

“Sakryth can take care of the eggs for a few minutes,” Inel said calmly, but she did look a bit guilty. “No one else could really be bothered, but I thought I’d tell you—I heard that there were three abandonlings at Darkling Dawn, quite young ones. I went to the hatching and was fairly impressed by them; they are beautiful and rare, which means that they are unlikely to get on well at a very traditional place. You are the best with the unbonded that I know. I think….I think that you could really help some of the abandoned, too. You aren’t a biped, you aren’t asking for a bond…and you could be giving them an entire community of independent dragons for them to grow up in.” She watched the expressions come and go on Tygiri’s face. “I will be glad to help with them as well,” she said softly. “I know you have a lot to do. But I don’t want them to feel out of place their whole lives, whether it’s with some new biped they choose to bond, or in a Wyld group like I was…or even as bitter as Tanimoth is over here.” She shivered, her eyes troubled. “Please, Tygiri.”

“I’m not a complete ogre,” Tygiri said gruffly, bending her neck and sighing. “I do care…if I can count on your help, Inel, we will see if this can be the first of many.”

Inel smiled as radiantly as only Inel could. “Thank you. Here is the place,” and the image of Darkling Dawn flashed into Tygiri’s head, “and I really must go, my eggs…”

In seconds, the starry Wyld was gone. “Flitty young things,” Tygiri sighed, but her mind was working. They had more or less allowed their unbondeds to find them, previously. But what if she started a search of her own? Shaking her head thoughtfully, Tygiri took off for the Records Room and the paperwork she would need.

By the time she got to Darkling Dawn, however, one had been taken and one had been shown such interest in that the biped she talked to did not think that he would remain abandoned. But there was still one lonely dragon left…

“Ghurlien,” the man nodded. He peered up at her. “So where’s your rider?”

“I don’t have a rider,” she said patiently. “That’s part of why I am interested in Ghurlien’s case. I am in charge of the unbonded dragons at Moire. Between unbonded and dragonbonded dragons, we have a community of roughly seventy individuals there.”

“Um, right, sorry. I just haven’t seen that many draconic caretakers. We have unbondeds here, but they all leave…dunno why they don’t want to stay, but they don’t. That sounds good, Lady—“

“Tygiri,” she said, amused. “But it’s Khayil, not lady.”

“Right. Anyway, sounds good, should be a nice atmosphere for young Ghurlien, but you’ll have to see if he’s willing. He’s a good one…never got bitter, not too depressed. Resilient, I call it. We haven’t had an abandoning in a long while…hate to see it happen. I’ll just go get him, shall I?”

“Please,” Tygiri said solemnly, and she smiled her toothiest smile.

But she was too late. Irritably, the stripy dragoness stared at the empty den. Well, I guess they didn’t need my help after all, she thought, but she was hurt. She had wanted to give, and there was no one to receive, not here.

Tail lashing, she dictated to another biped who was in charge of hatching-based paperwork, telling her that Moire would be happy to accept another three unbonded. Three unbonded, to take the space of three abandoned...

Taking off from one of the wide-open spaces set aside for that purpose, she did a couple laps, trying to work off her disappointment. I should be happy for them. I should be... With a sigh, she focused on the dark towers of Moire, and walked the shadows, her mind whirling.

Where she came out, however, was not right. Tygiri gasped as a wall of cold seemed to break against her face. She flapped desperately, trying to stay level when her eyes were tearing up so badly she couldn’t see the horizon.

When her eyes finally stopped streaming and she could take a look around, Tygiri nearly dropped out of the sky again. This was Moire, but a Moire bound in ice, a Moire whose cliffs were butted against not sea, but glacier. The spires, towers, and arches glittered with icicles, a giant’s ornament against the white velvet of the snow.

It seldom snowed more than a few inches at Moire, due to the seaside location, and that snow came only once a year or so. Tygiri stared as she circled. The snow was blocking some of the dragon-size ground entrances. She had never seen so much whiteness in her life.

But as she made her third lap, she realized something else. That whiteness, something that stretched as far as the eye could see, was unbroken. No footprints, no wing scrapes, no shoveled paths.

If she had still possessed hair, it would have risen on the back of her neck. This was a finished Moire—there were no scaffoldings, and every sleek black curve was finished, glistening with its water-patterned stone and shell. She knew that they had never had a winter like this. She had been at Moire before there had been any towers. Which meant that…

This is the future. Gods, what happened to cause it? I can’t let this come to pass….

She tried to shadow walk again, but the cold made it hard to concentrate, and the image of this new Moire kept intruding on her memories of the old. Exhausted, she finally spiraled down to the earth, sinking into the snow at the precipice of the cliff. She couldn’t sustain flight too long, not with her sweat freezing on her wings. She was so tired…. There seemed to be a buzzing in her bones as she sank half her height into the snow before it finally packed hard enough to take her weight. She tried to walk forward, but there seemed to be no footing for her. The long bones of her legs ached as she pulled them free. Her head spun.

Why is this cold so bad? It makes me feel so sick…but I’ve been in snow before. It didn’t make me feel like this. Is it the time-travel? She trampled on, marring the whiteness of the snow. A phrase caught her mind, something that one of the girls from the Old World said. I feel like someone is walking on my grave…

At last, the colors began to shift, the black and white harshness of this sterile future stained with brighter hues, the ice forming on her wings melting. She thought she might be melting too. Shadow walking had never been this hard….

At last, the familiar black towers rose before her eyes, and it was summer again, and dragon voices made the air hum in a warm, familiar way. The buzzing seemed to have vanished. Tygiri flew up to her tower room, feeling her bones creak as she did so. She was so tired…. Like an old, old dragon, she made her way to her bed.

Tygiri slept. After a few hours, she began to dream.

She dreamed of the whiteness trying to swallow Moire, the featureless sparkling white. But there, on the precipice, there were scuff marks where she had been. She had a bird’s eye view; she was flying. But there was more than the greyness that were shadows in the snow. There was black, ash-gray, and scarlet—no whiteness. She stared, and the view drew closer. The clifftop there was bare stone, scorched black.

There was a dragon on the stone. Half-burnt, with its long graceful limbs shattered, its striped hide peeling away, it looked as though it had crashed into the stone when already dead or dying. Blood was splashed on the ground, but very little of it. The body was half ash, scorched dry.

Tygiri swallowed, and her bones took up the buzzing again. Her eyes watered with it, her muscles quivered. It was a Moire dragon, its long fair wings crumpled, bones showing through. One wing had been touched by fire, but the other had escaped it. Why is there no one to mourn? Where is everyone else?

The flesh of the sail was tinted a peachy tan, the spars thickly striped with brown. Horror wormed its way into the back of her mind. No Moire dragon had yet been hatched that was brown-colored with wide spar-stripes like that. Almost none had spar stripes at all….

But as she downstroked, the tips of her own wings caught her eye. The brown-striped tips of her own wings….

With a jolt, she woke up, cold sweat covering her body. The dragoness just lay there for a moment, shivering uncontrollably. It was just a dream, she told herself, but she remembered the precision of the feelings in it, the sharpness, and she wondered. Did I witness my own death? Gods, I don’t want to die that way…

She sighed and buried herself deeper in her bed. Buried… After a while, she drifted into a half-sleep. But whiteness began to form behind her eyelids, whiteness and blackness and a charred dragon’s corpse…

Tygiri woke with a half-shriek and bolted out of her room, launching bedding in all directions as she flung herself onto the back of the wind. Why burning? Everything was cold in what I saw the first time…there was no one there! Why did it have to be burning? Her thoughts spun as she landed on an isolated beach. Was I even there the first time, or was that another dream?

She tore the sand between her talons, staring down at the tidepools without really seeing them until motion caught her eyes. All the pools had been dark, but now they shone softly. Their surfaces shifted simultaneously, as though she were looking in a kaleidoscope.

“Gods,” she said involuntarily, and the pools shimmered violently in response. “What’s happening?”

Individual pictures began to form, the same topic for the same instant, but a different view from every pool. A child. A man. Snowflakes. The iced-over Moire. Silhouettes—a rider and dragon, two dragons, two dragons and a biped, repeated several times, the sequence speeding up. Fire…all-consuming fire, fire with eyes formed in it, fire forming wings—and then the vision of Moire again.

“How can I—“ she began, and the pictures rippled again to show her. But they showed her as a child, as an adolescent, as an adult elf, as a newly-made dragon…and then the visions of fire and ice. Slowly, a new picture formed. Her image, than a place she recognized—Ryslen. Her. Ryslen. Snow. Ryslen. Snow. Her.

Her toes dug deeper into the ground as she ground her teeth. “Don’t go to Ryslen or it will snow? Go to Ryslen and it will help the snow? What?”

The images jittered, seemingly as agitated as she was. Then they drew back to show the outside of Ryslen—also covered in snow.

“It snows at Ryslen every year!”

Her image appeared in the snow at Ryslen, and the pools blazed with light.

“I need to be at the Flurry.”

The pools flashed brighter than lightning, and then went out.

“Right. Flurry. I’m usually there anyway,” Tygiri said to herself, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to get her night vision back. She shivered as the wind picked up, although the breeze was warm. “But who is sending me, and why?”

Visions, why me?

Tygiri is Standing at the Flurry at Nidus Ryslen

The tiny dragon kit made a soft, drowsy sound and cuddled closer to Tygiri’s chest. Awed, the striped dragoness held her close. She had never had the opportunity to assist any of the furry species of dragons, never mind a shifter. Dragonets were usually quite lucid when they hatched, but this little kit didn’t necessarily have bonding on her mind, and she was as sweet as any elven child…. She was glad that this dragon-child had been laid in her arms.

“Tifaya Promontores,” Tygiri murmured, and blue eyes flickered open for a moment, drowsily. “That is quite a name for you, little girl.”

Tifaya tucked her head down between her forelimb and Tygiri, and she slept.

Name: Tifaya Promontores

Gender: Female

Breed: Askan/Hathian/Piralan/Gryvern/Lesser Kynnese/Schatternaki/Geperna/Whorling/Featherdragon/Old World/Danachian/SCD/Iullerbrillan Mutt

Colour: Dark Red (With black boots)

Size: Medium (14' tall, 33' long)

Abilities: Full Shifting (Human), Verbal Speech, Functional Magic

Basic Personality: Sensitive, Clever, Confident

Tifaya is from The Black, White, and Red All Over Giveaway.

Tygiri thought her heart would burst with the joy of it when Cheritha's mind bonded to hers. (more to come)

Cheritha the Flurry White is the daughter of Himala and Kerilleth.

These are the unbonded, abandoned, and dragon-bonded that Tygiri has taken care of.

Burgundy-winged pale blue male Ceruklaret from Calyeni Caverns

Ceruklaret is a big, brawny pale blue with dramatic burgundy wings. He isn’t exactly graceful, but he makes up for it in determination, stamina, and a willingness to put himself out to get what he’s after. Temperament-wise, he’s not nearly as stolid as he appears. He does have a strong sense of self, an almighty temper, and a rather short attention span. He can be very affectionate to those he considers his friends or those he wishes to impress. Strangers are treated with suspicion and even hostility.

Ceruklaret flew white Hathian Yshula at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Special marked silver-gray-white female Astrylleiad (checking origen)

Astrylleiad is a tiny dragon, about draft-horse size. Her coloration is unusual, with symmetrical stripes and markings on a hide shading everywhere from black to gray to silver. She doesn’t think that she’s a beauty, but most males would disagree. She has very little self-confidence, and is easily crushed by careless remarks. Her strengths are her intelligence, her common sense, her flexibility and her speed. She’s one of the most maneuverable dragons to date, her long legs acting as a keel for her energetic flight. Astrylleiad hates loud noises and unpleasantness. She is shy around other dragons, and hesitant to socialize at all.

Astrylleiad was flown by the wyld white Spirit of the Destroyer at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Rust-marked white-winged red chrome male Derfegroeg from the Dragon Soul

Derfegroeg is an entirely bizarre specimen, two-headed, two-tailed, glider-winged, and seemingly disproportionate. He’s rust-red as a base color, with an odd shininess to his body that’s off-putting with that particular hue. His wings are white, flecked and scored with a matte version of his body-color. The odd hydragon is enormous overall, the size of a large old-world bronze, but low at the shoulder, something that irritates him.

In personality, Derfe is just as disturbing. He is extremely intelligent, crafty and canny to the end, but he doesn’t necessarily have a lot of common sense. He has a depressive personality, and a cynical outlook on life that doesn’t endear him to his adoptive siblings. He does argue with himself--having two heads will do that to you--but the argument is usually how to best mess things up. Derfegroeg is decidedly nasty-minded, probably from his hydra ancestry, and doesn’t appreciate kindness, charity, or optimism.

Derfegroeg flew the wyld black Twisted Soulfire at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Ocean metallic male Ravigh'aelo from Moire Protectorate

Ravigh’aelo is an elegant dragon, well-proportioned in the Moire manner and rather dashing. Silver and blue metallic patterns are subtly eye-catching, as is his usual springy posture. He’s about the size of a regular old-world brown. As with Ceruklaret, however, appearances can be deceiving. Dapper he may be, but Vaelo is a quiet and courteous sort. He brooks no excuses, but he also doesn’t invite trouble, or attention. His looks are due entirely to a human, and he’s rather ashamed of being quite that…pretty. He’s also a bit reticent around the opposite sex.

Ravigh'aelo flew green-gold Hathian Oilan'ha at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Byzantium yellow-black male Siroc from Moire Protectorate

Siroc is a large, broad-winged, bizarrely colored dragon. He actually hurts to look at. Swirled yellow and black in circles and spirals makes any movement of his painful to watch. He doesn’t appear to mind it terribly much. If ever there was a stiff-necked, arrogant male, Siroc is it. He has total self-confidence, which he lets show to an annoying extent. He’s strong, stubborn, resilient, and cynical, a realist to the end. His strength is extended flight, and flights or fights including several other dragons, due to his coloration and rather bloodthirsty nature. He’s as logical and as aggravating as any Vulcan, and has a coolness that borders on cruelty.

Siroc flew wyld red Fire in her Throat at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Tan-and-black striped-striped white-gray Elaphe-Taeniura from Moire Protectorate

Elaphe-Taeniura is small for a dragon, about the size of an elephant if one doesn't include wings. She is sleekly serpentine, and as subtle as her coloring. She is unusually graceful, and one of the most beautiful of Moire dragons. She is extremely loyal, close-mouthed, and rather secretive, but not very active. Her movements are snake-swift, but she doesn't actually /move/ that often. She loves the sun, intrigue, politics, and anything of a challenging nature. Indeed, Taeni has an almost reckless disregard for life and limb when she is 'challenged'. She appreciates a sharp mind and ready wit, and will brook no halfwitted suitors. Blind passion does not impress her; devotion, cunning, and artifice do.

Elaphe-Taeniura was flown by wyld white Distorted Mindsight at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!

Chocolate red heavy dun clay-mottled rose marble Parangalan from Moire Protectorate

Parangalan is around the size of a normal green. She is no smooth politician; indeed, Parangalan is rather prickly, if entirely vivid and /alive/. She moves with a brisk efficiency that can often turn into clumsiness. Parangalan has never been easy with her size. If she does move like a bull in a china shop, that flaw is countered by her unnatural zeal and matchless determination. She may be mercurial, but Parangalan pours herself into everything she does with energy and fire.

Parangalan was flown by rainbow blue triowing Ortaikimolth at the Wyld Whirl on Mythicalae!