This Teacup Dragon makes its home in small Bonsai trees. Its scales help it to blend in completly with the colour shifting bark.It sticks out its tail to make it look like a part of the tree when hiding.
Based on this tree: http://gorkarriaga.files.wordpress.com/ ... bonsai.jpg
Congratulations to Paycho who is now the owner of this Teacup.
Paycho wrote:Username:
Paycho
Dragons name:
Muse
a person — especially a woman — who is a source of artistic inspiration.
Gender:
Female
Personality:
Calm, cool, collected. And completely, utterly riddiculous.
On the outside she is silent and composed, the perfect guest. She doesn't speak unless spoken to, and refrains from making most noise.
On the inside, she's a big ball of crazy. She's sarcastic, poetic, artistic, and can't shut up if you get her to start talking.
She enjoys art, and all forms of creativity. When she lurks in bonsai trees, she likes to observe what happens around her, and see the results through. Occasionally, she whispers to the rooms occupants, and gives them ideas.
Short story starring this dragon:
I sat primly in my tree branches. I didn't move a muscle as I surveyed the room, taking in everything and showing nothing.
Someone had taken my tree home with them yesterday, and I was still interested in my new home. They put my little bonsai tree on a side table, in a small room cluttered with piles of paper. A glass box they called a computer sits to my right, humming and whirring. The room was called an Office.
The person most often in my new room was a woman. She had long auburn hair, and bright hazel eyes. Not that i Saw them very often, she spent most of her time at the computer, tapping on another box below it. She was an author, from what I could tell. She would lean back, and say her new chapters out loud to test the feel of the words.
She had writers block.
Her writing was good, she just couldn't move on. I was interested in the story from the first word I heard. Her character was stuck, about to jump off a building. Problem was, she couldn't figure out how to make the story end properly. The character can't just die, and they can't just walk away and ruin the whole plot. She was stuck. i leaned out over my branch, and whisper lowly, "add another person. Let’s have some dialogue, conflict."
The lady nods to herself, and starts typing. She makes more chapters, nearing the end of the book. I whisper to her all the while, coaxing her through the slow spots. One day she leans back, and stretches.
Looking at me.
I stay absolutely still. It's not still enough. She stands up, and looks right at me. Collecting myself, I ask her, "did I help?"
She trembles a little. "I think you did more than help. You just gave me a whole new book."
She smiles, and picks me up. I smile timidly.
"Now lets get to writing."
She strokes me along my spine as I perch on her shoulder, watching her work. her book was the story of a young girl who ran away, and found a dragon in the woods. It wasn’t a big dragon, but a tiny thing that showed the girl courage. In the end, the girl returned home, even though she had to leave her new best friend. I had helped the author through every word, polishing over the sentences.
The words were crisp and fluid, everything had a purpose. I made sure each phrase sang with the clarity of a summer day, and she made sure they had a sweet tang of reality, laced with excitement. It was as if I was in a dream, no one had ever cared for me, no one had ever written about me!
“you really like me?” I ask one day to her, after we had finished the last chapter. The book was done.
“how could I not?” she replied, staring at me with that look that told me was thinking like she was writing, gazing at everything and seeing it with sweet words, and poetic skill. She didn’t just see the green in my eyes, she saw the green of summer leaves, rich with light and life, showing honesty and openness, and the fact that I had never felt so at home than I had in this Office.
I press my tiny face against her cheek in appreciation, a rumble like a purr in my chest. I had never known happiness more powerful than that of a writer and their story, save the happiness I felt now, the happiness of a Writer and their Inspiration.