Toriel » Lair » Adair

Adair

(#1077266)

Level 25 Guardian

Familiar

Driftwood Baron

Energy: 0/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

20.1 m

Wingspan

15.91 m

Weight

7568.27 kg

Genetics

Silver
Basic

Grey
Seraph

Obsidian
Basic

Hatchday

Oct 25, 2013
(10 years)

Breed

Adult
Guardian

Eye Type

Light
Common

Level 25 Guardian

Max Level

STR

126

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Arete
Death

Offspring

Biography

ADAIR
Defender | Councilmember | Warrior

HISTORY

Like always you’re struck by how young she is, how many young souls are plucked from the garden to become endless bounds of energy. and after that, apparently, an unending bout of sarcastic remarks. One of the memories you haven’t yet slipped from your brain-copper is the day you picked her up; you’ve always had appreciation for the colours in-between, and she has never made you regret more that you see the world in just shades of grey. A tiny fat bundle, twinkling with prismatic colour (arcane magic isn’t restricted to your mortal sight, and even though you aren’t truly a Student your innate site-of-birth gives you an advantage in seeing aura); you’d known you’d have to had her, and the amount of treasure you’d paid for her’d been a pittance for the things she’d given you, and you her. You’d turned down the chance to become a Pearlcatcher, once, the way you’d wanted to be when you were very young, and thought no one would ever understand beneath the dysphoria and the aching wound under you. You’d accepted being grown into your birthright, a pure grey giant with off-yellow eyes and the darkest traces of minerals struck sideways down your bones. She wouldn’t have that choice; you’d make it for her, instead leaving her like you were, dull and sore and hopeless against the world, a whole bastion of experience and individuals who’d nothing to contribute to you. You think she would have been much better at it then you, but still, she is immature and understands the truth only, not reason, and that is quite enough. You would rather her fur never be fuchsia, enemies or otherwise.

"Have you found your purpose in life?"

You’ve been to Rosary before. Rosary is not a true clan, and its leader does not dispute this, but its members act like they are (overstep their boundaries; elders follow their babes, and isn’t that a treat) and the way they’ll welcome any straggler as if they’ll integrate (and they do, sometimes, it’s sickening: an entire storybook legend just in their faces and their paws) gets between all of your trillion nerves. Secretly-wanting leaders or otherwise, you take her there simply to indulge her, and to complete a trial-of-course; of how far she’ll go in terms of sociality. You will observe, intrude if the necessity is there, and decide what will happen from its summarisation. She’ll do well — it’s in her blood — but the caution is always there, and the safety net that is your existence will stand strong.

(ten twenty decades and you are nothing but half-grown, two-thirds the size of an adult and just enough to pass for one, but your brain is full of dead weeds and ash and you are terrified. The coiled bundle held gingerly in the cavity of your too-dry mouth is too still, and the trembling around her has ceased more than minutes ago, and you —

crash into a gigantic trunk, and the wood creaks and shudders dully under your bulk, and for a second you can swear your eyes go white with desecration; all you can think of is the tombs. You are crying! You are crying, though you’re not sure if it’s ocular fluid or blood mixed in or both, because you can still breathe in all orifices. The cliff’s face staggers and your wings spread to catch the cold breeze, and your leap backwards ends with the whole of you upturned and sideways, cheek scraping the violet sweetgrass. There’s a rut where the tree’s roots were pulled up, inch to inches, and you lie there with horror in your heart and an almost-resignation in your chest, the result of meticulous upbringing and a motto of spilled blood never lost. you nudge the small wet bulb with the lower back of your tongue, and lift it up and out to tumble onto a clear patch of undisturbed turf.

She does not move. Something deep inside you is stolid. You can’t think. Instead, you turn your head over so that the back part of your fins are stuck in gravel, rendering you unable to see anything else but the cosmos shining in apertural technicolor above your head.

Something whines, once. You do not move, and the stars don’t, either, except for a comet zipping by just below your range of sight. You duck your chin down, and let your eyes track it until it moves beyond you. The small newborn thing cries out half-formed words, a useless string of babble, and climbs atop your carapace to reach the crux of your bent wing, where hairless shell meets membrane.

You cough out a food pocket. It drops out of you (so angry when it finally happened! you were a fool to ever think you could be a species far smaller than you were, and much softer, and perhaps just equal in cowardliness.) and the lump in your throat smoothes over just a little bit, and the hatchling winces and trembles its way, fully-formed but blind, to the indistinguishable russet glob of pure nutrition.

You cannot look to see if it’s reached your destination or not, and you are so very tired; sleep comes like a natural act, and it isn’t dreamless; you dream of tears on your shoulders and teats in pale red nubs along the focal of your torso, and some thing coming to swallow you whole.)

you always wanted a charge. you were determined that you should have only the best, if your body was built out of things bigger than you were supposed to be! that is why you become an indirect exile, a rebel, and no one ever questioned why your relationship was built out of roads and transactions made without permission, halfway across the continent, because they didn’t know and didn’t care to ask. your pearl wasn’t white or iridescent — it wasn’t even immobile, really, but living things carried more relics of a distant time than you cared to count, so that all evened out in the end.

You do not name her, the way it’s supposed to be: you’ve gone without a nomer too long to count, from the start of your exile to the end of your present, and after all that the small of your back to your neck is far too short for your shadow to stand so tall, and the odds and ends of it is that you do not need a name anymore than you need to trim your claws or be told to smile. None of the others have the right to say this to you! and although she is yours, until she has the power to uphold her will to right, you find yourself swaying into a kind of pattern as you grow older, kind-of-perhaps pressured into the definition of a calling. you do not need to explain things, you are told (a compilation of many different sources, wide beings with jewel-bright eyes and the bright splash of humiliation you feel rushing down the nerve centre of your spine) but she will need something to define herself by. You never stay anywhere, for long.

(pervert, pervert, the trees whisper, and although your mind says not guilty your heart doubts, knots itself into a spiral of logical self-loathing and you are nothing if you are not done-and-gone with all of this. you don’t make it harder on yourself than you have to! resignation only reaches so far.)

(but the thing is, you've let yours go.)

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Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.

Exalting Adair to the service of the Flamecaller 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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