Member name: Sarah Frost
Personal details (favorite character, age, tell us a little about yourself): Word, 16, likes to read, has no social life
Characters you’d like to play: Cain, Word, Reepyr, Captain Faiar, Mortis, Artha, Pyrrah
Previous RP experience and writing abilities: Some RP experience in another fandom; a few round robins in the OF; fanfiction writing. I don't regard myself as an especially talented writer, but I pride myself on my English skills and like to try to improve.
Writing sample:Yeah, so I felt inspired. Two not-quite-drabbles. The first one’s Moordryd/Cain interaction, only slashy if you want it to be, and the second one is my take on why nobody in Dragon City seems to be aged between 20 and 40.
“That’s whom
I was named after,” Moordryd said, pointing. A beam of sunlight came through the window behind him, shadowing his face and illuminating his hair, giving the appearance of a halo; he looked like an angel in one of Word’s collection of ancient paintings, Cain thought, though the conceited tones of his voice were anything but angelic.
All Cain could see was an ancient manuscript.
“That’s just an old book,” he said. “It’s not even written in our language.”
“It is the oldest extant copy of the
Regnum Draconiae,” Moordryd said, sounding rather sniffy and probably quoting the words of his tutor Myrddin. “Moordryd was the man who toppled an empire, and then pissed on its ashes.”
That’s cheerful, Cain thought, but kept his opinion to himself. He usually did.
“There’s an old story about Cain, too,” Moordryd said. “Millennia old, I think, from the time before the dragons. He killed his brother and then he was doomed to wander the earth forever branded as a traitor. They called it the mark of Cain.”
Cain shrugged. It seemed the only thing to do.
Most of the Dragon Eye crew, he knew, were renegades of one sort or another, largely despised by the other crews, though that gave them a certain…freedom. They could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and because everyone knew that was what the Dragon Eyes generally did, nobody minded. Cain was marked as one of them; if that made him a traitor, then he’d wear it with pride.
“Of course, Father would have you killed if you betrayed me,” Moordryd continued.
“I don’t plan to,” Cain said softly. The Dragon Eye crew was all he had; the tattoo on his forehead served as a reminder of where he belonged. And to whom.
Moordryd had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself. “Yeah. It’s just an old story. Want to get beaten in a race again?”
He turned quickly, moving with the nervous energy born of a childish enthusiasm that not even Word Paynn had been quite able to curb, starting to run towards the stables. Cain followed him. If he wanted to he could have overtaken the other boy on foot, but he knew it would upset Moordryd.
Neither of them bothered to look back at Word Paynn’s personal collection of treasures from the past. Ancient legends meant little to two boys on a sunny day.
--
There had been a plague—the plague, the blackwind,
mortis negra—that nobody ever talked about, or if they did, they did so in whispers. It had lasted nearly six years, each one of them taking a huge toll on Dragon City, leaving the citizens fearful and alone.
Word Paynn and Connor Penn were two of the few who lived to remember. Scarcely a tenth of those who had lived through the plague as adults still survived; it had been left to the young to take the place of their parents in the government of Dragon City, after the plague. It was almost just as well few lived to talk about it. The young did not need reminding of such times, and to mention a fearful name might well bring back the object of fear.
The cause had never been known. Some blamed the dragons, and heaped a huge funeral pyre with live dragons and dead humans, and in the flames there were roars and cries which did not stop for days. Word had smelled roasting meat under his only recently-built citadel, and felt momentarily hungry before he realized the true substance of the pyre.
Some blamed the inhabitants of Down City, because they were poor and dirty and did not follow rules. The young priest Mortis had thousands of refugees to deal with in the street rioting, offering shelter to all he could, hands blistered and limbs exhausted from feeding and treating as many as he could.
There was little to be done, too, for those who had it. Some took months to die, only the red markings on their bodies identifying the symptoms before they finally felt pain, coughing and spewing and rotting their way to an early death. Word Paynn calibrated his cameras and sensors carefully, to make sure that his citadel would remain uncontaminated.
Occasionally, some would recover. Connor had, back in the early days; he’d locked himself into his quarters in the temple so as not to infect anyone else, and spent days in bed, delirious and ill and helpless, before he finally realized that he had healed and could help others. Not many were so lucky.
Word had shut himself up in his citadel, relying on his gears and security and riches to protect him. The plague was harming his business, but he had more than enough money, and did not allow himself to catch the disease, trying to use his tech to help efforts to figure out some cure—out of pure self-interest, naturally.
And there were children, born in those days. Connor Penn’s wife Grainne had been with child, Artha born in the early stages of the plague and Lance in the last, and desperately worried for all their safety; she’d been near-hysterical most nights, lashing out at Connor and rebuking him for risking his life trying to help the plague victims. He’d tried to reassure her as best he could, but she hadn’t listened. She'd chosen to stay with him, but later Connor wondered if how he had treated her in those days had been part of the reason why she’d left him later on.
Priest Mortis had seen a lot of orphans, children whose parents had died of plague, leaving them nothing but immunity: Phistus, the son of a Grip crew member Mortis had once been friends with; the quiet red-haired boy with the greenish face called Reepyr, who never moved from the side of an orange dragon; Pyrrah and her brother, wild orphans left behind in one of the last stages of the plague, their loss crueler for that very reason; the blue-haired little girl who had simply disappeared one day; Wulph, one of the Army of the Dragon’s orphans, who had been taken in by that particular tight-knit group; the boy with the Dragon Eye tattoo on his face, who never said a word; children far too young for such a burden to fall on them, but only a few children out of many in identical situations.
Word Paynn’s son had been born in those days. His mother had died during the birth, the cause uncertain; but Moordryd had lived, and Word had made certain that his only son would be safe, kept in a locked room with a nurse and a tutor. Later, Word wondered if Moordryd’s early imprisonment had led him to seek out the shadows of Down City, but decided that if so then he had made a wise decision. As he normally did.
The population had been decimated by the time the plague had finally died down. Reported cases declined and then disappeared, and gradually the task of rebuilding a shattered city began. It was easier to just ignore the dead and focus on what had to be done. Some said that grey dragon-gear, made by a mysterious sect called the Mechanists and sponsored by Word Paynn had helped to end it, but nobody knew for sure.
A woman called Grainne had left her husband, in those days after the plague had ended.
"I won’t stay with you any more, Connor,” she’d said, handing him a crying Lance with an annoyed sigh. “You never paid any attention to us at home, going off at all hours to do who knows what, it’s a miracle the four of us survived…”
Connor held his son, trying to comfort him as best he could. “No. Grainne. The children need you. I need you. Please…”
“I said I was leaving.” She turned, the flounce of her skirt swishing around her. “The quarantine has been lifted, and I won’t stay shackled to two squalling brats and this hole of a place.” She gestured to the house around them.
It actually wasn’t such a bad place, compared to most in Dragon City; their home was in Mid City at least, even if it was a little small. And the four of them had lived through the plague, though Grainne had lost a brother and father.
“Grainne…” he’d began, but she had slammed the door by then.
He’d seen her leave, riding her dragon Morgan, a pack slung over her back and her dark hair flying in the wind, and he’d known she wouldn’t return as he tried to quiet Lance while Artha clung to his pants leg, tears beginning to fill his eyes…Word and Connor had seen each other on the street, once, in the days soon after the plague had ended and most of the bodies had been burned. The old quarrel might have almost been forgotten.
“They’re expelling me,” the older boy said. “Skitting bastards. I’m glad to go.”
Connor didn’t think his friend was telling the truth with the last statement, but let it pass. “I’m sorry,” he said. Word Paynn had been his friend all the way through their period as novices. They’d drifted apart lately, but they were still each other’s closest friend. “It’s just that they think some of your ideas are dangerous…”
And they were. Word had been talking about a dragon-human war and the power that would be released there. Thanks to the manufacture of new, more powerful gears, humans would triumph and the dragons would be made their permanent slaves, and a better world would be built. Word’s ideas frightened Connor, who had been secretly working under the direction of Priest Mithras to avert these very consequences.
“They’re wrong
,” Word said. “They don’t understand my genius.”
“You could destroy the whole world!” Connor said. It was something he felt strongly about, and he couldn’t resist trying to convince his friend of the truth. “Do you know what would happen in a war?”
“There would be power, and a new empire built out of this corrupt one. Dragon City would be fashioned into something truly great. The dragons aren’t more than beasts, and they exist to be used. Anything else would be a coward’s way!” Word was clearly angry now, a pink flush creeping into his pale cheeks.
“How can you encourage a war?” Connor said sadly. “I thought I knew you, once. Cared about you.”
“Then join me,” Word said, meeting Connor’s eyes. “We’ll conquer the city together, and build an empire. We can still be partners. With your dragon-riding skills and my gears we’d be unstoppable.” His gray eyes were lit with enthusiasm and emotion, and the sheer amount of emotion he showed at that moment surprised Connor.
There was nothing more Connor wanted at that moment than to agree. He remembered the times they’d worked together, the two of them partnered on some project or other for the temple, their different skills fitting flawlessly together to succeed. They were closer than brothers, inseparable friends, and on their first day as novices they had promised to always stick together no matter what happened.
That promise was being abandoned now.
“I can’t,” Connor said quietly. “You’re wrong, and I can’t support war.”
Word’s expression suddenly seemed to shut down, and Connor knew that nothing he could say would ever make it right again. “I leave the temple in a threeday," Word said. “Until then, I will stay out of your way as much as possible. You will regret your decision someday, Connor Penn.”
He’d left then, the door closing with a quiet click
, and Connor had sat down on his bed and tried not to think about his old friend.They had both been watching a race, on the Down City tracks; the dragonriding had just been revived, and though the participants were fewer, the enthusiasm was running as high as it could.
Connor had been the first to speak.
“I heard your wife died. I’m sorry,” he said.
He had never met Isolde Morgana; she had been a daughter of one of the richer Families, a match Word had adopted for its political necessity.
“Your condolences are accepted,” Word said. “She was one among many, in recent times. And how is Grainne?”
“She…is in Stone City,” Connor said. “I think she’s happy.”
It was a loaded question, Connor knew. She had fled to him from Word’s citadel at night, just after the earliest cases of the plague had been reported, claiming his cruelty to her as the reason to seek Connor out. Grainne had chosen to become Word’s mistress over Connor, once, before her decision had been reversed, and that had furthered the rift between the two men.
“She always was flighty to the extreme,” Word said, his tone dismissive.
Connor clenched his fists. “I never asked her what happened between you. Was it really just because you wanted to get at me?”
Word looked at him and smiled, slowly and without humour. “I will not answer that question.” He paused. “I made you an offer, before the days of plague. You see this city has been devastated, Connor Penn, and only just recovered thanks to gray draconium energy. Will you join me to rebuild it? The situation has not changed.”
Below, a dragon was struggling against being tied to a pinning block, a howl starting to fill the air.
“A war is brewing,” Word continued. “Which side will you choose?”
“The side of peace,” Connor said firmly.
The golden star-dragon had been bred, and was in his stables, a dragon who had already survived one plague. It would live to stop a war, Drakkus willing.
“Then let more days of devastation begin,” Word said. He stood, and made as if to walk away.
“The next time we meet will not be so civil,” he said, clenching a fist, the tone of his voice indicating restrained anger. “You made the wrong choice.”
He swept away, and Connor watched.
Plague and war, he thought, and noticed that most of the enthusiastic spectators of the race were children.
It will be hard for them.Links to any other writing samples: http://www.fanfiction.net/~sarahfrost