Dragon in the Garden

It's Tariday, Vhast 18 02:21:57 1013. The full moon is up. The tide is high and ebbing.

The night is shrouded in cold bleak mist, dark grey and colorless. The ground is icy and the air wet.

At the heart of the park of the Memorial Gardens, paths converge. Large, marble pedastals support bronze or marble statues, each labeled in signifance by stylized, chiseled lettering. Svarshan walks along one of these paths with a young girl by his side. Tall, blond--and no older than twelve or thirteen, she looks like she could be the cover of Myrrish Nobility Monthly. She carries herself with a grace that he does not--he moves more slowly, and glances at her occasionally.

And she, back.

Neither one of them quite willing to speak just yet.

Around the garden, dusk falls. Workers move silently around, lighting lanterns. Small, balls of light hover in places to add to the ambiance, and a food and drinks merchant prepares to close up shop for the night.

At the heart of the park of the Memorial Gardens, paths converge. Large, marble pedastals support bronze or marble statues, each labeled in signifance by stylized, chiseled lettering. Svarshan walks along one of these paths with a young girl by his side. Tall, blond--and no older than twelve or thirteen, she looks like she could be the cover of Myrrish Nobility Monthly. She carries herself with a grace that he does not--he moves more slowly, and glances at her occasionally.

And she, back.

Neither one of them quite willing to speak just yet.

Around the garden, dusk falls. Workers move silently around, lighting lanterns. Small, balls of light hover in places to add to the ambiance, and a food and drinks merchant prepares to close up shop for the night. (repose)

Tiramen could pass for a statue he is so still. The pale moonlight gives a warmth to his dusky skin which has slowly given up the ghost of its past in favor of something less haunted. Still, statues don't normally wear clothes, so he's likely not a statue. His palms are held out before him and his face is turned upwards in prayer. The mist has set a shimmer to the cloak he wears and water drips from his cheeks and pointed ears.

Scarlet is the hue that colours beneath dark metal, the gleam of silvery bands clasping together upon plate polished to a silent, sacred ebony. Dark scales, thickened by the advance of age, muscle and skin scarred by the passage of time. And old staff at hand, part wood, part blade, the whole set on one of the pedestals of alabaster and marble in the garden. Silent as the creature stands, head bowed.... Somber in his silence, sharing the quiet with the other few in the parklands, breath moving deep.

Waiting, as though he had waited for all of eternity for the moment to arrive.

Svarshan starts to say a thing, and then both look away. They continue down the path in this way for a while. And then at once he stiffens--and lifts his muzzle into the air. And begins to growl, low and quiet.

It breaks the serene silence of the garden beneath the floating lights. But, he's pushed the girl behind him with the practice of old instincts.

Growl? At once, Tiramen moves a hand to his stomach and blinks. No.. it wasn't him. He lowers his attention from the heavens and looks about.. to find a rather large lizardman and his.. charge? That is a confusing enough sight to be sure but at least it explains the growl. "Something amiss?" He calls out through the night in lyrical common.

The grin that breaks that scarlet muzzle is old, but sharp; teeth glitter on the moonlight air before the lithe, lean tail curves, rattles.... Unsubtle in its sharpness, the hiss of four brightly glittering blades of perfect, serrated steel. Like a cobra uncoiling, the armored Makar turns, eyes a glint in evening light.

"It has been.... Long time, Brightscale," comes the voice, rumbling like old stone. Dark eyes like rubies, Zarr turns towards his opposite, a full head taller than the smaller, more powerfully compact lizardfolk. He stares for a long moment, a glance spared towards the elven, refocused in turn. "It... has been, too long. Words... Forgotten. What I would say."

"Dar--!" the noblechild punches this protector in the arm. Her punch goes straight and true--he grunts. Grimaces, as he pulls back. "Scarlet." And then the space of heartbeats. "I thought I scented you. You..." he eases the girl behind him again, and looks to the elf, and finds of him of a similar height. "You...surprised me, that is all."

To say nothing of the axe he now puts away.

"It has been a rough night."

Younger has arrived.

Zarr's grin remains for a moment, the brightness a glitter beneath his gaze. "You still let hatchlings bite you," the larger Makar teases, moving from the shadowy alcove. Torchlight falls behind, and moonlight emerges-- the Scarlet moves unarmed, save for the glittering brightness adoring his tail; four blades, honed to perfection, a joyous glitter of light as he moves to stand before.

"It..." he begins, pausing again to stare. Silent. Long. "Five seasons," he finally says, voice rough. "You.... gone. All, gone. Home... Gone." The grin is gone now, only the eyes, reflecting and old, old pain. "....I... thought you were eaten. Like the Madtooth, who devours all things."

"I.. startled you?" Tiramen quirks a brow and is clearly skeptical of this suggestion. He's unarmed, unarmored, and.. wait.. there's a bowl at his feet that has a copper penny in it. He glances to it and frowns a little before looking to the pair of lizardmen. "Well.. be it as it is. I am sorry for alarming any of you who may have been." He bows his head in apology.

"It has," agrees the girl. She looks like she wants to snap at him--her eyes spark. Her hands clench at her sides, briefly, at the edges of her dress. She smooths the ruffles, instead, and looks up at them. "It /has/, Darshan, and you shouldn't snap at people."

There. She said it.

For a moment, Svar looks flummoxed. And rubs at his chin as he looks at the both of them. "Svarshan, of the Father Dragon. And this--this mouthy hatchling is Ganesa. I apologize for my outburst." At the light argument and banter, he relaxes somewhat--and so does the girlchild. As though it was old and familiar ground, returning from years of absence.

The group of them stand in the Memorial Gardens. Statues silently watch the proceedings, their marble and bronze faces serene in the last moment of their creator's breath. Around the garden, dusk falls and workers move silently, lighting lanterns. Small, balls of light hover in places to add to the ambiance, and a food and drinks merchant prepares to close up shop for the night.

Zarr's grin returns, and he.... Bows towards the young female. Brief, accompanied with a rattle of steel blades, but it is there. "If I said that the Madtooth Between Worlds could not stomach you and sent you back, that the Youngfang might try to bite me too. So." He keeps his eye on the black-scaled Svarshan for a moment, the teakettle hiss of Makar laughter finally emerging from Zarr's lips.

"So. So we are come. I am Zarr, Ironfang, Forgescale.... No longer Lost." He shivers briefly, a ripple of motion flashing from tip to tail, a rumbling thunder accompanying the movement. "Not-Lost," he murmurs, bowing his head with a silent breath.

Tiramen glances from Sith to Sith to little girl then shrugs off the brain hurt. This is Alexandria. Strange things happen. He rises to his feet and brushes his knees with his palms before offering the trio a bow. "Well, if we are introducing ourselves, I am Tiramen. Simply that. I may have been more once but that is not for me to know yet." He offers it all pragmatically. "A humble devotee of Eluna."

"We were taking a walk. ...you..." Svarshan stops, and looks towards Zarr. "You are not the only one adjusting. Bless our Ancestors, that they came back, and may the Memory of Blood guide us both." He exhales quietly, forcefully, he looks down at the pathway's stones a moment in silence before looking back up. ".../We/ changed. ...Eluna was very brave," he says to Tiramen, directly. "Against Taara, she was as brave as the moon is pure and beautiful. I am proud to meet you, Moonsson Tiramen."

Normally, a snort would be the Scarlet's answer to all things divine; for now he simply averts his head, silent before the return of his gaze. "We will speak more," Zarr simply states, stepping back to retrieve the weapon from its place on the marble; the Twinsword gleams duly in the moonlight as he returns, gentle clinks chiming from the tapping of metal along stone. "We should speak more," he says, exhaling heavily. A glance chases off towards city-center; a twitch as eyes catch sight of the distant Gate, farther on.

"Taara has long been an enemy though.. you may speak of things I know not of." Tiramen offers with a glance heavenward. "I have long been a captive of greenskins and only recently made my escape to freedom." He looks between the Makar. "I must admit.. I am curious. I have heard of your kind but never met. You are dragonkin, yes?"

"Walk in the Ancestors," Svarshan wishes Zarr. The blackscale leans back, forming a relaxed tripod of his tail and legs. The young girl beside him looks startled, and then cross.

"He's--"

"She is going to call me grumpy."

"It's because you *are*," the girl says, and tosses her head.

"And you are--" Svar bites his tongue with a slow effort, and looks back. "We are dragonkin, yes. In these last years, our Ancestors came back to us. It...it is something that gives us hope, Moonsson. It is not something we are used to having."

"It is a thing of Makar," the red, Zarr, adds, struggling not to grin. Toothily. "It is something that softskins do not understand..." He pauses, casting Ganesa a glance. "Though I wonder if some softones are not more bitey than others."

Ganesa sticks her tongue out at him.

Tiramen smiles warmly then. "Ahh. Well. I am delighted to have met you both.. and your charge. Though you flatter me with what you call me." He takes a deep breath and seems to sober. "Hope is.. something in short supply in this day and age it would seem. I, myself, am thankful for the blessing of it I have been given. Not so long ago, I had nothing but rags and dirt. Now at least, I have moved up from rags."

"The gods will provide," Svarshan says firmly. The smaller of the sith'makar straightens, and his eyes gleam with conviction. "The Moon is ever-constant in the night's sky. With faith, she guides us," a slow snort, "Though some of us are more Sun-children than others." Sith'makar humor. Heaven save them all.

"I thought it was very nice to meet you," Ganesa says, speaking up. "And I'm...I'm very glad to hear you aren't in rags anymore?"

She looks towards Svarshan, "You should invite Zarr into that home of yours."

He hisses.

"Well, that's what you built it for, isn't it?"

Silence.

A rattle of metal flickers as Zarr's tail shifts, a subtle hiss taking wing from his lungs. "Home..." he rumbles, a breathy, low growl... But his eyes are anywhere but near Svarshan; the Red stares off towards the city proper, quivering briefly before falling still. "... I have been away from... Jungles," he growls, glancing back towards Ganesa. "In memory." He glances up towards Svarshan, a long glance full of silence. "Until I... taste home. It is not good to be near."

His gaze curves towards Tiramen again, studying sharply, slowly, as though searching... "He is not Blackskin," he rumbles, leaning back with a supple whisk of lean tail. "So."

Tiramen can't help but be curious. "Is that a good thing?" He glances to Svarshan, then to Zarr. "If it matters, I am sylvanori.. elvenkin of the wilder lands.. tamed.. of a sort.. against my will. It has been nearly a century since I have wandered any great wood of my people." There's a beat. "Though I did visit the local druid grove. That was very pleasing." A fond memory which draws him to the girl. "And I am glad, too, thank you. Bug infested attire did not sit well with me. Thankfully, a generous passerby enabled me to procure these. Now.. now I will seek a manner of employment that does not rest upon generosity but my own talents."

"Foregescale...one has built a house, in the style of the People and far from the stench of the City. You are welcome to share-with-me so long as you remain peaceful and may do useful work." He looks balefully at the thirteen-year-old softskin. "This one reminds me of my duties."

The young girl raises her chin. And grins. "Duties are unpleasant, /aren't/ they, Darshan?"

"Duties are solemn gifts to us from the gods. Through them, we honor our Ancestors." Firmly. "And if you roll your eyes once more, one will swa--" he bites it, chokes down on the words.

"The child tests me. I apologize. We have...been apart for a number of years, and she is overdue for what you softskins call 'spankings'."

Ganesa's chin yanks upwards in indignation. And she matches him glare for glare, this Myrrish noblesdaughter.

"There are places in the City who would hire you. ...although. Now, they seem in needs of guides through the wilderness."

"It's the farmlands," Ganesa says, speaking up. "Many of them are overgrown. Or there's entire towns lost, and no one knows what happened."

Gleaming eyes curve back towards Ganesa, but Zarr turns away, saying nothing. The rigid posture, the stillness.... Communication on a dozen subtle levels, anger and caution and warning. "Am'Shere," he growls, closing his eyes as nostrils flare, a hungry whisper of breaths. "...first. Then, perhaps Brightscale." Zarr curves his head back, eyes glancing. "For you, the sun rose only yesterday. For me....."

He breathes again, slowly, carefully, heavily. "Long cold," he rumbles. "Long winter. I am cold."

Tiramen looks to Zarr with a silence and compassionate eye. "I feel your pain..Forgescale is it? Forgive me, I know not what to call you. To be separated from your home, that which defines you, creates a void in ones soul that aches to be filled. I hope you find peace some day."

Svarshan thumps his tail on the ground--to call the other's attention before he nods. "May you walk with our Ancestors, and in the warmth of our people." A pause, and in a lower voice, "You should go there soon. /Must/." He breathes out slowly, warmly. Smoke curls from his muzzle as he chews over the next words. "There is a name. We will talk later, and I will give you this name. Your fangs grow too long for use. You must bite or they will break."

And so, he has moved again. Once more, quietly so, he is between Ganesa and the redscale.

Zarr turns towards the elf, brought up short. He grunts, noncommitally.... Then nods, a gruff acknowledgement. He glances towards Svarshan again, vibrating once.... Another nod.

And then a rush of movement, sudden metal, a flash. Motion, into the shadows, away from moon and torch. Away towards the city, the beating heart. The Gate.

Zarr has disconnected.

Tiramen looks to the rapidly departing Zarr. "I suppose if he hadn't liked what I said he'd have tried to take a chunk out of me.. so I'll take that as a positive response." There's a glance to Svarshan and the girl. "Feel free to correct me. I'm not exactly up on the moods of dragons. Orcs and goblins? Them I've had plenty of experience with."

Ganesa is staring at Svar as though he's grown a second head. He looks at her with a sort of sad wryness of old friendships, and--change.

"It was never easy. Being what you wanted me to be."

"It wasn't ME!" she snaps, and reaches down to smooth her dress. She turns to look at Tiramen with too-bright eyes. "I'm sorry," she says, and drops a brief curtsey. "But I should probably go home now."

Svarshan rubs at his jaw, and nods once--in the softskin style--towards Tiramen. "The City is overwhelming, and it leaves us short-tempered. We're temperamental, and protective. ...but Zarr's temper is worse than most." He looks down at the girl. "Do you really need to go home?"

"Yes." Her eyes are too-bright.

Tiramen looks between the pair. "Ahh. Well. Don't let me keep either of you. It was nice to meet you both as I said. Friendly faces in this town are not terribly common. Mostly, I get ignored." He's used to it. In fact, he looks back to his dry patch of dirt and sits back down before the mist has a chance to soak it and he ends up with a damp butt.

"Then we will go home."

Her bright eyes narrow. "On Srassha?"

Pause. "We will go on Srassha," as though a great concession has been made. Svarshan looks wryly to Tiramen. "It was good to meet you, Moonsson. May you walk in the Peace of the Father Dragon until we meet again. And may your faith draw you closer to the Silver One." And to the girl, "Come on. I will take you home, now."

The two of them head down the path, and towards one of the shadowed walks. A large, two-legged creature waits just outside of it. It bends downwards, sniffing at the girl as they near.