MissyTheMisc's Clan

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The day Kullivan was exiled is a day the old dragon will never forget.

He had survived the most harshest of battles and the most brutal of circumstances, but the words they flung at him stabbed his heart like knives and brought to him a form of pain he never knew had existed. "Murderer!" they called him, "Blood-thirsty! Heinous! Malicious!" They spat down at the scarred dragonet in disgust- the elder of the clan was dead, and the charcoal-colored dragon with an eye burned shut from the battle, his own grandson, was the culprit. He didn't allow the tears to merge with the ash dusting his scales- that was what the Elder had always told him, "Never show weakness." Of course, they'd have no idea what Elder Moracus had been planning for the clan... for his mother. They'd have no idea about his plan to sell the clan out to the Plague flights so they could be harvested like crops.

... perhaps it was better they didn't know after all.

"Go! Leave! Get out of here!" they spat, jaws quivering, ready to burn him down and finish the job Moracus could not. Thus, Kullivan fled, leaving his clan behind- bleeding, limping, yet still unafraid. Truly, Moracus had been his own downfall in the end; he had meticulously shaped Kullivan into a machine. He had battered his claws and shredded his scales so they'd be ready for any battle. He brought this on himself. Though he had allowed himself to be trained like one, Kullivan was no obedient dog to authority. When he, his family, and his clan were in jeopardy, he lept on the opportunity to claw out the throat of the traitor, even if it was his own family's blood he was spilling.

Time had weathered the old dragon's scales, but still he stood, as tall as ever.

Omicron looked himself dead in the eyes via the pond water's reflection. On one side, there was an eye- green, still glistening like a gemstone after all this time, even in the grasp of tired eyelids. The other was a more unsightly story, looking more like a battlefield than something someone could look at lovingly. Scales poked out this way and that, never growing back correctly after the deed. Pink marks stretched across Ground Zero like a spider's web- bare patches left exposed due to the scales that once covered them going AWOL. Still, however, after everything, a faint green glimmer poked out of the destruction. It was partially covered by a burnt eyelid, though, against all odds.

Omicron never really knew how his eye managed to survive and remain, from what he could tell, mostly intact. Maybe he had closed his eye at the right moment, or maybe it had sustained much less damage than the rest of his face. Either way, there it was, meeting his gaze, just as it used to beforehand- before his traitor of a grandfather decided to turn on his own clan and expected his grandson to sit idly by as he damned everyone who had trusted him to death.

He held the old dented helmet in his talons, bringing it up to give it a once over. His face, the object that had been with him for most of his adult life. The plating that single-handedly saved whatever could've remained of his social life with it's ability to shadow and cover his face. No one stared because of this helmet. No dragonets in the clan ran screaming in terror because of the iron that hid the scars of the past. Not only did it make the old dragon feel comfortable around the newer generations that'd never know the wars and struggles of yesteryear, but it made him feel... noble. Like a hero who slayed a beast long ago and saved countless lives.

It tricked him into thinking that he had done something good when no one else did, and it made it to where he could feel worthy of retirement to the Zephyr Steppes.

Carefully, he slid the plating over his head, setting it in place and fastening it around his horns. The cool compress of the iron welcomed him home, and he shook his head from side to side to ensure the bindings were solid. This was the face everyone he cared about knew- an ironclad warrior hero who would lead Windsinger's Lamment to success and peace no matter the circumstances. This was the face they all trusted.

They trusted Omicron, and they'd never have to know Kullivan and learn his story.

Satisfied with his armor arrangement, he stood, his old bones creaking, and he left to return back to town.

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