Wings of Freedom: A Temeraire Quest
- Thread starter inquisition
- Start date
- Fantasy Alt. History Historic
Seems my dream of huge is doomed to remain a dream. Genius, maybe politician, dragon is still awesome though.
inquisition
Not Affiliated With the Spanish Church
- Location
- Valkenheim
Remember, tiny for a dragon is still big enough to use a horse as a battlefield snack.
I know, but I really wanted the flying battleship.Remember, tiny for a dragon is still big enough to use a horse as a battlefield snack.
But like I said earlier, I'm still pretty happy with the winning vote. Smart is nice too.
inquisition
Not Affiliated With the Spanish Church
- Location
- Valkenheim
A clear majority for the Perscitia build - next update should be later tonight.
2: A Choice
inquisition
Not Affiliated With the Spanish Church
- Location
- Valkenheim
[X] A Mapiya (Lightweight)
[X] Female
You come to understand, through the rigid skin of your shell, that you are something called a "Mapiya." Whatever it is, it seems you will hardly be the only one - you can hear men outside griping in hushed tones about how there are too many already, and the chattering will be insufferable. Very rude, you think, from the confines of your sky-blue egg. Thay haven't even met you and they're already making judgements.
As time passes, and you begin to grow restless within the shell, you become more capable of distinguishing voices - and distinguishing languages. The flatly-intoned, oddly hissing tongue you come to recognize as English, and you hear it far more often than any other. The other, you come to learn, is Cherokee, a more choppy language spoken with a radically different intonation. This second language is spoken almost entirely, you think, by one young man, in a low, almost reverent tone. As you come to understand it, telling you a story, about running, about something called a "drinking gourd," and freedom. His accent, when he speaks English, is different from the others - which you can hear as he speaks to what you assume to be other eggs.
Sometimes, another man - younger, by the sound of his voice - comes in. Often, you can feel the gentle pressure of his hand on the eggshell as he talks to you - about rather inane things, you think disgruntledly, like his family or his friends or the letters a woman sends to him (you're unsure exactly why, but he seems rather fond of her).
The third person you remember - at least with any real clarity - comes towards the end of your long confinement. Their voice is oddly hollow and ringing, although markedly female, tinged with a great deal of worry. Unusually, it's also in Cherokee.
"It's been so long, Degataga." You feel the pressure of a hand - one far larger (and sharper) than the others who came by - on the top of the egg, with a gentleness that belies its bulk. "Do you think it will be alright?"
A second voice, more "normal," comes from a slight distance away. "My dear," it twangs, with no small measure of amusement, "The shell's hardened, and Collins assures me that the dragonet's in no danger. Now come along, no sense in bein' a mother hen. I promise we can visit again once it's hatched, and we have us a long flight home."
The large hand is removed, and oddly enough, you feel a little bereft at its absence.
"Oh, all right, Degataga," the female voice says, its own twang - less obvious than the man's - receding into the distance as you strain to listen. "As long as you promise."
After that, it's a return to long, boring routine. Voices turn indistinct, blurring together into a hum. It feels like the more words you come to recognize, the less you hear - after all, if you can't speak or reply, what's the point of language?
So, at some point, you simply decide that enough is enough.
You shift your foreclaw through the muck of the egg slime, rapping experimentally at the shell. A thin, spiderweb crack runs across the interior, and you hear an immediate shout of surprise as you keep working away at the shell.
"Oh damn, it's early! Cassius! Cassius, go wake Gloucester!"
By the time the crack is widened into a hole large enough to see out of, indistinct shapes are crowding around you, backlit by the glow of oil lamps.
Yout tumble from the shell, blue-white and shriveled, sending shards and slime splattering across a warm stone floor. You cough and heave, expelling the fluid from your lungs, and take your first shuddering, hesitant steps in a new world.
"Go on, boy."
A rough voice draws your attention to the array of men all around you. They wear uniforms of a shade so blue they're almost black, most rumpled and misbuttoned - like they were thrown on in a hurry.
At the center of all this, a young man - or you assume he's young, due to a lack of gray hair - slowly approaches you, a tangle of leather and steel trembling in unsteady hands. He's small, even for a human, curly-haired and pale with a smattering of freckles across his nose. Curiously, you pad towards him, shaking off bits of shell and globs of slime as you do. He hesitates as you approach, skittering back a bit before marshaling himself and approaching.
Off to the side, one other person catches your eye. His skin is darker than the others, a deep brown, and unlike the others, he isn't wearing a uniform - he's instead clad in a tattered, patched shirt and pants. A few speckles of gray mark his close-cropped hair, and as he folds his hands, you see - just for a moment - large patches of welts on his wrists, wrapping all the way around. He looks surprised as you nose over to him, regarding him with one eye and then the other.
A hand reaches out of the crowd and clasps his shoulder, pulling him none to gently away from you. "Get back, Cassius!"
He nods dumbly and stumbles back, stammering out, "Yes, sir!"
You recognize the voice - it's the one who read to you in those deep, reverent tones, unwittingly (or perhaps wittingly?) teaching you Cherokee.
The boy with the straps - Gloucester, you think, starts approaching you again. "H-hello?" he says, uncertainty in his voice. You recognize it as well - it's the youthful voice that visited you near on every night for months on end.
You have a choice.
[ ] Choose Gloucester as your companion.
[ ] Choose Cassius as your companion.
[ ] Refuse to go under harness.
[X] Female
You come to understand, through the rigid skin of your shell, that you are something called a "Mapiya." Whatever it is, it seems you will hardly be the only one - you can hear men outside griping in hushed tones about how there are too many already, and the chattering will be insufferable. Very rude, you think, from the confines of your sky-blue egg. Thay haven't even met you and they're already making judgements.
As time passes, and you begin to grow restless within the shell, you become more capable of distinguishing voices - and distinguishing languages. The flatly-intoned, oddly hissing tongue you come to recognize as English, and you hear it far more often than any other. The other, you come to learn, is Cherokee, a more choppy language spoken with a radically different intonation. This second language is spoken almost entirely, you think, by one young man, in a low, almost reverent tone. As you come to understand it, telling you a story, about running, about something called a "drinking gourd," and freedom. His accent, when he speaks English, is different from the others - which you can hear as he speaks to what you assume to be other eggs.
Sometimes, another man - younger, by the sound of his voice - comes in. Often, you can feel the gentle pressure of his hand on the eggshell as he talks to you - about rather inane things, you think disgruntledly, like his family or his friends or the letters a woman sends to him (you're unsure exactly why, but he seems rather fond of her).
The third person you remember - at least with any real clarity - comes towards the end of your long confinement. Their voice is oddly hollow and ringing, although markedly female, tinged with a great deal of worry. Unusually, it's also in Cherokee.
"It's been so long, Degataga." You feel the pressure of a hand - one far larger (and sharper) than the others who came by - on the top of the egg, with a gentleness that belies its bulk. "Do you think it will be alright?"
A second voice, more "normal," comes from a slight distance away. "My dear," it twangs, with no small measure of amusement, "The shell's hardened, and Collins assures me that the dragonet's in no danger. Now come along, no sense in bein' a mother hen. I promise we can visit again once it's hatched, and we have us a long flight home."
The large hand is removed, and oddly enough, you feel a little bereft at its absence.
"Oh, all right, Degataga," the female voice says, its own twang - less obvious than the man's - receding into the distance as you strain to listen. "As long as you promise."
After that, it's a return to long, boring routine. Voices turn indistinct, blurring together into a hum. It feels like the more words you come to recognize, the less you hear - after all, if you can't speak or reply, what's the point of language?
So, at some point, you simply decide that enough is enough.
You shift your foreclaw through the muck of the egg slime, rapping experimentally at the shell. A thin, spiderweb crack runs across the interior, and you hear an immediate shout of surprise as you keep working away at the shell.
"Oh damn, it's early! Cassius! Cassius, go wake Gloucester!"
By the time the crack is widened into a hole large enough to see out of, indistinct shapes are crowding around you, backlit by the glow of oil lamps.
Yout tumble from the shell, blue-white and shriveled, sending shards and slime splattering across a warm stone floor. You cough and heave, expelling the fluid from your lungs, and take your first shuddering, hesitant steps in a new world.
"Go on, boy."
A rough voice draws your attention to the array of men all around you. They wear uniforms of a shade so blue they're almost black, most rumpled and misbuttoned - like they were thrown on in a hurry.
At the center of all this, a young man - or you assume he's young, due to a lack of gray hair - slowly approaches you, a tangle of leather and steel trembling in unsteady hands. He's small, even for a human, curly-haired and pale with a smattering of freckles across his nose. Curiously, you pad towards him, shaking off bits of shell and globs of slime as you do. He hesitates as you approach, skittering back a bit before marshaling himself and approaching.
Off to the side, one other person catches your eye. His skin is darker than the others, a deep brown, and unlike the others, he isn't wearing a uniform - he's instead clad in a tattered, patched shirt and pants. A few speckles of gray mark his close-cropped hair, and as he folds his hands, you see - just for a moment - large patches of welts on his wrists, wrapping all the way around. He looks surprised as you nose over to him, regarding him with one eye and then the other.
A hand reaches out of the crowd and clasps his shoulder, pulling him none to gently away from you. "Get back, Cassius!"
He nods dumbly and stumbles back, stammering out, "Yes, sir!"
You recognize the voice - it's the one who read to you in those deep, reverent tones, unwittingly (or perhaps wittingly?) teaching you Cherokee.
The boy with the straps - Gloucester, you think, starts approaching you again. "H-hello?" he says, uncertainty in his voice. You recognize it as well - it's the youthful voice that visited you near on every night for months on end.
You have a choice.
[ ] Choose Gloucester as your companion.
[ ] Choose Cassius as your companion.
[ ] Refuse to go under harness.
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[X] Choose Cassius as your companion.
CuttleFish2.0
Friendly neighborhood cuttlefish
- Location
- Seattle, Washington.
[X] Refuse to go under harness.
BTW @inquisition some missing words at the end of the first paragraph.
BTW @inquisition some missing words at the end of the first paragraph.
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Khona Moshr
Pink Flamingo Cabal Healer(they/them)
- Location
- Alabama
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Choose Cassius as your companion.
- Location
- Meycauayan, Bulacan, Philippines
[X] Refuse to go under harness.
We can spin this as "The human has scars from something that looks like a harness. They are trying to harness you. Are you the equivalent of the human?"
Lots of fingerpointing to Cassius, the harness and yourself will deliver that message effectively.
We can spin this as "The human has scars from something that looks like a harness. They are trying to harness you. Are you the equivalent of the human?"
Lots of fingerpointing to Cassius, the harness and yourself will deliver that message effectively.
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Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
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[X] Choose Gloucester as your companion.
- Location
- United States
[X] Choose Gloucester as your companion.
Remember people we are aiming for the Oval.
Remember people we are aiming for the Oval.
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
@inquisition What's your policy on write-in votes?
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Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X] Refuse to go under harness.
Muh freedom!
[] Choose Cassius as your companion.
Muh freedom!
[] Choose Cassius as your companion.
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So the USA of this world actually allow dragons to own a company?
Is this AU or canon? Because the British certainly don't allow such if I remember right.
EDIT: actually, changed my mind.
Is this AU or canon? Because the British certainly don't allow such if I remember right.
EDIT: actually, changed my mind.
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inquisition
Not Affiliated With the Spanish Church
- Location
- Valkenheim
As long as I approve (and I do here) it's fine.
100% canon. Said dragon actually shows up in the penultimate book and near-singlehandedly opens Japan.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
[X] Refuse to go under harness.
Racial slavery in dragons makes a lot more sense than in humans, because there are actual serious racial differences. IIRC, a few of the courrier breeds are seriously impaired beyond their courrier duties.
So, a war based on eugenics, between those who seek to improve the species of Dragons, and those dragons who dislike that centrally planned approach, could happen.
It's unclear whether that dependence is natural though. Various nations explicitedly encourage it, and pretty much restrict the Dragon's social sphere to their rider, crew and other dragons. In a way, they're strongly isolated from any other potential connection.
It could be about the dragons.
Racial slavery in dragons makes a lot more sense than in humans, because there are actual serious racial differences. IIRC, a few of the courrier breeds are seriously impaired beyond their courrier duties.
So, a war based on eugenics, between those who seek to improve the species of Dragons, and those dragons who dislike that centrally planned approach, could happen.
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