clanaspenheart

[clanaspenheart]

She likes helping. Well, she mostly likes knowing, but she's found the easiest way to know things is to get involved. And she enjoys writing--the little scritch of a quill on parchment is pleasing--so she is a natural choice for someone to take notes. Eventually, she graduates from note-taker to coordinator, then organizer, then manager. She doesn't have any political clout--which is good, she doesn't want that--but she gets to have an ear to the ground on nearly every topic. Which dragons are part of which group, who needs which resources, who has which valuable skills, which specialties are whose... In time, she has to point out the obvious. The dragons gathered around the Wild Sanctum, working together to study and measure and map the flow of magic, have formed a nascent clan. The announcement is greeted with blank looks and sputtered protests. She waves off the 'but we're just research groups' and 'none of us will be here forever' and sets to work organizing the infrastructure that a clan needs: comfortable lair space for all different species, a deep store of food of every type, a secure place to hoard the items that make life a little easier. And she sorts the less-physical necessities, like who prepares food for scholars who forget to eat, who repairs clothing and tools, who takes care of the books and scrolls in a naturally-wet area prone to mold and insects. A few dragons help her without protest, without obligation, without expectation. Her favorite is Xerxes, the sweetest dragon she's ever met, who has a near-eerie ability to assess a dragon's emotional and physical well-being. She relies on him to tell her if someone has an unmet need that they haven't mentioned yet (or, perhaps, haven't noticed yet themselves). She deftly sidesteps continued protests of clanhood by calling it a council, a club, a coalition. 'We need a name,' she repeats, and no one volunteers an idea until she visits Xerxes with his flowers. 'These are pretty,' she observes. 'What are they?' Xerxes smiles with eyes alone at her, full of gentle warmth. 'Aspen flowers,' he replies. 'The heart of the trees, no matter how brief they bloom.' She stares at him for a moment, frills slowly fanning out in slow-motion delight. 'Aspenheart!' she chirps, and he blinks at her. 'That's the name! That's what we can call ourselves! Aspenheart!' 'Oh,' Xerxes murmurs, eyes crinkling in another smile. 'I like that very much.'

[clanaspenheart]

It's not that he's not smart. Dragons just don't put much faith in Tundra intelligence, that's all. They think a poor memory for names and dates means he's oblivious to the passage of time or somehow forgetful of who a person is. Sure, he's pretty bad with numbers and can't tell you exactly how many years it's been since a precise event happened. But he can tell you what the wind smelled like when it did happen, where the sun was in the sky, what flowers were in bloom, and how warm or cold a dragon's voice was when they spoke. He knows by heart who was there and how each of them were feeling, which animals were closest and loudest, how the weather was turning, and how steady the earth underfoot was. He doesn't remember names or dates, but he doesn't forget what matters--people and events. He may forget the exact pattern of a dragon's face or even the hue of their eyes, but he remembers what flower they loved best and what tea they remind him of. He doesn't always remember their favorite color, but he always knows what color their heart is to him, how bright their smile and how deep and tangled their thoughts, like a private mycelial network he can only brush the surface of. But he's used to being brushed aside as simple, as unreliable, as irresponsible. It bothers him, sometimes, when it means he can't help in the way he wants to--when he isn't allowed to help, even when he's perfectly capable of it. So it surprises him when a well-respected Light scholar approaches him and asks him for help. He's always liked Snappers--they're thoughtful and they tell such good stories--but dragons who speak in stone don't usually care for Tundras, who remember in scents and emotions. 'I would like to request your assistance,' the historian says solemnly, though his eyes are light and kind. 'You know this land better than I could ever, and I am here to study the flow of magic. Would you be willing to work with me?'

The Tundra blinks, slowly, and digests this request. 'Are you sure you want me?' 'Very sure,' Glint replies. 'I have seen you tend these flowers with more skill and care than the finest florist I've known. You have a deep wisdom and familiarity with the life that sprouts from the earth, and it is the earth and the green growing things that holds the magic of this land. I would greatly value your insight, if you would provide it. I plan on establishing a camp nearby, in the shadow of the Sanctum, where I can conduct my research. What's your name, friend?' This is where most dragons would dismiss him. He shrugs with a ripple of layered fur. 'It changes by the season,' he answers. 'You can pick what you'd like to call me.' He pauses, thinking. 'I would like to help. I like the growing things. If what you study will help them, I will help you.' The Snapper smiles broadly. 'Most excellent!' He pauses, too, then nods decisively. 'I will call you Xerxes. She was the botanist of my home clan, very wise and very patient. How does that sound?' Xerxes smiles with his eyes. 'I like that very much.'