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She's so small, sinuous, a dragonet green as grass at night; her large dark-lit eyes hearken to evening more than light. Some old flame might have charred her here and there, sharpening the sweet, sharp curves of her ash-dusted claws and softening the delicate wisps of her gauzy wings even as it darkens. She might move with even more swift confidence if it weren't for the disfigurement that catches that left wing's mainsail, adhering it to the nearest spar. She could be a delicate, dancing shadow, her willowy form carried by tiny, nimble paws.