Fleshrend
(#10047696)
Level 3 Mirror
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Mirror
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.28 m
Wingspan
4.01 m
Weight
679.92 kg
Genetics
Black
Ripple
Ripple
Carmine
Current
Current
Stone
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 3 Mirror
EXP: 122 / 1401
STR
7
AGI
8
DEF
6
QCK
8
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
5
Biography
For now, this traveler is enjoying a retirement in gayzashi's lair. If her travels continue, her home lair will be changed to this, unless her original lair's owner returns!
     
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Uh-oh, looks like this accidental adventurer wandered a little too far from her lair (148774, Shadowdawn199), and now she's off to see the world! If ever you feel the urge to exalt, she'd really appreciate it if you could just return her home instead, or to the 'Dragons Off To See The World' thread, here. Owners I've had: Shadowdawn199 (148774) Dalison (11290) glacevoleur (55776) Temerity (44182) Ashmore (87727) Ezmara(151841) Lpshoper (142118) Wodahn (1076) Abu Spooner (45393) gayzashi (35390) She is an accidental traveller, but, not one without miles of experience under her belt already. Born to the Scarred Wastelands as her glittering red eyes and her rather… fierce name proves, she didn’t stay for long. She left her home in her youth, and though she is willing to share many parts of her tale, the exact reason behind her migration is one of few details she will not share. Whatever it was, she found solace in the lightning-lashed plains of her second clan, where she scaled rods and spires of the farm to earn her keep. It was incredibly dangerous work, for if her protective spell slipped she’d be roasted by the abundant current crackling through the air. And yet she was happy weaving her way through the live-wire web, repairing on the fly and engineering solutions with the best of the native-born. Perhaps one day she might have gone to serve the Stormcatcher in his great tower, but no. The singing in her blood was persistent, and sometimes she could be found gazing out of the clan walls, staring at the stars, or perhaps some far thing on the horizon. It meant that one day she slipped quietly away, leaving the storms to rage behind her, feet carrying her westwards once again. And though she’d meant to return to her birthplace, instead she’d stopped in the eternal twilight of the Tangled Woods. Just in time, as it turns out, because the Shade descended that night. She was drafted to fight for the cause, and so, marked with glowing warpaint, she took to the skies as the Shade blotted out the moon. That night, many died with only the unnatural eclipse to see them, but she was not one of them. The other warriors told her to thank the blessing of her mottled scales for her life, for her luck was Shadowbinder’s own. To thank the goddess, she decided to stay in the woods a while. Not with the clan who’d originally taken her in, however; it wasn’t that they weren’t pleasant and accommodating… but her months in the Shifting Expanse had taught her how to sense a brewing storm. Shadowdawn199 (148774) In the dark of the Foxfire Bramble, Fleshrend sees with only two eyes. There are no mushroom lanterns sprinkled on the muddy ground here. She grows used to walking into large thorns and brittle vines. Her shoulders and forehead harden to form callus armour. When she stops to rest, she longs for the Highland Scrub, where there was room to run and leap in great, tireless, bounds. She spots her next refuge by the sight of a flame buried deep underneath a tree. The source is a wooden door hidden by old granite and gnarled pine root, and when it opens to her knocking, she can see light again. "Hello," she begins, "I'm a traveler, and-" The nocturne inside doesn't even let her finish. "A traveller! Come in. Sit by the fire. Would you like a drink? Sorry about the mess. Let me get you some pillows. Oh, my name is Lark. And you? Ooh, how fearsome. Make yourself at home. Oh, right, excuse me. The pillows." Fleshrend doesn't lack for anything here. The nocturne offers her liberal quantities of food, drink, comfort, and company. Despite her garrulous introduction, she discovers that the nocturne prefers to listen. "So tell me about your adventures!" she says the first night, and when Fleshrend speaks, Lark looks at her with smile bordering on manic. The next morning, Lark asks her about The Scarred Wasteland, and then The Tempest Spire, and then The Foxfire Bramble. When she begins to lack for stories, Lark asks her what seeing heat is like, and why she wasn't travelling with a pack, and whether she prefers to eat mice or squirrels or birds. It doesn't take long for Fleshrend to decide to go. In place of her feet and her shoulders, her throat is sore. She hasn't spoken this much in months. Lark's incessant company, which was never particularly pleasant to begin with, has become tiresome. It is not difficult to deduce that what the nocturne longs for are voices to fill the silence of the deserted underground hallways. "I hope you enjoyed your stay," Lark says to her, when they are outside. "There is room for plenty of dragons here," Fleshrend tells her. "Why are you alone?" "I'm waiting for a sign," Lark tells her. "Thanks for the company though. Even if it was just a few days." "It was a pleasure," Fleshrend lies. "Here, take this," Lark says, handing her a little glowing light. "I know it looks silly but it might be helpful in this dark." "Oh. Thank you... Well. Take care." "You too. Happy travels!" Dalison (11290)
She arrives at the next clan to a buzz of activity, and immediately is certain that there is no risk here of her being paid more notice than any of the other dragons hurrying about. She watches with a half-formed interest as dragons of various sizes move from place to place-- a swarm of small, gaudily colored Fae string banners under the inscrutable eye of a masked Coatl; a cerulean Mirror and dusky Guardian drill two squadrons of trainees in the crowded center of the clearing, and she is almost run over by two massive Imperials on their way out of camp. "Oh, hello," rumbles the male. "You must be here for the festivities, yes?" "I'm afraid the Circus hasn't started quite yet," the female adds apologetically. "We're still quite busy setting up. You're welcome to stay, though! Alondra will be more than happy to host you." Alondra's cave is more crowded by half than the vibrant open-air space of the clearing, and Fleshrend hardly sleeps a wink for all the coming-and-going leading up to the festival. The opening night's banquet is far too loud for her, forehead already aching with sleep deprivation, but everything seems to quiet down after that. She is almost relaxed by the time the tragedy strikes. She never quite knows what it is, is not quite close enough to ask, only sharp enough to notice that there is no funeral, and that nothing is quite the same after it. She spends most of the time in flight next to another Mirror, whose name she neither asks nor receives. The Sunbeam Ruins are bright, but the place where they settle is not. The Hewn City is reassuringly dim to the clan used to the shadows, but few seem to pay much mind to the old, old folk stories that even Fleshrend has heard. She spends her days in tense, watchful wakefulness, and her nights in uneasy, fragmented sleep. Many times she awakens to see a pale Skydancer patrolling the borders in the sickly moonlight. His name does not stick in her mind, though she asks it every time, and he tells her, and tells her to go back to sleep. It takes a few days before any progress seems to be made. The pale Skydancer and a female Guardian spend hours on an unusually bright afternoon, etching protective runes around the perimeter in the baking sun. Fleshrend thinks she sees his thin legs trembling from fatigue as he returns, but his face bears no expression. She spends the next few weeks under the management of a speckled Nocturne, repairing a number of crumbling buildings with a host of other workers. It reminds her of her time in the Shifting Expanse, and when she idly mentions it to her overseer, he becomes ecstatic, and quite fond of talking with her. "Majestic," he tells her, some days later. "These buildings must've been majestic back when they were first erected. Ah, well. We'll get them there again, eh?" She is not quite as enthused. It is the night that they first begin putting the roofs on when the spiral arrives. She feels as if she is the only one who does not recognize him, and does not participate in the haranguing of the newcomer by the campfire. She meets him later, when he is alone at dusk, away from where the others are eating dinner. "You don't help with the building," she comments, and when he doesn't answer, "Afraid of getting your vest dusty or something?" They lay a nest together the next night. He tends it when she goes back to work the next morning. She asks him why a few nights later. He smiles at her sadly and tells her the universe is senseless. She shrugs her folded wings, says it's a better answer than "why not", and asks him if he knows any constellations. He spends the rest of the night connecting them for her, and she notes that his eyes are far more luminous. In the morning, she remembers he is from the Lightweaver's domain, and wonders why he does not seem very at home here. By the time the buildings are inhabitable, none of those working by her side are the same as those who she began with, save the male Nocturne. He praises them all, grinning and clapping backs and clamoring about a job well done. She does not feel like she has accomplished much of anything, but she smiles at him and does not say so. When she returns to Auriel that evening, he has named the hatchlings. They are three days old and all called the same thing, which means nothing to her. She asks him why. He does not answer, just smiles at her quizzically, as if she is speaking a foreign language. She stays long enough to watch her children leave for the service of the Lightweaver, and then moves on. glacevoleur (55776) Fleshrend’s travels bring her through familiar paths in the Tangled Woods again, guided by all four of her eyes, thanks to the light once given to her by that talkative nocturne. The woods are different now that there is no Circus to prepare for: less friendly and more primitive; more akin to the place where she fought a battle, once. She makes no attempt to revisit Lark, but instead heads north. The parched earth of the Dragonhome reminds her of the Shifting Expanse, or what the Shifting Expanse would be without the ingenuity of the dragons who lived there. Plague dragons are nothing if not hardy and Fleshrend is no exception: though she is ill-prepared for the journey, she makes her way through the summery heat of the plains, from outcropping to outcropping until her limbs tremble and her tongue turns to cotton in her mouth. “Oh, hello!” someone calls out in basic Draconic from above, swooping down and leaving her in blessed shade. When Fleshrend looks up, there are large, red eyes are peering back at her curiously. “I haven’t seen you around before,” the imperial speaks up, “Don’t tell me you walked all this way in the heat? Well, we can’t have you collapsing!” With that the newcomer takes Fleshrend under her wing – quite literally – and guides her through the southern plains to a lair in the Greatwyrm’s Breach. “This is the Cliff Lion Clan,” her guide explains when asked. “I’m Roseate, because I exude the roseate glow of health, you see,” she quotes with a smirk. There’s an inside joke there, but Fleshrend doesn’t ask and instead spends her days sleeping in the shade, recovering from the heat sickness. When the worst is over she offers some comment on the structure of the lairs in the Breach – nestled on top of each other and side by side like cells in a honeycomb – and once she is well enough to walk she is pegged down as an architect and spirited away by a tag team of an easy-going tundra and a jumpy skydancer who both want her to look over their plans for expansion. The planning takes weeks of debating back and forth between the three of them. The memorial caves for the exalted dragons need to be shifted for better effect, but repainting the murals on the walls would take weeks, Iliastes argues. There is a cave deep in the Breach hat she feels could be used to better effect, but Samhain flatly rejects her suggestion and says that the earth is unsound. Some battles she gives up for lost, but, in the end, they reach a compromise that all of them are happy with. Fleshrend insists that she is well enough to begin scouting out areas for expansion. This is as much for her own benefit as for that of her hosts: one fifth of their clan consists entirely of hatchlings, and their playful shrieking is enough to give her a headache. There are two in particular, a fae and a ridgeback, who take a liking to her and follow her around all day. She tries to lose them as she goes spelunking, but they view it as a game and only try harder. She has just finished chalking out areas for blasting a new midsize dormitory when everything changes. When the fae is taken sick with a cold, no one thinks anything of it: hatchlings often get sick. The real trouble begins weeks later when the fae recovers, perfectly healthy and in high spirits, apart from the green boils on her face and limbs, and the oily membrane coating the edges of her wings. “Infected by our travelling plague flight friend, most like,” a guardian finally speaks out, derisive. “We can’t know that,” Roseate argues, “Locksley goes exploring all the time – she might’ve picked up something from the Breach. I hope you don’t take what Zapha says to heart, she can be a little overprotective at times,” Roseate adds to Fleshrend later, and Fleshrend assures her that she isn’t insulted. She still slips out without ceremony early the very next morning, leaving her work unfinished and no note to explain her absence. She won’t stay in a clan where she isn’t welcome. Temerity (44182) Without much trying on her part, she ended up back in the Tangled Woods. Her stay with the Black Flames Clan took longer, than she expected but, it was an enjoyable experience. She learned about the clan's namesake; the knowledge about the 'Black Flames' was an interesting curiosity. The dragons there were pleasant – though there were a few that were more distasteful. She was warned about the dragon Morwenor's tricks, and, while she privately felt she would have been more than capable of dealing with him, she thanked her 'saviour' anyway. Still, she had no intentions of settling down here, and so she said goodbye to the dragons, and set off once again. Ashmore (87727) She arrived at a strange citadel, masked by shifting mist and fog, at a very bad time. Evidently, the clan leader had recently lost two of her children, and had only recently been seen around again. While it was a nice enough place, there were too many strange things going on, and soon enough she felt as though it was time to leave. On her way out, she met a storyteller who was originally from the clan, and they decided to set off together for a short time. Ezmara(151841) Fleshrend and Shalkett found themselves in a lush forest. Prey was plentiful and they hunted until they couldn't eat anymore. Tired and full, the two made camp for the night. In the middle of the night, Fleshrend was awoken by the sound of leaves crunching. She lifted her head and scanned the area around the camp. Her red eyes saw movement and she jumped to her feet. Quietly she tip-toed over and tackled the beast. "O-OW!" Fleshrend stopped her attack. It was another mirror. She was purple and pink with light yellow eyes. She had a pair of purple goggles, ribbons on her legs, and a Shadowscale chestplate. "H-hey!" She half growled. Fleshrend glared at her. "Who are you and what are you doing?" The other dragon frowned. "I am Haimona, and I should be asking you what you are doing!" Fleshrend had forgotten that this wasn't her land. Her face grew hot. "S-sorry! Uh...me and my friend Shalkett were just passing through.." Haimona smiled. "Its okay. My clan loves guests! We've been getting quite a few lately." Haimona then frowned. "Some dragons are getting annoyed by this though..B-but hey! If its just for the night, its fine!" Fleshrend smiled and thanked Haimona for letting them stay for the night and went back to camp to sleep. In the morning, she told Shalkett what had happened last night. Both glad they didn't get kicked out, they set out to continue their adventure. Lpshoper (142118) Dragonhome isn't directly inhospitable - there's no diseases running rampant, no lightning storms or blazing daylight heat, no blizzards freezing dragons to death. No, Dragonhome is just flat and most importantly, dry. There's no water to be found anywhere, only cracked and windblown plains filled with skittering stones. They daren't go too close to Cairnstone Rest, knowing the tales told about the ancient burial ground. It's near Greatwyrm's Breach they're found by an scout for one of the clans. Several days have passed with no sign of a single drop of water; they've managed to survive for now, but they're near enough death that it's scary. The scout - a nature coatl who introduces himself as Tito - calls over another, a wind coatl called Reyes. Reyes flies off again at once, but Tito stays, giving what water he can. Reyes returns a few hours later with help and more water, and Fleshrend and Shalkett get brought back to their lair. It's down in one of the canyons of Greatwyrm's Breach, a network of caves and tunnels. Down here the air is cool, and there's an underground river running through it. They stay there a few days and regain their strength. The clan has plenty of food for them, and a cave to spare. As soon as their strength is back, they travel on. The dragons here are nice, but it's not a place Fleshrend would want to live permanently. A dust storm starts up while they travel from Dragonhome, and suddenly Shalkett is nowhere to be found. When it dies down, Fleshrend is alone again. Wodahn Fleshrend found herself in the Sunbeam Ruins - a beautiful, sun-specked land. She spent her first few days with her eyes wide open, soaking in every sight. But her eyes grew weary, for it never seemed to get dark enough for her to get a good night's sleep. How did the dragons here ever rest? Weary with exhaustion, she finally curled up in a bush and pulled the leaves over her eyes to take a nap. Only to be shaken awake by a bright golden snapper, tugging at the bus. "Hey, you! I'm foraging here! How am I s'posed to eat if you've squashed it all?" she snapped. Fleshrend reluctantly rolled off the leaves and forced herself to stay awake. It'd be nice to say that the snapper took pity on her and invited her back to the clan. But the snapper was of a singular mind and had no interest in Fleshrend. And Fleshrend was desperate for somewhere less bright, so she forced herself to keep moving. Abu The next clan is a group of warriors, and quite the odd group it is. There's a dark, malignant presence that skulks around the borders of the clan. It snaps and charges any who came near it. The dragon is an Imperial, although he hardly acts like one. What would possess this clan to allow such a creature to live among them? She'd eventually come to know this shadowy Imperial as Joyd. He did not speak in anything but feral growls, not that Fleshrend or anyone else in this clan seemed to go out of their way to communicate with him. He apparently would leave for months on end, and come back just as suddenly as he left. The clans leader, Jhaern, payed the devil no mind and even snapped back on occasion. Eventually, Fleshrend could not stand this creature's oppressive aura, and left in the night. She could swear he was watching her for miles after she'd gone. Arkhelios (194714) Perhaps solely on accident, her wonderings have brought Fleshrend back to the lands of her birth, the living landscape welcoming her as her travels lead her deeper and deeper into the Plaguebringer's home, strangely vacant outside of the remains that decorate pulsing surroundings. She's not sure how far she travels before the air grows dense with the spores that coat each breath, though her natural affinity fights off the threat of disease, fungi littering the way as her steps take her to what, at first, appears to be a fallen imperial. It's startling, when scales rattle as he shakes away the layer of dust that coats him, eyes tired and strikingly purple as he rumbles a soft, "Welcome," before eyes shut again. In moments, he looks to be asleep again, and curiosity piques as she steps further into the territory of a new clan, the familiarity of the Plaguebringer's home guiding her steps. gayzashi (35390) |
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Exalting Fleshrend to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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