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Forward dated friday the 13th! Rhaegal is rune searching.

The Northfall son woke in a fit of cries. He had a nightmare. It was filled with many faces he did not know, creatures he had never seen and a voice he could barely understand. Of all the dreams he could be plagued with, it is this last mass dream, summing up all the horrible and bewildering events which Mythris had been plagued with before his birth. Now, he saw the world tear itself apart and his cries echoed through the cavern long before he truly woke.

When he did, it took some time to soothe the child. It was easy to call one thing a nightmare and not real if they did not understand. It wouldn't take much from the words of his mother's to sooth him. What was a rune, anyway?

Friday the 13th came. He was born that very same day a month prior. Baby blue eyes began to change at its outer iris, hints of golden color seeping through. They search outside the den as Rhaegal stands at its opening, the chill of the winter wind causing him to quiver. He rather enjoyed the warmth and darkness of the den yet curiosity kept him staring outward. Memories of great glowing blue fissures in the ground plagued his mind. Was there a rune out there, somewhere?

Rune Discovery : 「 Failure 」 

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What a contradiction you seem to be. A new life, a blessing, taking its earliest steps into the world while that world crashes down around you.

But these two things are not mutually exclusive, any more than fear and courage. You look out into the wilds beyond all you have known before, and see the distant blue glow of your dream come to life. It catches on the roiling clouds above... even if here, in your den, you are safe.

Can one so little change the course of all Mythris? It’s not so strange to think. You cannot comprehend the vastness of the world, and have no reason to be intimidated by the task.

No runes reveal themselves to you this morning. Still, the gentle encouragement of the Dream Visitor whispers in your mind, Sepa lale! Kak likind! (Be brave! Keep looking!)

Skill: 

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Some might say that having your children born during the end of the world would be a curse ... a misfortune ... a portent of poor luck for the rest of their short lives.

Sreda would agree.

But she would agree in that insane sort of way, one where she basked in the darkness of a collapsing universe and inhaled deeply the cacophony it brought. And she did not raise her children in fear of it — for they were born of it. Just as she had been. Born in death, breathing in blood, and drenched in the valor of the Vikings.

With short paces, she'd followed Rhaegal, observing him as he took puppy-sized steps into the morning air. The darkness flickered around him, dancing across his skin. In the distance, the blue light would glimmer, flowing upward through the cracks in the world's very surface. And Sreda would approach him softly, resting her rump on the frozen earth as she placed herself at his side. Sreda would allow her eyes to wander, looking outward alongside his.

What do you think of it, мой Темный Дракон (my Dark Dragon)?

Her voice held no emotion, but there was a glimmer behind her eyes.

Sreda had seen many things die. But never an entire world.

There was something horrible and beautiful about it.

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