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Dragon scales.
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Crystalline etches that caved and fell through the gray that lay over the sky in gentle breath. Accented by strings of silver, that lay through torn holes pulled apart by the ambient white of the new winter moon.
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That’s what they were called anyway, stained as clear as the oceans would allow, selfishly stealing color as they fell, grasping at what color they could before joining the sea of ambers and embers below.
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Save for the few that stuck to cerulean. Plush wings outstretched, proudly boasting lush feathers crafted from the air around them.
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A flick, a fold, a furl. Repetitive strokes cutting through the sky with ease, clutching onto those falling scales with the hope to keep them close to heart.
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In moments like these, with lonesome company of the self and soul, to watch the night turn to dim morning, that Dash could pull the sweet mountain air and fall through the sky with the grace of the falling leaves that since fell quiet, hushing their reds and golds under a blanket of white.
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She would return with the rain, and go with the clouds, but with each new day, she proudly counted her collected dragon scales.