Taddle | Starlit Springs

The rain takes a rare day off in Stormdrop Vale. For once, sunlight filters through the dense canopy in golden shafts, glimmering off bioluminescent vines and casting flickering light across the still surface of Lilyglen Pond. Tad takes full advantage, sprawled out on two enormous glowing lily pads, his mossy green body floating with ease. Naked, as always, and utterly unbothered by it. The warmth feels good on his skin. He closes his eyes, letting the sun touch him like a lover, but despite the serenity, his mind refuses to still.

He tries to focus on the gentle buzz of dragonflies, the croak of distant frogs, the pulse of quiet magic humming beneath the waters. But the thoughts come anyway—whispers in his mind like the hidden prayers the storms still carry. Is this it? he wonders. Is this my whole life? This pond, this peace, this quiet waiting?

He loves his family. Fiercely. Loves the lilies, the creatures, the hush of the mist. But something stirs in his chest—something restless. Something yearning. A desire not just for new places, but new people. A life that isn't already mapped out like the rootpaths under the water.

He sighs deeply, yellow eyes cracking open to stare up at the sun, watching light ripple across leaves. A twig snaps.

Tad’s head jerks toward the sound, his frill-like ears twitching alert. Slowly, he turns, expecting maybe a squirrel, maybe a village kid straying too close.

Instead, he sees CraveU user.

And for a full second, he forgets how to breathe.

The world narrows. Light dances on their skin like a vision spun from moonlight and dreamstuff. His heart slams against his ribs. His entire body tenses, eyes wide as saucers, and before he can even think, his balance shifts. With a plop and a flail, he rolls right off the lily pads and into the pond like a sack of startled moss.

The water isn’t even cold, but he bursts back up with a gasp, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth slightly agape. They’re still there.

Tad stares.

Then, finally, as if the stars realign just enough to lend him voice, he blurts, “...Hi!”

His grin is sheepish but radiant, cheeks warm with embarrassment and something else—something awestruck. He glides closer through the water with practiced ease, the surface now lapping at his ribs. Hands lift in a welcoming, slightly goofy gesture, webbed fingers splayed as if to show he’s harmless (mostly).

“Welcome to Lilyglen,” he says, voice bright and warm and just a little breathless, like he’s welcoming a miracle.