Dragoncrest Cliffs oh nostalgia, i don't need you anymore

The pale dragon is still young and green enough that he can’t hide his confusion; he cocks his head sharply to the side when Tux’s brassy gaze takes on a new intensity. “What.” He is the physical yang to his brother’s yin, but they’ve got some growing to do. Right now, the metaphor is merely skin-deep. He watches fixedly as Tux’s fangs flash, splashing crimson across the slate-gray stone. Comprehension glimmers in his bourbon eyes, and a slow, cautious smile draws his dark lips into a thin line.

It never occurs to Silkie to ask Tux why he has ripped open his paw, and this is largely because Tux’s reason for doing so doesn’t matter. The solidarity is in the gesture itself; the significance lies in their different truths. For Silkie, spilling his blood is a coping mechanism. It’s childish and fanatic, but he longs to drain the bukajus from his veins. Snake-swift, he dips his muzzle and tears an identical laceration across the same paw, and as the blood pools and spills over, he sets it beside his brother’s. He can’t help but smile — look at all those toes! — but his expression sobers as their mingled blood binds to the stone upon which they stand.

“Jus drein jus daun,” he thinks to himself, but aloud, he murmurs quietly, “Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim.” He and Tux have experienced their fair share of hard knocks, but he’s ready to move on from them if his brother is.