Woodenheart hmphed at the sight before him. "Really," he muttered, "this is no state to leave something in."

The record of his new clan were absolutely abysmal. They were still primarily operating on oral history, it was true, but that was no excuse for their complete library of records to be a collection of prophecy, a few scrolls of contract, and a truly tiny pile of trade receipts.

Well. He would just have to fix it himself, now that he was here. First order of business: an interview with the Progenitors. Or perhaps the Coatl with the crown he'd heard someone refer to as Prince. Or possibly the prophets. Or maybe it was best to start with the sailors, or the off-putting undead...

He sighed. So much to do.

At least it would get done now.

Shadestar had always been a deeply empathetic dragon. As a Skydancer, his ability to read emotions had influenced that - and he had always been a bit too good at that, often allowing them to dictate his own entirely.

This turned out to be very, very bad for him when the nightmare plague struck.

He was no longer simply overly empathetic then. Then, he started absorbing the nightmares of other members of his clan - granting them peace and respite, yes, and keeping the clan in one piece until true help arrived, but at the cost of much of his mental - and some of his physical - health.

Shadestar is mute, now, and his eyes are cold and distant. Black cracks thread their way across his body; on frigid winter nights, they leak droplets of magic and dreamstuff, which soak into the soil and would spread the plague afresh if not for the efforts of his mate. Every now and again, he wonders if he bleeds that same substance. It takes effort, sometimes, not to find out.

Godarya lit the last tealight and sighed, watching it bob for a moment in the bowl of viscous black dreamstuff. The new moon was a good time for her sort of magic - the less-than-pleasant sort. And there was little less pleasant than the nightmare plague.

She rested herself on the floor and closed her eyes, breathing in to gather the magic in her lungs, thick and heavy and stinking of blood and fear-sweat. War nightmares, it seemed. All the better for cursing with.

"With fouled breath so full of cursed rages,

With sopping souls that drip with long-turned wine,

Hear my curses til your final moments:

Pirates, be now maddened till you die."

The magic shaped every syllable; every line shaped the magic. A short spell, yes, but very effective in her experience. And in its own way, it was fitting for her role as her father's shield.

The best defense, after all, was poison in an enemy's veins left long before they knew you were there.

Maybe this wasn't as honorable as all that - and honor was, after all, what she sought to be remembered by. But there was even less honor to be had in not using her talents to their full extent. Her mother's magic was a gift - it would be poor form not to make use of it.

Her familiar poked its beak out from its nest, interrupting her musings with a screech.

"Be quiet," she muttered irritably. "I'm working."

"No. No more magic, you said. Not tonight, you said. Not without the birds, you said."

Godarya sighed again. "I changed my mind," she explained for what felt like the thousandth time. "I can help like this. In a way no one else can match."

"No. You help with messages. No one else on this ship can talk to birds like you. Or fish. You help navigate. Why curses?"

"Because it stops us from having to fight. There's no need to lose any of our lives if we don't have to."

"Excuses," it snapped. "Curses will come back for you down the line. You'll lose yourself to them. You know it."

She blew out the tealights one by one, leaving them floating in the bowl. "Be that as it may," she said, standing up and shaking her wings, "it's my duty to help Father however I can. This is one of the ways I can, so I must. And that is that."

It helped if she told herself that was that. Even though she knew her familiar was right. Her curses would come back for her eventually. She just hoped it was far enough down the line that they wouldn't catch anyone else in the crossfire.

"Lonely spirit, you who wanders still here, Soul of child lost in foreign field; Gentle spirit, searching for a way home, I shall guide you to a world unsealed."

The mist in front of Hypnoni shifted, slowly collecting into the shape of a small Spiral. Her soul wavered, twisting around itself, watching Hypnoni as he closed his book and extended a paw.

"Hello, little one," he said softly. "Are you lost?"

The spiral nodded. Very, she whispered. I'm very lost.

"Do you remember where your body is?" Hypnoni asked. His voice remained gentle - child souls were often the most easily frightened.

She shook her head. I haven't been able to find me again. Not since I got like this.

"Is there anything you feel attached to?"

The old tree. Her form wavered, already starting to bleed back into mist. Mommy and I played there a lot.

"Can you show me the old tree?" Hypnoni asked. She nodded, turning to point a wing off into the distance.

It's that way. On top of the hill. Can you find me there?

Hypnoni smiled. "Yes, little one," he said. "I will find you again. And then we'll visit somewhere new together."

The ship boards creaked in Alim's study, the sound mingling with that of shifting parchment and the occasional scratchy quill to create the perfect picture of a scholar. Or rather, in this case, an augur.

The thin crest on Alim's forehead very slowly stopped glowing, and he settled onto the floor with a sigh. He closed his eyes - one good, one bad - and covered himself with his wings, again drained by his scrying. The bowl of wood chips and fish guts could be cleaned up later; for now, he needed rest.

That plan was interrupted as his general, Lunar, entered. He didn't knock; he never did.

"Good evening, Alim," Lunar said respectfully.

Alim sighed and lifted his head. "I didn't see anything new," he said flatly. "Just ships for miles. If you want to report that to Ragnar, you're welcome to. I can't promise you'll have undamaged wings after, though."

Lunar shook his head; Alim had to fight off a sudden wave of tiredness. "Really, Alim," he said, "you're a gifted augur - marked by the gods and everything. How can you not even find out where these ships hail from?"

"I don't know," he said. "I'd say I need better materials, but honestly, I..." He hesitated, then sighed again. "I'm worried I might lose the gift if I keep throwing myself at this."

Lunar sighed, but stepped back out. "I'll leave you be for the day, then," he said, voice as respectful as it ever got. "But we need something. Anything. And soon."

The door clicked shut, and Alim closed his eyes again. He'd look again later. He just needed a nap first.

A nap and a chance to digest the visions of slaughter. Not to mention figuring out a viable plan for keeping his family alive.

Hannah had always known what death was, it felt like. She had been sat down as a hatchling and had it explained to her - that her family was cursed not only to die, but to come back to die again. She thought, growing up, that the curse had simply faded - her mother, after all, seemed perfectly alive, if odd - but... well.

That wasn't true, now, was it?

It was just a hunting accident. She had been out with the hunters, looking for extra food for her new clan, and they had been ambushed by a pack of kamaitachi. Calla had tried to shove her out of the way, but he misjudged and only tipped her over. She bled to death soon after, barely clinging to consciousness until the hunters had dispatched all the ambushers.

Her brooch whispered to her as she died. "Does your heart burn hot enough to survive?"

Yes, she thought. She tried to speak; the words wouldn't come.

The brooch heard anyways. "Have you earned your second chance?"

Yes, she thought again. The thought was stronger this time; it felt like liquid fire was filling her throat.

"Then keep me always," it whispered, "and I shall keep you alive."

I will.

The flames roared through her veins; slowly, she stood, injuries scarring over in moments. Hannah stood on unsteady feet, crawling over to her pearl immediately. She barely heard Calla calling for her. That could be dealt with in time.

For now... she was alive. Alive again.

(WL here stands for Wardens of the Lost, a lore project currently on hiatus. You can find Lunar here.)

Lunar was a dragon of many talents, many roles. Several powerful families converged with him, and all their magics flowed through his veins. As a result, his role was a delicate balance of abilities and duties.

Emotional projection, as it turned out, was a very useful skill for a general to have. He was able to whip his men into a frenzy, strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, and settle tempers without a word. Luckily, he didn't necessarily need to feel the emotions he tried to project - but it did help, and his mimicking tendencies as a Nocturne turned it into a powerful feedback loop.

It also served as a useful aid to his other duty: a guide to lost souls struggling to find their afterlives. While he wasn't capable of personally walking them to the gates of the Underworld, he was quite capable of helping them work through the issues blocking them from finding them on their own, and if they simply couldn't bear to leave this world on its own just yet... well. He could help them with that, too, if a few friends of his were willing to assist.