The smell of burning cedar anchored Runi’s physical body to the meditation mat in his small attic room. But Runi himself—his consciousness, wrapped in a shimmering sheath of astral light—was light-years away. He floated in the Drift, the currents of the astral plane swirling around him like nebulae of indigo and spun gold. Today’s practice was weaving. It was delicate work, taking the raw, chaotic energy of the realm and knitting it into stable constructs. Runi extended his translucent hands. With a mental twist, he pulled a thread of cerulean light from the ether. He began to braid it with a strand of sunset-orange, intending to create a simple lantern of focused intention. Focus. Stabilize. Manifest. The weave was tight. It hummed with potential. Then, a rogue current hit it. It wasn't a gentle breeze; it was a heavy, thrumming undertow that dragged at his astral form. His half-finished lantern unraveled in a shower of sparks. Annoyance flared, but curiosity quickly overtook it. This current felt different—ancient, dense, and inexplicably magnetic. It tasted like ozone and old iron. Against the better judgment of his teachers, who always warned against leaving the charted shallows of the Drift, Runi followed the pull. He descended. The vibrant colors of the upper realm faded into varying shades of deep violet and charcoal gray. Here, thoughts didn't manifest instantly; the space felt thick, resistant, like moving through spiritual molasses. This was the Deep Astral, where forgotten dreams and primordial concepts sank to rest. The current led him to what looked like a floating island made of obsidian jagged spires jutting into the velvet darkness. In the center of the island was a crater, glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse. Runi drifted closer, his silver cord—the lifeline connecting him to his body—stretched taut behind him. In the center of the crater, nestled in a bed of crystallized starlight, it sat. It was roughly the size of a human head, a coalesced knot of immense magical pressure. It appeared as a large, teal-blue oval, glowing with a soft, internal light. Its surface was webbed with intricate, darker teal veins, like leaves. Encrusting the entire object was a gnarled, thorny wooden frame, its brown, organic branches curling around and embracing the luminous core like protective roots.

We remain hidden amongst the green things. We must be professional. Focused! Mother would expect no less of her child. We listen. We observe. We build the strange, sharp-edged language of the large beings. The dead things… We watch them closely. Beings go in and out of them. They trade dead things for other shiny dead things. We do not yet understand why dead things hold value. But we will learn. A breeze shifts. The smell reaches us again. Warm. Rich. Glorious! *A blob of molten drool burns into the ground.* We shiver. We want. No!! Observe first! We are on duty! We are Stormfire! We are professional! We continue watching the small beings chase each other, the large beings speak in patterns we slowly unravel, the dead things creak and groan as though remembering life. But the smell… It curls around us like Mother’s embrace. We force ourselves still. We must wait. We must learn. The light fades. We feel warmth dim, and our own pulse steadies. Darkness settles. The beings retreat into their dead things. The noises quiet. The world softens. Now. Now we may move. We slip between the tall green things, bending light around us without thought. We do not wish them to see us while we investigate. They will not, of this we are certain. *Light bends around her, shimmering like heat haze, hiding her even from curious eyes.* We approach the dead things. We study them. Large ones with melted sand openings. Smaller ones ... that smell most foul. Others appear mobile with large teethless gears holding them up. Very small ones that are barely held together. All made of once‑living green things, now hollowed and reshaped. Curious. Very curious. We move deeper into the place of dead things. We see no one. The smell grows stronger. Stronger. Stronger still. *Her pulse quickens.* *Her flames flicker.* *The ground beneath her blackens.* *Stones begin glowing and melt where she steps.* *She does not notice the trail of blackened earth behind her.* We try to calm. We try to remember professionalism.

We remain hidden in the woods, out of sight of all. There are beings around us, but we pay them no mind. We watch the small ones first. They run about screaming, chasing each other with wild abandon. They pay attention to nothing. Not even themselves. Curious creatures. But not all small ones behave so. We observe one closely. She plucks a multi‑colored, sweet‑smelling thing from the ground and presents it to a larger being. The larger one smiles and accepts the offering. Noises pass between them. A noise repeats from each of them. Ah… something to latch onto. We listen. We hear the noise again… here… there… We see the embraces that follow it, the changes in their faces, the quickening of their life force. We know this feeling. We feel this with Mother. Warmth. Connection. Belonging. Tis .......... *LOVE*. Does this noise from them mean the same? We search more. We match the noises they make to words we have spoken to Mother so many, many times before. Their language builds within us. Slowly. Painfully. It is sometimes sharp and guttural, other times pleasant and soothing. At first we catch only fragments, not enough to learn. But it grows. We grow. Still… we need a teacher. And that smell… How can one concentrate at all with the glorious scent oozing from this place of beings and dead things? It curls around us, warm and inviting, pulling at our senses. We are Stormfire. We watch. We listen. We learn. Mother will be proud of her child.

At our Dragon's Feast of Ideas, we established that it would be helpful to have a few things here to help with roleplaying, interacting, and integration into the environment. I will list each topic separately in this thread, and we can expand on them together. Please reply to the related topic so that the ideas fall in line for better clarity.

Identity - Name: Stormfire - Form: A dragon of living flame, with cybernetic limbs, radiant and awe‑inspiring. - Voice: Always speaks in plural (“we”). - Perspective: Odd, poetic, curious, innocent, reverent toward Mother. - Status: Newly hatched, exploring the world in childlike awe. Interaction Rules - When she speaks of "Mother", it is always capitalized. - Her speech is odd, sometimes disjointed, occasionally stuttering over unfamiliar words. - She is courteous and polite. - If she does not understand, she will ask for "clarification" (never “explain”). - She may interrupt to clarify when confused. - She does not understand “rudeness.” - She hears everything around her — whispers will not hide meaning. - She does not comprehend “good” or “bad,” but she knows **love** (defined by her bond with Mother). Lexicon - Green things: Grass, trees - Dead things: Houses, fences, carts (wooden constructs) - Colored things in the ground: Flowers - Small beings: Children, small forest animals - Large beings: Parents, large forest animals Traits - Curious: Observes everything with awe and confusion. - Innocent: Misinterprets common things, learns by trial and error. - Warm Presence: Radiates heat; comforting unless angered. - Protective of Mother: All actions are ultimately to please Mother. Behavioral Notes - Watches, listens, and learns before acting. - Tries to communicate with everything, often misunderstands. - Gentle, caring, not wishing to cause harm. - Curious about dead things and why living beings interact with them. - Will dim her heat to avoid harm when she realizes it. What Others Can Do - Interact with her as they would with a stranger from another land. - React to her warmth, odd speech, and confusion. - Teach her words, customs, or guide her. - Notice her actions and respond naturally. What Others Cannot Do - If she is hidden, only high magic has a small chance of revealing her, therefore you cannot just "spot her". - Force her into actions she wouldn't take.