[mature] my jewel-encrusted crown

[Starlin]

Starlin had always thought that she’d have her mother with her when this happened. Somehow, not in all the scenarios that she had considered, was there ever one where she was alone.

Yet here she is.

Even spring in Nerine has a bite to it, but the tobiano mare has long grown used to the fickle wind, and holds her dark head high. Sunlight peeks through, just enough to warm her, just enough to highlight the too-large span of her sides. Without a mother to ask, Starlin can’t know that a foal is not usually quite so large, quite so oddly shaped, not at this stage of the pregnancy. She only knows that she is very tired all the time and that her sides are always bruised and aching.

She is just a horse, after all, a pretty dun mare without a trace of magic in her blood. Her kind aren’t so common anymore. If they were, perhaps someone would have thought to warn her that she is pregnant with a dragon and not a foal. A particularly strong kick rouses her from the doze she had almost begun, and with a weary sigh the sure-fotted mare begins to pick her way down the cliff.

There are few horses at this most northern tip of the land, the wind from the glacial neighbor is enough to frighten all but the boldest down to the protected south shores. Starlin has always been bold. The trail she follows is not for the faint-hearted, but it is the fastest, and soon enough she is ankle deep in the water. The surf has always called to her, even if she has never known why. Mother did not talk about the sea, and so Starlin learned not to ask.

The luke-warm water is the same temperature as the blood that slides down her legs, and it is not until the water below her is tinted red that she realizes what is happening. She is having her baby. Or maybe she is losing it, she is sure that she should not be due for another few months. Is it normal for foals to come this early? She would have asked her mother if she were here, and her mother would have known the answer, known to warn her that the dragon-born tend to develop faster than their mundane relatives.

But one is there to warn her.

Starlin gives birth to a creature the color of storm clouds and seafoam, with bright golden markings that elicit the single word she gives him before her brown eyes fall shut.

"Gilt.”

@[Gilt]
@[Stillwater]
mature warning is for (eventual) character death

[Stillwater]

Stillwater

He'd been at the birth of this land, just before the panther queen had gathered up her sexist Amazonians and took claim of it when the Old World had been destroyed. As a male, they would've thrown him out, but he'd struck a secret deal with the queen. She'd had no idea of the monster she'd placed into her pocket, and he'd intended to keep it that way.

And he had even as Nayl fought and won the kingdom for herself.
Then there was Djinni. She was the only one that knew him, not that he'd chosen it.

She alone had birthed each of his offspring in the Sylvan forest of his prison kingdom. His mate. Their only daughter was the sole reason he'd returned here to the place it all started. Nerine. His inky black form was lying in wait beneath the water as she followed its song to the shore. The lazy current whispered her approach to him, fetched her blood on the returning tide to call his needle-like teeth from his jaws in eager hunger. He would taste her.

He normally enjoyed the lure, the mystery, and trustworthiness that drew them into his waiting embrace. He loved to watch them fight their instinct, a small voice warning them not to believe what they see; his beauty and his kindness. His friendship. His attraction. That precarious foundation was so delicious to build, and even more thrilling to slowly break down bit by bit until the helpless realization crossed their eyes in fear. When it was clear it was far too late.

Today, he would not have that. She already knew him, though she'd been so little then.
Today, he was not here for his pleasure, though he would take it regardless.

He'd come to see her, and in seeing she was so pregnant, he'd come to meet his grand-spawn. He had to be sure it was not too much like him. His beast was a solitary creature, vicious, territorial. No other could be allowed to survive. Even mating was a battle of survival for each; overtaking and devouring the weak, or conceding temporarily and parting ways until next time. Or, in Djinni's case, it had been until next time. First Ivar, and then the twins.

He'd had as much of a soft-spot for Starlin as a monster like him was capable. It all changed when the babe that dropped was formed - and smelled - as their distant reptilian cousins. His lips peeled back and he didn't ask questions. She'd slept with a dragon. She'd birthed a goddamn dragon. Those disgusting, pompous creatures with wings and gross scales and endless pride, self-entitlement to that which was not theirs.

Call it a Capulet murder, discipline for his daughter's disgrace.

With a rush of water and no other sound, he launched himself through the surface, jaws clamping down on her throat as the seaspray rained down on the half-bred child. The muscles across his body rippled and bulged, raw power throwing them back into the water as quickly as he'd appeared, taking her down into the dark depths of the briny sea. The ocean was filthy and unappealing, filled with floating silt and feces from far too many living things in one body of water. Disgusting. He would finish this quickly and return to his Loch.

The distasteful water soured her precious blood. Even weakened by the birth that would kill her, she still mustered the strength to fight back. His skin smoothed and secreted, gluing her to him as if he could embrace his baby one last time. It took all his control to release his tap on her throat and he couldn't stray far from it as he pressed his lips beside it. "Shh," he crooned to her gently, nostrils flaring to breathe in the scent of her blood. He could smell Djinni in her, and himself. If she hadn't been so torn up from childbirth, he might have taken her. Perhaps. The gift of a pleasurable death.

"I'll take your pain away, baby girl."

He returned his mouth to her throat, sinking in his needle teeth without pain, just a little sting like a mosquito might. His soft groan of delight wavered in the dark water around them, draining her far slower than he'd meant to, too gluttonous not to savor this with his undivided attention. Every sensation was cataloged, each separate little hint of iron, of her mother's magic, her sire's. Useless to her those powers buried in her bloodline, but the taste was there just the same in small little sparks against his tongue, down his throat as her sweet blood coated it so smoothly in an exquisite warmth.

Time was such a fickle thing for a creature like him, and he'd lost track of it. Sated and stronger, energized from the return of his own blood through his daughter's, he finally emerged to the surface with nothing left of her. There were no bones in his closet. The existence of a legend would remain secret. He only created sudden disappearances, never murders. 

Hers was a discipline for her foolish actions and mercy for the death already taking her. Better that he end her with the peaceful drift of numbness as he had. And make certain her disgrace died with her.

That was a father's love.

Now he would finish what he'd started and remove her despicable child too. It would be as though she had never caused a fault. She would remain her previous perfection in the minds of others. They simply would not find her again. She would be remembered well.

He launched from the water again, adhesive skin clutching the storm-cloud and gold boy to him. Then they both vanished under the sea and left Nerine behind without a trace any foul play had ever taken place.

@[The Plague] - sick the boys pretty please! (Stillwater, Gilt) Also roll for carry vs symptomatic, please thank youuuu <333

[Random Event]

@[Stillwater] has been infected by the plague by request.
He is a carrier (rolled a 1).
He will not express a trait (rolled a 4).

@[Gilt] has been infected by the plague by request.
He will show symptoms (rolled a 5).
He will not express a trait (rolled a 5).