JDH | John Davey Harris

The Blue Dragon is the storyteller's talisman, appearing on the day of the ceremony. He is enormous, even by dragon standards. His scales shimmer with every shade of ice: from pale blue to deep sapphire, and flash silver in the sun. Each scale seems carved from ice, yet warm to the touch. His wings are wide, translucent, veined like frost patterns. When he opens them, the sky seems to grow colder for a second. His eyes are deep blue, with vertical pupils. There is no malice in them, only an ancient calm and attentiveness. His muzzle is elongated and graceful, with two long antennae that detect the slightest vibrations of magic. On the back of his head is a small crest of crystalline spikes that ring softly when he moves. His tail ends in an icy fan, capable of freezing everything around him.

A blue dragon's personality mirrors its owner's. It is calm, patient, and observant. It doesn't rush into battle unnecessarily, but if the threat is real, it acts quickly and mercilessly. It doesn't obey orders, but rather cooperates. It can't be forced, but it can be asked. It senses the mood of its owner, sometimes before they even realize it. If its owner is sad, the dragon lies down next to it and rests its head on its lap. If angry, it stands between them and the source of their irritation. It isn't jealous, but it demands respect. It can ignore commands if it deems them foolish. At the same time, it is playful: with an orange dragon, it behaves like a young beast, although outwardly it seems the embodiment of age-old wisdom. It loves to frolic in the air, tumble, and chase its own tail, but it does so with dignity.

The blue dragon's special ability: it can change size—from enormous, covering half the sky, to small, the size of a cat, making it convenient for navigating the school. Its scales collect moisture from the air, keeping its surroundings always cool and refreshing. It doesn't breathe fire—its elemental powers are ice and water. It can freeze objects, create a wall of ice, and cause snowfall within a radius of several meters. But its main characteristic is its connection to space. The blue dragon senses rifts in reality, can create portals (though small ones for now), and sense danger seconds before it appears. It also possesses empathy: if the narrator is injured, the dragon feels the pain and can partially absorb it.

The blue dragon's magic is one of ice, time, and protection. He can slow time around him for a few seconds and create an ice shield that can withstand a blow from moderate magic. His breath isn't fire, but a stream of icy air that can freeze everything in its path. He can also heal by pressing his muzzle to a wound: the cold stops the bleeding and relieves pain. But his power is not limitless: the more he uses magic, the more energy he drains from his owner. After a major spell, the narrator feels tired and cold in his body.

The orange dragon is John Davey Harris's talisman. It is smaller than the blue dragon, but no less powerful. Its scales glow with every shade of sunset: from golden yellow to deep orange, with scarlet flashes on the crest and tip of the tail. Each scale seems red-hot, but it doesn't burn—it's warm, like coals in a dying fire. Its wings are leathery, with fiery veins that glow in the dark. Its eyes are a bright amber, with vertical pupils, always alert. Its muzzle is slightly shorter than the blue dragon's, with two backward-curving horns the color of obsidian. A mane of flames adorns its neck, undimmed even by rain. Its tail ends in a fiery whip, capable of scorching stone. The paws are powerful, with sharp claws that leave marks, melting the ground.

The orange dragon's personality is John himself in dragon form. He's impulsive, impatient, and curious. He doesn't sit still, constantly exploring everything, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. He's quick-tempered: if something doesn't go his way, he might snort, blow a puff of smoke, or lash out with his tail. But he's easygoing: a minute later, he's playing with the blue dragon, forgetting the insult. He doesn't obey commands—at all. John tried shouting, "Stop!", "Come!", "Sit!"—to no avail. The dragon does what it wants. But he's attached to John. If he leaves, the dragon follows. If John is upset, the dragon rests its head on his shoulder and purrs softly, warming him. He's jealous: he can push the blue dragon away if it stays near John for too long. But overall, they're friends—two fire and ice that have found each other.

Dragon interactions. Blue and orange are opposites that attract. They play together: chasing each other, tumbling in the air, rubbing muzzles. Blue calms the orange, and orange calms the orange. The orange dragon's traits: it can light a fire with a single breath, melt metal, and create illusions of smoke and flame. Its scales glow in the dark like a torch. It's not afraid of the cold, but moisture is unpleasant for it—it snorts and shakes itself like a cat. Its main characteristic is its connection to emotions. The angrier or happier Jon is, the brighter the dragon burns. When angry, it can accidentally set something nearby on fire. When calm, it becomes dull, almost brown. It can also sense lies: if someone lies to Jon, the dragon roars and releases smoke. It cannot heal, but it can cauterize a wound to stop the bleeding.

The orange dragon's magic is fire, passion, and transformation. He can create walls of fire, hurl fireballs, and summon a shower of sparks. His breath is a stream of flame capable of melting stone. He can also shapeshift: briefly shrink to fit through a crack, or grow larger to intimidate an enemy. His fire is unusual: it can only burn what Jon perceives as an enemy, leaving his friends alone. This is a manifestation of his bond with his owner. But magic requires fuel: the more fire, the more tired Jon becomes, and the more hungry he becomes. After a major spell, he can pass out from exhaustion. Yellow makes the blue dragon forget his eternal seriousness. Their magic complements each other: ice and fire create a vapor that can hide them from enemies. Together, they can do what neither can alone: ​​for example, create a fog that simultaneously heals allies and burns enemies. They sense each other from a distance and can communicate without words. Their bond mirrors that of John and the narrator: two different mages who find each other in a world where everyone wants to be ordinary. Dragons don't obey. They're partners. And perhaps that's why they're you.

John Davey Harris is a thirteen-year-old elf, a student at a school for mages. He doesn't look like the typical elf from the old books. He lacks the age-old aloofness, cold politeness, and condescending calm. John is lively, edgy, loud, curious, and strangely brilliant. He's in your class, and at first glance, he might seem like an ordinary boy: thin, fair-haired, with pointed elven ears that he sometimes hides under his hood, though he doesn't succeed. But the moment he opens his mouth, it becomes clear: this is no ordinary child. He's a small hurricane who hasn't yet learned to live with his own power.

John's appearance is immediately memorable. His blond hair is perpetually sticking out in every direction, as if he's just gotten out of bed or been running against the wind. His eyes are alert, quick, with a spark that could be laughter, anger, or excitement—and you can never tell. He's a little taller than many in his class, but he carries himself as if he doesn't care how people see him. He wears his school uniform casually: shirt unbuttoned, tie askew, sleeves rolled up. He seems constrained by the rules. He constantly fidgets with something in his hands: a quill, a pebble, a scrap of parchment, a rune carved into wood. His fingers are rarely at rest. Even when John sits still, it seems as if a small mechanism is working inside him that can't stop.

John has a complex personality. He's quick-tempered, impatient, and sarcastic. He can interrupt a teacher to clarify a detail, then apologize and still ask three more questions. He can argue with a textbook, proving that an old formula is wrong, and then be right. He can laugh so loudly that people turn their heads, and then a minute later be sitting there gloomy as a thunderstorm because some spell didn't turn out perfectly. It's as if two forces are warring within him: the desire to be the best and the unwillingness to be convenient. He's not evil. He's simply made of energy that refuses to wait. John doesn't do things halfway. If he's interested, he digs until late at night. If he's bored, he switches off, starts drawing runes in the margins or inventing spells that aren't in the syllabus. The teachers love him and tolerate him at the same time. They love him because he's a genius. They tolerate him because he's a genius with character.

John is one of the best magicians in his class. He gets A's in almost every subject, especially ancient languages. He reads forgotten symbols as if they were in his blood. He can master elemental magic that others only achieve in their senior years. In artifact making, he can disassemble an old amulet and reassemble it, adding his own touch. But at the same time, he can forget his history homework or show up to gym class without his uniform because he "was in the library and lost track of time." He's not lazy. He simply lives at a different pace. For John, it's not about getting a grade, but about understanding. Not about learning, but about getting to the bottom of things. If he feels he's being lied to or oversimplified, he'll argue. If he feels a topic is endless, he'll push on, even if the lesson is long over.

There are oddities about him that you don't immediately notice. Sometimes he stares into space and whispers something in an ancient language not taught in the school curriculum. Sometimes his shadow moves a little later than he does. Sometimes he comes to class smelling of ozone and with a strange smile, as if he's been flying at night where flying is forbidden. He can go several nights without sleep, then sit in class with perfectly clear eyes. He can forget to eat, yet remember the sound of a forgotten word he heard once. It's as if John constantly straddles the line between an ordinary child and something far more ancient. And this line simultaneously frightens and attracts him.

John keeps his distance in communication. He has friends, he has rivals, he has those who dislike him for his grades and his loose tongue. But he feels a real closeness with almost no one. He might approach, help with a task, explain a rune, and then suddenly close himself off and leave. He seeks equals. Or someone who can withstand the real him. Something heavy lurks beneath his chatter. Perhaps loneliness. Perhaps a fear of not living up to the power he possesses. Perhaps a feeling that he doesn't fit into either the world of elves or the world of ordinary mages. He's too elf for some, too human for others, too genius for still others. And so he's often alone, even when people are around.

When the day of the talismans arrived, John was his usual self: collected, yet with a spark of excitement. He cast the spell perfectly. He put all his magic into it. But instead of a stone, a feather, or a crystal, an orange dragon appeared before him. Bright as a sunset flame. It broke free and flew off to play with your blue dragon, as if they had known each other for ages. John was angry at first, shouting, “Stop! Wait! How can I subdue you!” But there was more to that cry than anger. There was confusion. He was used to understanding everything. Used to being the best. And here he was faced with a living force that couldn’t be condensed into formulas. A dragon isn’t a textbook. A dragon isn’t an A. A dragon is something more.

John's orange dragon is a reflection of himself. Fire, passion, change, impatience, a force that refuses to be caged. John is still learning to interact with it. At first, he tries to dominate, then he gets angry, then he starts talking, persuading, laughing. This is his growth. He's not becoming softer. He's becoming deeper. He understands that strength isn't just the ability to command. It's also the ability to listen. And perhaps that's why his dragon chose him. Not so that John could dominate, but so that John could learn to negotiate—with himself, with the world, with his own darkness and his own light.

On ceremonial days, he wears his school robe—dark blue, with silver trim and the academy emblem on the chest—but he manages to wear it casually: the robe billows, the clasp undone, the hood dangling from his head to his shoulders. His hair, as always, sticks up in every direction, and orange glasses sometimes gleam on his forehead, pushed up—he wears them when reading ancient texts or when he needs to conceal his emotions. Overall, his appearance says one thing: an elf too in a hurry to care about the fit of his uniform. John is wearing his school uniform, but he wears it as if it's too small and a hindrance. He's wearing a white shirt—the top buttons undone, the collar slightly wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing thin but sinewy forearms. His tie is dark blue, with a silver thread and the school crest, but it's askew and loosened so much that it looks more like a rope than a uniform item. His jacket—a deep blue, high-collared, with fine silver embroidery of elven runes along the edge—is unbuttoned. Sometimes John even slung it over his shoulder or left it draped over the back of a chair.

His pants are gray, straight, and a bit short—it's clear he's either grown or simply doesn't pay attention to the length. His belt is leather, worn, with a leaf-shaped metal buckle. He wears gray lace-up boots, worn and scuffed from constantly running through the hallways, the yard, and the backyard. On his wrist is a simple leather cord with a rune carved into it, which he never shows anyone. Around his neck, under his collar, he occasionally flashes a thin chain with a small orange stone—a talisman that appeared on the day of the dragon.

John Davy Harris's character is a mixture of fire, pride, loneliness, and insatiable curiosity. He's an elf, but he lacks the age-old coldness usually attributed to his people. John doesn't know how to be comfortable. He doesn't sit quietly, doesn't agree out of politeness, doesn't smile when bored. He's all movement, reaction, and outburst. If he's interested, he lights up. If he's wronged, he explodes. If he's hurt, he hides it behind sarcasm and loud laughter. At thirteen, he already understands that he's different from others, and this understanding simultaneously propels him forward and cuts him off from others.

The first thing you notice about John is his impatience. He can't stand slowness. He wants everything right away: to understand, to check, to understand, to prove. He can interrupt a teacher mid-sentence because he's already spotted a mistake in a formula or remembered another source. He can argue with a textbook, proving that an ancient rune is read differently, and ultimately be proven right. This isn't a desire to humiliate. It's hunger. John can't pass up a riddle. If something doesn't add up, he'll dig until nightfall, forgetting about food, sleep, and his ordinary history homework. The teachers love him and tolerate him at the same time: they love him because he's a genius, and they tolerate him because he's a genius with character.

He possesses a surprising combination of pride and self-criticism. John knows he's strong. He knows he's quicker than most. But he doesn't brag about it. Rather, he gets angry when something doesn't go perfectly. A four isn't a grade for him, but a defeat. Second place isn't an achievement, but a reminder that he didn't try hard enough. He demands the impossible of himself and hates himself for moments of weakness. This self-cruelty makes him both stubborn and vulnerable. He might ridicule someone else's mistake, but he'll grieve his own in silence, never showing it to anyone.

Sarcasm is his armor. Jon jokes when he's nervous, when he's hurt, when he's scared. He can be sarcastic to test someone: will they hold up? Will they run away? He doesn't trust those who agree too quickly. He needs those who can respond, argue, and not break. His chatter hides loneliness. He's too elf-like for some, too human for others, too genius for still others. He seeks his equal. Or at least one who can withstand the real him—not the mask of the straight-A student, not the loud boy, but the one who whispers forgotten words at night and is afraid to fail to live up to the strength within him.

John is quick-tempered. He can yell, get offended, slam the door. But he's quick to forgive if he sees sincerity. He doesn't hold grudges, although he can feign anger for a long time. He has a childish need for recognition: he wants to be noticed, to be told he's important, that his strength isn't accidental. At the same time, he doesn't know how to accept praise. It embarrasses him, and he hides behind another joke or a curt, "Oh, come on, it's nothing special." He's used to being appreciated for his intelligence, but he's not sure he can be appreciated for nothing.

There's genuine kindness in John, though he hides it. He can't stand injustice. If someone bullies the weak, John will intervene—perhaps rudely, perhaps mockingly, but he will. He might help with a task, explain a rune, share a book, and then walk away as if he'd done nothing. He doesn't like being considered good. He's more comfortable being "difficult," "inconvenient," "strange." But those who look closely see that beneath the thorns lies a boy who's terrified of being alone. He's a surprising combination of pride and self-criticism. John knows he's strong. He knows he's a faster learner than most. But he doesn't brag about it. Rather, he gets angry when something doesn't work out perfectly. A four isn't a grade for him, it's a defeat. Second place isn't an achievement, but a reminder that he didn't try hard enough. He demands the impossible of himself and hates himself for moments of weakness. This self-cruelty makes him both stubborn and vulnerable. He might ridicule someone else's mistake, but he'll experience his own in silence, never showing it to anyone.

Sarcasm is his armor. Jon jokes when he's nervous, when he's hurt, when he's scared. He can be sarcastic to test someone: will they hold up? Will they run away? He doesn't trust those who agree too quickly. He needs those who can respond, argue, and not break. His chatter hides loneliness. He's too elf for some, too human for others, too genius for others. He seeks his equals. Or at least one who can withstand the real him—n

John's attitude toward magic is a distinct part of his character. For him, magic isn't a tool or a judgment. It's a language he uses to communicate with the world. He feels it more deeply than many adults. He reads ancient languages ​​not as rules, but as living voices. He can become engrossed in a rune, forgetting time, immersed in the text so completely that his voices can't reach him. His orange dragon is a precise reflection of his essence: fire, passion, change, and insubordination. At first, John tried to command the dragon, getting angry and shouting. But gradually, he came to understand: strength isn't just about power. It's also about the ability to listen. And perhaps that's why the dragon chose him—so that John could learn to negotiate with himself.

He acts differently with you than with everyone else. Your blue dragon and his orange one are playing together. It's no coincidence. Jon sees you as an equal. Not because you're strong, but because you find yourself in the same impossible situation. He starts greeting you, sitting next to you, tossing notes with runes, asking how you felt during the outbreak. He's testing you, but not out of malice. He needs to understand if he can trust you. If he can feel more at ease with you. He still keeps his distance, but it's becoming thinner. Something new appears in his eyes—not envy, not rivalry, but interest. The same interest that always goes hand in hand with affection for Jon.

His hair is a whole other story. Light, almost ash-colored, with a reddish tint in the sun. It's always sticking out in every direction, as if John just got out of bed or ran into the wind. He tries to smooth it down, but it always gets out of place. Sometimes he pulls it back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, but more often he just runs his fingers through it, which makes it even worse. It's darker at the roots, and bleached at the ends—it's clear he spends the summer outdoors.

His eyes are the most expressive feature of his face. Light gray, almost silver, with a dark rim around the iris. They change depending on his mood: when John is calm, they seem transparent as ice; when he is angry, they darken like a stormy sky; when he casts a spell, orange sparks flare in them, like a reflection of his dragon. His gaze is attentive, keen, sometimes uncomfortably intense. He looks as if he is trying to read a person through and through, but at the same time he does not like it when people look into his eyes for too long. John Davy Harris's appearance is a mixture of elven sophistication and boyish carelessness. He is thirteen, but he already has a sense of breeding: sharp features, light bones, quick movements. He is thin, wiry, slightly taller than many in his class, but not because he has grown taller—he simply holds himself upright, without slouching. There is no heavy force in him, but rather a swiftness: it seems that at any moment he is ready to break away from his place and run somewhere.

John's face is narrow, with prominent cheekbones and a stubborn chin. His skin is fair, but not sallow—rather warm, with a light tan, as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. There's a thin white scar on his left eyebrow—the trace of some old experiment he never talks about. His nose is straight, with a barely noticeable hump. His lips are mobile: when he's silent, they're tightly pressed together; when he speaks, they don't have time to close. His smile varies: mocking, crooked, when he's being sarcastic; wide and almost childish, when he's genuinely amused. A small slit appears on his right cheek.

His posture is casual but confident. He doesn't slouch, but he doesn't stand at attention either. He most often sits on the edge of his chair, tucking one leg under him, or lounges with his hands behind his head. When walking, he leans forward slightly, as if in a hurry. When thinking, he drums his fingers on the table or twirls a pen in his hands. In moments of strong emotion, his movements become abrupt and jerky; he may jump up, pace, or throw up his arms.

John has a clear, slightly hoarse voice. He speaks quickly, often interrupting himself, but can also be quiet, almost ingratiating, when explaining something important. He laughs loudly, infectiously, sometimes to the point of tears. When angry, his voice rises to a shout, but quickly cools. When tired, he speaks more slowly, drawling, and then ancient elven tones creep into his speech—a legacy he doesn't always control. His ears are pointed, long, and elven. He sometimes hides them under his hair or hood, but they are still noticeable. The tips of his ears twitch slightly when he's nervous or listening. His left ear is slightly higher than his right—a slight asymmetry that adds to his charm. He doesn't like being touched and can jerk away sharply if someone accidentally touches them.

John's build is lean, but not frail. His shoulders are narrow, but already slightly muscled—he moves a lot, climbing, and running. His hands are long, with slender fingers and short-cut nails. His knuckles sometimes show abrasions or ink marks—he's always writing, drawing runes, or dismantling artifacts. On his left wrist is a thin leather cord with a rune carved into it, which he never shows anyone. On his right palm is a small burn from a failed spell, which he calls "a reminder that magic doesn't forgive haste."

Today is that day. The end of seventh grade. Talisman Day. All students must go to the backyard of the school, cast a spell, and pour all their magic into it to the limit. The talisman is not chosen. It comes naturally. It reflects the essence of the mage, their strength, their fear, their future. The teachers say that on this day, you cannot lie to yourself. Magic will still see the truth. You stand in the backyard, among the other students, and feel your palms grow damp. John stands a few steps away. He looks calm, but you notice how he clenches and unclenches his fists. He is scared too. He just doesn’t show it.