between the shadows and the soul - all kingdom

[Killdare]

no matter what we breed we still are made of greed

The Chamber is bustling with the shadow and shroud it calls life. It breathes a new darkness into the air, it stirs, now, as it ever did. He doesn’t dawdle, he never does, he never would. Killdare was a servant, this he knows, this he finds stability in- this and the Chamber herself. He does not want for family, she had given him one long ago, though just as she gave she too took. That is what was, that is what is. He does not want for food, for substance, though the grasses are tough at time he finds them edible. A little work, a few extra chews never hurt anyone.

Life He does not want for this, he had found life, just as she had breathed it into him that very day she sent Straia to the Fields. So much has changed since then, he has changed since that but it is all for the better if he had any say in the matter.

The bay comes when called, forsaking his feet for the very gifts which his realm had bestowed upon him. Snaring the winter winds on wings of a dragon, and ripping through the currents which bent to his will. Not through magic, he had never had any- through might. With each toned muscle he broke the way from here to there, the winds rushing violent beneath each rise and fall of scale. Howling with a fierceness to match the anger in his glassy-green eyes.

Robbed. Robbed by a coward one of his closest friends, one of his few friends, one of their own. A Chamberling, his kin though not tied through blood or sweat. He finds her there, the Queen, his Straia, turning his massive bulk to the ground and caressing it with a lack of delicacy. He made no attempt to hide the animosity that coiled in his stomach, growling to be set free and smite those that had wronged them.

With one last push of his wings, he momentarily snuffs the fire from the branches that flicker and crackle. Only a moment, for the fire returns in a blink, roaring to life with passion, with love for its own. He brings a single talon to his chest, above his heart where he separates hair, skin, flesh. A wound from which he catches his lifeblood, flicking it into the burning tree before he settles at Straia’s side and waits.

When it is done, when magic and words have met and meshed he nods. “Let us not disappoint,” He gruffs, looking to each member in turn, tracing the outlines of their faces and studying their eyes. “Straia, my family,” He indicates them all with a gesture of spread wing. “Dear princess Sidra will be staying the year with us, the lid has been loosed, make your names, let us waste not and want not.”

With that the dragon-lord has no more, simply a hardened look to Astri’s children. Something that seemed to speak without words, For your Mother, for our Family.

KILLDARE

this is my kingdom come

The Dragon Lord & Colonel of the Chamber