baruch attah adonai [tarnished]

[Yael]

Dragons have never been her… form of choice. Yael is not a dragon, not in the passionate, violent, burn the world down sort of way that Nocturnal was. She had her anger, of course, but it manifested itself in a way much more akin to a spitting cobra - targeted attacks that take awhile to build up, but when they do, she sprays venomous words with a deadly accuracy. She bends with the wind in the way of the willows. She weaves through the branches instead of breaking them down. That doesn’t mean she can’t burn the world down… she’ll just smoke everyone out with a brushfire before coaxing it into a raging inferno.

He roars, and Yael is brought back to a time before he was ever thought of. Though it is distinctly feline, it’s been a very, very long time since she’s heard a roar echo across the sands. Yael reaches out, identifying the origin. Oh. Oh.

That child. The one that was the second hardest for Yael to forgive. The first was Caius - the second - the promise-cum-alliance child. The one when he could touch her friend, but could not touch her. She’s secretly wondered if that was part of the reason why Tarnished has never stayed long in sandy kingdom. Was it Noct’s memories that held him back, or Yael’s presence? Guilt? Distaste? Was she self-centered for even thinking that she could be an iota of the reason for his avoidance?

Whatever the case - he is here now - and so she comes. She comes to greet her former almost sister. She comes to revisit the past. She comes because she wants to heal.

In a heartbeat, she shifts into a golden dragon, sporting silver horns and talons and spinal ridges. Powerful haunches (more powerful than she has ever felt before!) launch her into the sky, and she lets loose a response that would send the smallcreatures fleeing back down their burrows. Ah… so this is what it was all about. She can see why Noct liked this shape. If Yael were the type to get drunk off power, she might remain in this shape forever. She quickly finds him on the border and circles twice before landing heavily (not so gracefully, as the body is new and she is… much larger than she is used to). She fixes the half-lion in a fiery, dark eyed gaze.

Well. What does he have to say for himself? To his sire’s widow, nonetheless.

Yael, guardian of the desert

[Tarnished]

I watch you fast asleep,
All I fear means nothing.

His mother made dragons known for their ire, but not their wisdom and tendency to prosper. She was a vicious, callous, calculating woman that lived with many regrets—and that’s what killed her. She was not to be admired, she was not to be pitied. Things broken beyond repair are meant to be thrown out, not repaired; he has slept and dreamed and lived her life many times over, he still does not know how Yael and the others failed to see Nocturnal for the wrecking ball that she was. The black dragon. The great destroyer.

Tarnished smiles when he spies a golden dragon surging towards him; she’s pretty, glittering gold and shimmering silver. Classy and delicate-looking even in such a strong monstrous body. He tries not to move, though when she lands the ground shakes and he finds himself rocking gently side to side. The blue lion flicks his ears forwards and cranes his neck to look up at her. “Been a while, stepmother,” he says, his tufted tail twitching—seemingly in anticipation. Somehow, he always got the feeling that she wasn’t very fond of him, and how could he blame her? His father and mother had betrayed her in the worst of ways; her lover, her best friend. It must have hurt.

It might have ruined her.

But here she is, healthy and happy and diligently protecting her kingdom as she always has.

He wishes his mother had been of the same caliber, but alas.

“I think we need to talk,” he goes on, looking off into the distance as Nocturnal often had; he watches the sand rolling across the dunes, spots a great bird of some sort scouring around an oasis for a meal and he frowns. Remembering. It’s all he has ever done, remembered her life—it’s affected him so much that he hasn’t been able to enjoy his own. There’s parts of her etched so deeply into Beqanna that he often finds himself feeling sick from the weight of it all. It’s been a miserable life, but still, he perseveres.

“She hurt a lot of us, you know,” Tarnished sighs, turning his head to look at the dragon again. “I tried to tell my father, but I… couldn’t. I didn’t want to put that burden on him. He never knew what she did to me.” But Yael does.

Magicians always knew.

tarnished

[Yael]

yael

There’s something to be said for when  you know someone, not how, or why, or where. When. When Yael was a stranger in a strange land and Nocturnal saw the eagerness in her, and gave her first those magnificent golden wings, and then soon called her Ambassador.  When they stood together against the Valley. When it became bigger than a kidnapped prince, they led the other Kingdoms together. That sort of beginning; that trust and admiration, well, it never left Yael. Even when Nocturnal fled her responsibilities and never looked back. Yael had always loved her flower-girl-Quark. But she loved the yellow and blue mare even more because Nocturnal loved her. Because she is family, and when you lose all your family the way Yael has, you learn to value them above all else. You learn to love them, even for their faults. You learn to forgive, even if you never forget.

Tarnished can think what he likes, but it is foolish to think that Yael never saw the truth of Nocturnal’s nature. Perhaps that is her greatest fault - that the golden woman is too forgiving, that her heart is three sizes too big to survive in B’kanna. Perhaps that is why Morphine saw that Magic was necessary to Yael’s survival.

Her toothy jaws part in a draconian smile, fire-filled gaze cooling to a deep purple, then blue, then light cerulean. Her speech hisses uncharacteristically in her mouth, adding to an already thick accent. “Eet xassss been too long, Tarneessssshed.” The past is well in the past. She moved on years ago. He is always welcome in the Desert, though she knows he’ll never pitch his tent here for more than a couple of weeks, max. So be it. “You ssssshould veessset usss more often. Vankisssssh vould essssspecially like eet.”

She hums in the back of her throat, a sort of purr, if you will, and shifts back to her horse form. If they’re going to talk, she might as well be comfortable. She inclines her fine-boned head and invites him to begin, listening intently to the emotion behind his confession. “I know, dear. Ahnd I xaf  forgeeven xer for eet.” She pauses, and lowers her voice. “You could tell me. You could… show me. Or I could remove eet for you.” She could have done that ages ago, but a man’s pride is a fickle thing. Feelings are scary and imagined burdens always need to hefted on a single being’s shoulders until they become unbearable. And then they break.

She doesn’t want to see anyone break.    

Idk if she can do that, butttt yeah.