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Description

WORD COUNT: 1755

Gibbon Trelora, for those who have no context, is Merlot's dad-- who they have never met in person before this unfortunate event.
I'd hate to colour anyone's perception of who I am sure is a lovely dragon, but I'd like to remind those who have never seen me talk about him that
1) He is married, to someone who is very much not Riesling
2) He has a high charisma stat and has continuously flaked on his actual family

Anyways, enjoy!

------

They were going to scream!

This, unfortunately, was not a valid tactic at the moment. One of the many reasons (which may have included avoiding potential actual death and/or injury): They were never left alone unless they snuck off like some hatchling. Most of the time, this was bearable enough, since, really, the whole “Merlot probably shouldn’t be left out of eyesight because someone might mistake them as the natural progression of the ghost thing” movement was developed and carried out by exclusively Lioness. Merlot was fairly sure that it wasn’t a shocker that they didn’t mind hanging out with their girlfriend.

The reason that they were about two seconds from exploding is that someone else had apparently been roped into the whole “let’s babysit Merlot” thing: Treefrog. Who had been. Following them. All day. No matter what they did!

Chopping wood so the shell-shocked locals could stare into hypnotic fire to forget their worries or so that it could be used for repair? Treefrog.

Glance out of the corner of their eyes by accident whilst ferrying supplies from place to place? Flash of green!

Bringing fresh linens to the basement? …Okay, they could excuse that one, he was a doctor.

It was still a very trying affair for Merlot to avoid hurling themselves up the nearest tree to sulk all day. Really, Strum would be proud. They had so much restraint.

Which, apparently, was unlike this little haven’s resident half-killer. Sentry, was it? In all honesty, they didn’t remember much from the statement that those allowed to go had given. The state of the town said it all– thirty-some injured (albeit with bedsores of all things), property damage, a small death toll… Well. Not nearly as bad as Baikal. However, Baikal was the fault of a near-mindless walking nightmare, and this? This had been done intentionally. What a loser. There weren’t as many pieces to pick up, but there was still proverbial broken glass everywhere-- and, from what they'd heard, not just in Reverie.

And then, they thought:

Wow, what if I communicated my distaste of being stared at like a particularly stress-inducing beetle like a healthy person? What if I actually went up to him and asked? “What if” indeed.

Communication was, in fact, the stuff of magic. And, like magic, the result was vaguely disgusting and unpleasant.

One of the patients was Gibbon.

Trelora.

Their dad.

Damn, who knew all it would take to find both of their parents was to get majorly fucked over by forces beyond complete comprehension? Merlot should write a book on this for all the other orphans on Mezzo.

The unfortunate bit of this is that it made it much harder for them to pretend that things were okay. Chopping wood, moving supplies, doing whatever possible to melt into the background… that took their mind off of things.

Having to look the maggot that left Riesling in the face? Well.

They used to wish they’d been taken by their father. Maybe they still did. Maybe, if they hadn’t sucked up so much of Riesling’s time and energy as a dragonet, she’d be the slightest bit better off. Maybe she would’ve left with him.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Life didn’t obey maybes.

“I think some answers would help,” they said, finally. Their eyes were dry. They didn’t exactly want to know how long they’d been staring at the clipboard he’d handed them of the patient roster, so they were not gonna ask.

“You know where to find him,” Treefrog said in grave response, the crease between his brows just as permanent as it had been when he was, apparently, working up the nerve to tell them this rather vital information.

…

Merlot had talked to him. They knew they had, because– because Lioness said something alluding to it, but–

They’d lost it. Slipped right through their claws. It was midday– and then it wasn’t, and they were curled up next to Nessa in the makeshift tent (which was fine, it was fine, they were listening, they would know if something came near the tent, they wouldn’t be caught in a sludgy sinkhole because they were right up against a tree trunk and the roots would catch them, that’s why they chose this spot–)

It wasn’t important. It can’t have been important. They didn’t want to ask. If they asked– she’d make that face, and they didn’t really want to see the face right now, because it would probably just make things bad. For both of them. Nessa already had to deal with so much of their issues, and yeah, she didn’t mind and she said she could handle it, but moons above if they didn’t feel guilty when she made the face.

In conclusion: Fine.

At least falling asleep was easy. It was hard to be worried enough to keep themselves awake when heavy, safe arms held them close.

…

It was those same arms that they almost bit out of reflex when they were shaken awake at the elbow-crack of dawn. In a bit of holy retribution, Lioness looked about as tired as they felt.

“Mmhgg– Was I thrashing again…?” They grumbled tiredly, dropping their head back onto the hard-packed soil with an audible thunk that the dragoness beside them jolted at.

“...No? But you– you’re gonna miss the flight to Mulch, if you don-don’t get up,” Lioness yawned, words slurring in the intake and outtake of breath.

Well, shit. What had they blankly nodded to yesterday?

“Riiight. That. Yes. I will be getting on with that. Right now.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Merlot didn’t flinch. They didn’t do that. They were better than that– or, they were supposed to be. However… they definitely moved, a little bit, and in an apparently very telling way, which was met by a groggy hum.

“Guess I’ll be go-goin’ too, th–”

“Actually,” they interrupted, just a wee bit too loud, “I know I told you yesterday, but. Gibbon. I don’t want you there because, from what little I know about him– from what little I could pick up– he will use you as ammo. Or… whatever other reason you need. I know I shouldn’t but it’s– he doesn’t need to know about the dragons that I love.”

That seemed to have worked. The lie by omission. The lie that they, at least, remembered some things. They felt bad, but– telling people things wasn’t always the best option, okay?

“I trust you,” Lioness soothed, eventually. “An-and… I will trust you to k-know your boundaries.”

“Just– please.” A talon cupped the side of their face; lifted it off the ground. “I’m not going to judge you if you– if you tell me w-when that happens. Okay?”

They loved her.

They loved her, but judgement was not what they were afraid of.

“Okay.”

…

You know, Merlot used to wish they hatched a Rainwing. A pure Rainwing.

Not anymore.

“I’m rather touched that you’d rather spend time with me down in Mulch than hang out with your friends,” Gibbon blabbed, voice sounding sincere but really, Silence sounded sincere, Muskox sounded sincere, EVERYONE that had hurt them sounded sincere–

Ahem. Anyways.

“I’m going on Alliance business. There are enough in Reverie already,” they snipped frigidly, dipping from where they flew to a lower elevation, trying to ignore the Rainwing that had not stopped talking for literally half an hour. Without blinking an eye, he followed, raising a brow at their brushing off.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed– Why, you were a lot nicer yesterday! Oh, I bet you’re a night owl. She was, too. You know, you’re very similar to her– not to say you don’t have a lot in common with me, too! You’ve got that good ol’ Trelora work ethic!”

Merlot’s claws twitched.

They settled for angling their head to glare at him, no matter how ineffective it was without the flare of their frills, without the bright red that might have been on their scales, once upon a time. They were turning red, but– just like everything around them– it was dull. Rotting.

“I’m a Glacias. You made sure of that.”

The rest of the (short) flight was quiet.

…

And so they did what they knew how to do: Work. Work, directed by their dad because technically he was actually skilled in construction. (He was. It bought the tiniest nugget of respect from them.)

Oh, well. Messing with Chelicerata was a good outlet whether they were angry or confused, too.

“You know,” Gibbon starts, one day, on break, “she never told me.”

Merlot’s ears pricked, tilting towards the maroon drake. Mouth still occupied with a generous helping of mango (it was SO tropical here and it was AWESOME), they… took the bait.

“Told you what?”

He startled in place, eyes widening, perhaps in shock at their actual reply. Or, he hadn’t meant to let that slip..? “Ah– I mean, she never told me that she was with egg.”

Treefrog didn’t say that. Treefrog said…

Apparently, Gibbon could read expressions as well as they could read books. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Treloras got that bit wrong,” he admitted, with an honest-to-Ice-Spirits nervous laugh. “I haven’t exactly… been the best relative. But– I didn’t know. I would’ve abandoned my contract in a second an’ stayed with her if I knew. Or– Or, we would’ve moved together to the Rainforest,” he sighed, brows drawing tight.

He knew. He knew she was dead.
How?

The blank space. Thinking about it made something in the back of their head prickle– but, alas, nothing else. No memory.

Merlot could not overstate how much they hated (near?) death experiences, because this was simply annoying as all hell.

Their father took their slow, considering blink as permission to continue.

“I’d like to make it up to you. To the family,” he declared, ticking the corner of his jaw up in a hopeful smile. “If not any of them– still, to you. I… owe the Glacias family quite a lot, apparently.”

They knew what it was LIKE to be hated. They knew what it was like to have something wrong said about you for no other reason than that you didn’t act quite the same.

They didn’t want to like him. He took so much, even if he didn’t know.

But they’d always given people second chances.

“Okay,” Merlot said, finally. “...We need to finish putting the windmill frame together.”

And, for the first time that week, Gibbon joined them to hammer down the nails.

Description

WORD COUNT: 1755

Gibbon Trelora, for those who have no context, is Merlot's dad-- who they have never met in person before this unfortunate event.
I'd hate to colour anyone's perception of who I am sure is a lovely dragon, but I'd like to remind those who have never seen me talk about him that
1) He is married, to someone who is very much not Riesling
2) He has a high charisma stat and has continuously flaked on his actual family

Anyways, enjoy!

------

They were going to scream!

This, unfortunately, was not a valid tactic at the moment. One of the many reasons (which may have included avoiding potential actual death and/or injury): They were never left alone unless they snuck off like some hatchling. Most of the time, this was bearable enough, since, really, the whole “Merlot probably shouldn’t be left out of eyesight because someone might mistake them as the natural progression of the ghost thing” movement was developed and carried out by exclusively Lioness. Merlot was fairly sure that it wasn’t a shocker that they didn’t mind hanging out with their girlfriend.

The reason that they were about two seconds from exploding is that someone else had apparently been roped into the whole “let’s babysit Merlot” thing: Treefrog. Who had been. Following them. All day. No matter what they did!

Chopping wood so the shell-shocked locals could stare into hypnotic fire to forget their worries or so that it could be used for repair? Treefrog.

Glance out of the corner of their eyes by accident whilst ferrying supplies from place to place? Flash of green!

Bringing fresh linens to the basement? …Okay, they could excuse that one, he was a doctor.

It was still a very trying affair for Merlot to avoid hurling themselves up the nearest tree to sulk all day. Really, Strum would be proud. They had so much restraint.

Which, apparently, was unlike this little haven’s resident half-killer. Sentry, was it? In all honesty, they didn’t remember much from the statement that those allowed to go had given. The state of the town said it all– thirty-some injured (albeit with bedsores of all things), property damage, a small death toll… Well. Not nearly as bad as Baikal. However, Baikal was the fault of a near-mindless walking nightmare, and this? This had been done intentionally. What a loser. There weren’t as many pieces to pick up, but there was still proverbial broken glass everywhere-- and, from what they'd heard, not just in Reverie.

And then, they thought:

Wow, what if I communicated my distaste of being stared at like a particularly stress-inducing beetle like a healthy person? What if I actually went up to him and asked? “What if” indeed.

Communication was, in fact, the stuff of magic. And, like magic, the result was vaguely disgusting and unpleasant.

One of the patients was Gibbon.

Trelora.

Their dad.

Damn, who knew all it would take to find both of their parents was to get majorly fucked over by forces beyond complete comprehension? Merlot should write a book on this for all the other orphans on Mezzo.

The unfortunate bit of this is that it made it much harder for them to pretend that things were okay. Chopping wood, moving supplies, doing whatever possible to melt into the background… that took their mind off of things.

Having to look the maggot that left Riesling in the face? Well.

They used to wish they’d been taken by their father. Maybe they still did. Maybe, if they hadn’t sucked up so much of Riesling’s time and energy as a dragonet, she’d be the slightest bit better off. Maybe she would’ve left with him.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Life didn’t obey maybes.

“I think some answers would help,” they said, finally. Their eyes were dry. They didn’t exactly want to know how long they’d been staring at the clipboard he’d handed them of the patient roster, so they were not gonna ask.

“You know where to find him,” Treefrog said in grave response, the crease between his brows just as permanent as it had been when he was, apparently, working up the nerve to tell them this rather vital information.

…

Merlot had talked to him. They knew they had, because– because Lioness said something alluding to it, but–

They’d lost it. Slipped right through their claws. It was midday– and then it wasn’t, and they were curled up next to Nessa in the makeshift tent (which was fine, it was fine, they were listening, they would know if something came near the tent, they wouldn’t be caught in a sludgy sinkhole because they were right up against a tree trunk and the roots would catch them, that’s why they chose this spot–)

It wasn’t important. It can’t have been important. They didn’t want to ask. If they asked– she’d make that face, and they didn’t really want to see the face right now, because it would probably just make things bad. For both of them. Nessa already had to deal with so much of their issues, and yeah, she didn’t mind and she said she could handle it, but moons above if they didn’t feel guilty when she made the face.

In conclusion: Fine.

At least falling asleep was easy. It was hard to be worried enough to keep themselves awake when heavy, safe arms held them close.

…

It was those same arms that they almost bit out of reflex when they were shaken awake at the elbow-crack of dawn. In a bit of holy retribution, Lioness looked about as tired as they felt.

“Mmhgg– Was I thrashing again…?” They grumbled tiredly, dropping their head back onto the hard-packed soil with an audible thunk that the dragoness beside them jolted at.

“...No? But you– you’re gonna miss the flight to Mulch, if you don-don’t get up,” Lioness yawned, words slurring in the intake and outtake of breath.

Well, shit. What had they blankly nodded to yesterday?

“Riiight. That. Yes. I will be getting on with that. Right now.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Merlot didn’t flinch. They didn’t do that. They were better than that– or, they were supposed to be. However… they definitely moved, a little bit, and in an apparently very telling way, which was met by a groggy hum.

“Guess I’ll be go-goin’ too, th–”

“Actually,” they interrupted, just a wee bit too loud, “I know I told you yesterday, but. Gibbon. I don’t want you there because, from what little I know about him– from what little I could pick up– he will use you as ammo. Or… whatever other reason you need. I know I shouldn’t but it’s– he doesn’t need to know about the dragons that I love.”

That seemed to have worked. The lie by omission. The lie that they, at least, remembered some things. They felt bad, but– telling people things wasn’t always the best option, okay?

“I trust you,” Lioness soothed, eventually. “An-and… I will trust you to k-know your boundaries.”

“Just– please.” A talon cupped the side of their face; lifted it off the ground. “I’m not going to judge you if you– if you tell me w-when that happens. Okay?”

They loved her.

They loved her, but judgement was not what they were afraid of.

“Okay.”

…

You know, Merlot used to wish they hatched a Rainwing. A pure Rainwing.

Not anymore.

“I’m rather touched that you’d rather spend time with me down in Mulch than hang out with your friends,” Gibbon blabbed, voice sounding sincere but really, Silence sounded sincere, Muskox sounded sincere, EVERYONE that had hurt them sounded sincere–

Ahem. Anyways.

“I’m going on Alliance business. There are enough in Reverie already,” they snipped frigidly, dipping from where they flew to a lower elevation, trying to ignore the Rainwing that had not stopped talking for literally half an hour. Without blinking an eye, he followed, raising a brow at their brushing off.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed– Why, you were a lot nicer yesterday! Oh, I bet you’re a night owl. She was, too. You know, you’re very similar to her– not to say you don’t have a lot in common with me, too! You’ve got that good ol’ Trelora work ethic!”

Merlot’s claws twitched.

They settled for angling their head to glare at him, no matter how ineffective it was without the flare of their frills, without the bright red that might have been on their scales, once upon a time. They were turning red, but– just like everything around them– it was dull. Rotting.

“I’m a Glacias. You made sure of that.”

The rest of the (short) flight was quiet.

…

And so they did what they knew how to do: Work. Work, directed by their dad because technically he was actually skilled in construction. (He was. It bought the tiniest nugget of respect from them.)

Oh, well. Messing with Chelicerata was a good outlet whether they were angry or confused, too.

“You know,” Gibbon starts, one day, on break, “she never told me.”

Merlot’s ears pricked, tilting towards the maroon drake. Mouth still occupied with a generous helping of mango (it was SO tropical here and it was AWESOME), they… took the bait.

“Told you what?”

He startled in place, eyes widening, perhaps in shock at their actual reply. Or, he hadn’t meant to let that slip..? “Ah– I mean, she never told me that she was with egg.”

Treefrog didn’t say that. Treefrog said…

Apparently, Gibbon could read expressions as well as they could read books. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Treloras got that bit wrong,” he admitted, with an honest-to-Ice-Spirits nervous laugh. “I haven’t exactly… been the best relative. But– I didn’t know. I would’ve abandoned my contract in a second an’ stayed with her if I knew. Or– Or, we would’ve moved together to the Rainforest,” he sighed, brows drawing tight.

He knew. He knew she was dead.
How?

The blank space. Thinking about it made something in the back of their head prickle– but, alas, nothing else. No memory.

Merlot could not overstate how much they hated (near?) death experiences, because this was simply annoying as all hell.

Their father took their slow, considering blink as permission to continue.

“I’d like to make it up to you. To the family,” he declared, ticking the corner of his jaw up in a hopeful smile. “If not any of them– still, to you. I… owe the Glacias family quite a lot, apparently.”

They knew what it was LIKE to be hated. They knew what it was like to have something wrong said about you for no other reason than that you didn’t act quite the same.

They didn’t want to like him. He took so much, even if he didn’t know.

But they’d always given people second chances.

“Okay,” Merlot said, finally. “...We need to finish putting the windmill frame together.”

And, for the first time that week, Gibbon joined them to hammer down the nails.