Rwanae has a minion!

Frost the Arctic Chirrup


The Glacier Irion
Owner: Foxtrot

Age: 8 years, 10 months, 4 weeks

Born: July 8th, 2011

Adopted: 8 years, 1 month, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: April 21st, 2012

Pet Spotlight Winner
September 22nd, 2019


  • Level: 108
  • Strength: 266
  • Defense: 257
  • Speed: 257
  • Health: 257
  • HP: 257/257
  • Intelligence: 148
  • Books Read: 144
  • Food Eaten: 3
  • Job: Professional Lab Cleaner

The harshest weather
exposes the champions.
The purest love
shines light on the wicked.
And nothing but the bravest soul
can conquer
both the weather,
and the wicked.

Glacial Irins are noble and determined creatures. Our coats are pure white, and our accent feathers any shade of blue. We fight like hell and always win. We take pride in ourselves, help the community, and honor our families, but most of all- we are superstitious.

It was a harsh storm, the wind howling mad at everything and everyone. My father bolted into the castle and my mother burst into tears. The King and Queen held each other tightly before reaching to pull me close. I remember the warmth of my mother on the right and the cold ice-tipped feathers of my father on the left. She chided him softly for being late and tracking ice onto her floor.

The moment was brief. She screamed in agony and fell back into the pillows on which she laid. The midwives and maidens cooed softly, stroking her feathers and telling her to breathe. Irins are the only avian species to experience live birth, and it was a very public affair.

This went on for some time, but my favorite butler was hard at work keeping my young mind preoccupied. That is, until she came. The simultaneous gasps were thunderous and glass trinkets shattered across the floor in more places than one. I turned quickly, scrambling through the white and blue feathers to get a closer look. When I breached the front line I gasped too.

There she was, black as night, her accent feathers an eerie purple. Whispers of 'the dark one' and 'tainted blood' echoed loudly through the halls.

It is law for dark ones to be slaughtered at birth. Four times our kind had ignored the lore, and four times we had regretted it. My mother clutched her new babe tightly. She, my father, and everyone in the room knew the destruction a dark one could bring, but she couldn't let go. The kingsmen advanced on her and she screeched in defiance, nestling my sister into her wings and preparing for battle.

I looked expectantly to my father, for I too wanted to defend my sister.

My father was a brilliant King; strong, protective, smart, and kind. I noted his hesitation as he wrestled with his need to protect the kingdom, and his family. He never struck me as the type to have his cake and eat it too, but that day he tried. Kingsmen armor went clashing into the walls and he bellowed at the room to lay silent.

Dark ones had only ever been born to common Irins, never nobles. Not in the thousands of years we have been here. Not ever. This made its way into his speech. He spoke about superstition and the meaning of life. He made the master recorder bring the lore. The last time a dark one wasn't killed as a babe was eight centuries ago.

My father was persuasive, and by the end the entire room bobbed their heads in agreement. I could see the worry in their eyes, but they had loyalty in their hearts. The news spread quickly of my sister: what else was there to do in the cold and unforgiving tundra besides tell stories and gossip.

A couple years passed. We stood for our family portrait. King Roak, Queen Fae, myself, Nataska, and Byron. I, the eldest, was named after both of my parents according to custom. Nataska was named for the ice goddess of purity in an effort to purge her title of the Dark One. My father named Byron, the youngest, after a close friend he lost in battle shortly before the birth. I snuck down to look more closely at the painting after the ceremony. It was clear in the dim candlelight that the artist had done my mothers bidding and painted Nataska like a saint. He didn't get the glisten in her eye.

I least of all can blame my Mother. It started innocently enough, Nataska getting into mischief and pinning it on me. Running rogue through the castle and breaking things was her specialty, yet everyone except my Mother knew it. She was also prone to playing a little too rough, and not stopping when you said it hurt. I spent more time in close proximity to her than anyone else. I saw the way she looked at things and noticed the times she smiled biggest: when everybody else wasn't.

Coming into adulthood is a life-changing event for every Irin, especially those of noble blood. We do not molt, so our feathers are branded with permanent runes to ward off evil and show our heritage. Nataska whined loudly about me getting mine a year before her, knowing Mother would break tradition and cave. Our once in a lifetime ceremony went well, until the "incident".

Our runes were branded, mine bright blue and hers purple. Special magic had been brewed for the first time in history to match her accent feathers. The master of ceremony beckoned for me to stand and recite the inscription our bloodline had carried for thousands of years, so I stood, spreading my wings towards the attending nobles:

"Over the jagged hills we traveled,
forced to traverse a treacherous path.
Until we sprouted wings and took flight,
conquering the winds,
and turning the mountains upside down."

My runes glowed brightly, my spine tingling as they activated and merged with my flesh. The crowd erupted in applause and I watched Nataska grimace like she did whenever I received attention, but this time I saw the hate. Everyone chanting "long live the future queen" did nothing but goad her further into a jealous rage. She recited her inscription quickly, to much less applause, and it was time to take flight.

We set out per tradition, racing toward the tallest mountain in our region. The tip was never visible, it remained cloaked in a perpetual storm that only the strongest survived. I glanced over at Nataska, her face contorted into a look I had not seen before: one of determination and evil.

Our momentum from the frozen lake lifted us up the mountainside. We ascended swiftly and, exhilarated by the wind, I let Nataska stray behind.

She turned on me in that storm. My sister tried to kill me.

I woke days later in the infirmary, everyone gathered around my bedside recounting the tale of 'Nataska the hero'. My mind muddled and my body broken, I actually thanked her. My memory of the flight was gone, but the limp and the scar tearing a rift in my runes were ever present. The smile she gave when I praised her lodged itself in my mind. She seemed disappointed.

It didn't take long for Nataska to escalate her behaviors. Under the guise of 'hero', her reign of terror went unchecked. And as planned, I was always caught at the scene. Poor confused little old me. The Irin who couldn't make it through the mountain.

Her plan worked. My parents argued constantly. In their hearts they knew my innocence, but their denial was as tangible as my injuries. They feared being wrong, because being wrong meant an execution. The truth seemed too obvious. They wanted to believe the lie.

My father, gentle and kind, bellowed at me about responsibility and how to act my age. I pleaded with him, but he revoked my birthright.

Nataska would be the next Queen.

Days passed, another family portrait. My habit of revisiting the freshly-painted canvas by candlelight brought me down the great hall. I looked through the previous years, slowly making my way to the newest. The artist didn't bother painting us through a rose-colored lens like his predecessors, we looked haunted and hollow, all except Nataska. I caught a glimpse of her in the glass frame. The smile on her face brought back memories- back to the mountain.

I gasped and turned, my mind reeling as I stammered out the accusation. She startled me with her proximity and her appearance forced my eyes to refocus. The candlelight glistened brightly off her feathers because they were wet.

She was soaked in blood.

I screeched at her, knowing that Byron and my parents were already gone. I knew I would be blamed. Mischevious, rotten, immature, weak Rwanae had the throne taken away and she snapped. Her brave sister, "the hero", tried to take her into custody, but the tragic battle would prove to be fatal. This was her plan, she told me so. She told me everything with that smile on her face.

We clashed violently. It was my first time fighting to kill and my barely-mended bones splintered under the strain. I fought for our family, she fought for the throne. The dried blood disappeared against her dark feathers, but I was painted red. I knew how it looked.

Our rukus brought the guards and the only opening I had, I took. She let out a wretched scream as I darted through the kingsmen toward the door. My only plea of innocence was to cry out to Brauhn, the butler who comforted me all those years ago during Nataska's birth, that I was not to blame. He stared blankly at me, his old and terrified mind had finally succumbed to dementia.

They followed me for months. Day after day I hid and ran a little further. Deeper into the tundra until the last speck of blood fell to the pristine snow, and deeper still until I found a place I could call my own. Amongst the trees and mountains I now reside, answering the squall of this ancient land like a true Irin.

My heart aches for the ones I lost, but I find solace here away from the ceremonies and classes and labels. My wings cut through the sky more in one day than I was allowed in a month as heir.

I feel Byron in the clouds. Mother and father too. There are no laws and there is no lore. No evil in the snow and no malice in the breeze.

I think they'd be happy here.
Conquering the winds, and turning the mountains upside down.


Fullbody by KamiLionheart

Chibi by Nayona

Overlay art by Rathoren

Background from Apofiss on DA

Profile by Paula │ Story by Foxtrot

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