A dragon is a creature of the air. Even those that prefer to dwell in swamps, amid murky water and under the thick overhang of trees which block out the sky and leave the night starless remember well that they have wings. They are the pride of every dragon, more fiercely protected than their heart or armored underbelly. Of all the species of dragons, those which value their wings most dearly are the Blue and Silver. The Silver adores cool mountain tops touched with snow and crisp air over their scales, values things in which worth is not inherent but gifted, loves diversity and adventure. Blue dragons are very different from their cousins. They are dragons of the desert, patient as the sun itself, weavers of mirages and lovers of magic. They are feared by all desert dwellers, for they are as fierce as the wind which drives a sandstorm.
They are feared for a reason. There is nothing a blue dragon loves more than to fool some lesser creature who has entered his territory. A bored Blue is agonizingly lethal in a way hunters are not. Perhaps an unsuspecting camel, enticed by the chatter of a small grassland oasis to wander to close to the smooth sand dune which is indistinguishable from the endless sahara. A curious crocodile, charmed from the water by the scent and sight of prey is a great prize in the empty desert. It is nothing for the teeth of a dragon to pierce the armor of a mortal lizard. Even a helpless, lost human, desperate for water and already half-dead from heat can provide some entertainment/ Their desperation for water gives the Blue a mouse to dangle in front of their nose. A Blue loves jewels, precious stones, those matching their scales most of all. They are not creatures to be toyed with. Their lightning turns sand to glass and the rage of a Blue will summon sandstorms from clear skies. They are the masters of the desert, all they desire is theirs to take.
Anastazia is not dangerous. She pads into the room on soft blue flats which say pitter rather than not clack. They are adorned with little white flower decals on the back, to match the blue tulips on her full circle white dress which dances around her curves and ruffles when she sits. The smile always on her lips is accented by her thick golden hair and her red smile draws the attention of the room. Her words are unfailingly kind, both to the diplomat and the orphan. She rejoices in being helpful, brings coffee to the office once a week (two lattes,vanilla and caramel brulee, a frozen strawberry-hazel mocha, and a hazelnut chai), carries errands for those she is not obliged to. She stays late, has her work done first, and is the best person to talk to if you want anything at all done. She motivates her co-workers and reassured her superiors. Her beauty catches eyes, winding over red lips and soft curves. She does not try to keep theem with such finite measures. She is clever, wrapping them in ideas and silken words, she is their friend (how not?). She wants the best for their company, their marriage, their lives. The short, plump girl who avoids like death the water cooler stays all night finishing reports. She is remembered for a promotion. The handsome friend of the manager who leers too often at coworkers and is too friendly with touch is moved to a cubicle, too tall to be seen over, which opens facing the wall. The brunette who loves rose bushes and the tall blonde who painted her desk lilac thank her. She smiles, tells them that the environment of the office is important to everyone, they can just owe her a favor. One little favor.
It would be a foolish mortal to overlook the blue hawk with hooked beak and long talons which watches her with wary eyes. A dragon is never far from their rider. Neither should any man doubt that she is a Blue. Her red lips and playful ruffles serve to weave her mirage. Her sweet words and excessive helpfulness summon the sternest of rulers and the shyest of servants to her, she turns neither away. Both are strengths. She is not a weak little girl, but a Purple mage. Her magic sparkles like the stars over a lonely desert come night, euphoric in sight and death in practice. She does not need it. She plucks forbidden secrets from willing lips, borrows them from conviently unlocked file drawers. The path she carves through deceit and righteousness has drawn many, draining them and breaking underfoot. Few have found its reward. She is a dragon. Dragon's do not fall, they have wings.
She is not fire. Fire is too easily extinguished. It summons alarms and water, men who desire to quash it. She is the sudden strike, the unwarned lightning from blue skies, the starter of fires which have left men and cities trod to dust and ashes in its wake. She does not warn, does not threaten. It does not do to warn prey before attacking it. When the moment is right, a slaughter will ensue born of patience and blood.
Neither man nor god would dare order a dragon.
She is Anastazia of Vasirki.
She is her own.