#baronyofthesilverwolf

"ANY cake is good." Briar says, she's leaning to prod at a package on the table.

A sudden call from further inward in the manor, it's Art. "Hey! Thistle!"

"Also true."

"Art!"

"Come here a moment?" He's over in her workshop, down a hall, out through the kitchen

"Coming!"

She drops off a wrapped bundle on Art's pile, and heads that-a-way.

"Don't be upset, okay?" He asks her, anxiously, in the doorway.

Nadeen moves to Gwen "Are your friends vanishing from another party?"

Gladiola gives a nervous laugh

A wary look. "Why?"

He pulls her into the workshop and shuts the door, for a moment of privacy.

"I knew that I shouldn't touch your setup, I mean, it's Nocker craft and all that, but I figured I would just change out the book for the afternoon, after all, I'd be back right after your saining..."

A brow creeps north.

He steps aside and shows her that Fornax has curled up into a small oval, and does not look responsive.

"I don't see how it hurt him, but if I did, you know I did not mean to, and I am so sorry..." He is nearly babbling.

Her spirals immediately go slate gray.

"Fornax?" She approaches.

The little dragon's eyes are lidded, and his tail curled over his nose, little wingnubs flat on his back, he looks almost like he is sleeping, except that he does not stir.

She leans in, watching for a breath.

She sees none, his skin looks hard and dry.

"No... oh no..."

She gently picks up... the body...

His skin is hard and dry - but warm? Warm! Warm like terracotta left in the sun. And through her rough and callused skin, she can feel it - a hint of something stirring within, responding to her touch.

She squint-scowls, kenning.

"He's warm..."

A bright gleam of glamour within, pulsing, alive!

"Art, come touch him."

"He's not dead. There's.. something.."

The skin doesn't actually feel like skin at all, and when she moves him, his limbs don't shift, as though he's carved in stone...

Art steps forward, his expression drawn with worry. "Is... is he..."

He listens, and places his hands over Thistle's own, cupping the dragonet along with her.

"I don't know. He's not dead."

"What if we both gave him some Glamour?"

The faintest tap tap tap... tick tick tick ... tap tap tap.

"He's tied to both of us..."

"Yes, of course. Anything he needs."

"On three?"

Art narrows his eyes in concentration and nods.

"One... two..."

"Three." He breathes, and lightly presses glamour through his fingers, into the little form.

"Three." Thistle's glamour is a thing of fire and scintillating colors.

Art's is star-silver shot through with deep purple and night-black...

In their hands, the eggshell-thin layer around Fornax shatters into tiny fragments, as the draconet stirs!

"Hey!" Spirals lighting back up again with color.

"Oh, sweet moon and stars." Art breathes. "I thought when the darn player got stuck, I had hurt him... is he okay?"

"I think so? Maybe it's a molt, like an insect."

"Molt." The dragonet peeps, as he shifts, little piles of dust cascading through both wilders' cupped fingers, stretching and examining himself, from nose to tailtip. He seems a little larger once we unwinds...

"...Doff, slough, exuviate." He adds.

"Art... what book did you leave him on?"

"Uh... it was..." He blinks a few times, to remember. "...Roget's Thesaurus..."

"That's... yeah."

"Well. Probably great for his vocabulary."