Morgoth

Morgoth is the flip-side to Avaron. Merciless and sarcastic, Morgoth follows all of Tyrians orders with gusto. Using fear to "persuade" others to worship Tyrian, if Avaron was not always beside him many smaller drakes would mysteriously disappear only to be "found", worse for wear, by Morgoth. Only doing what would benefit himself directly Morgoth snickers at every threat and impossible request the noble commands, staying at Tyrians side out of amusement.


bio by DraconicDemon
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No dragon assumes Morgoth to be a servant when they first meet him as his presence has slowly warped into a force which provokes dread and cowardice. Most are shocked to see him follow orders or tolerate his honorable companion. They cannot understand that he acts in service to himself and in tolerance for his own amusement. His mind is creative and his tastes are dramatic, lending flair to his cruelty and ensuring word of his depravity spreads rapidly.

Morgoth is not what most expect him to be. He is fearsome and dark, true, but he carries himself as a prince. Tales of his deeds bring to mind a slinking beast but the reality is a far more intimidating one. His low, measured cadence is also contrary to the rasping hiss hatchlings imagine in their nightmares.

It is rumored that he has begun collecting trinkets front his victims but it is nearly impossible to confirm in the carnage aftermath that follows an official visit from Morgoth.



bio by Delamire


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A claw connects with cheek. Blood drawn.
"How dare you threaten the safety of innocents!" Avaron roars.
"Innocent? That moron stole from our lord, you traitor!" Morgoth says, a twisted sneer on his bloodied face.
"He is but a child, how would he have known better? His family is hungry and you want to punish him for doing what he think is right?" Avaron slowly asks, not wanting his anger to take over his movements yet again.
"He will know once I show him, won't he?" A low chuckle escapes from the dark dragon's throat. "Hatchlings learn best from example, do they not?"
"Let me deal with him, or by the gods you will be sorry." The protector whispers.
"Oh, will I? I will be very impressed if I ever see you do anything of use!"
A snarl of anger from the pale dragon, tensing, ready to tear the other limb from limb. A quick whistle from the distance, two sharp notes.
"Oh boys, could you stop bickering and do what I told you to do five minutes ago!" Avaron and Morgoth turn in sync. A royal purple skydancer is glowering at them both.
"Yes, sir." "If you say so."


story by DraconicDemon



As soon as he was capable of thought and desire, Morgoth wanted to be entertained. It was through no fault of his own that his idea of "entertainment" was different than anybody else's. If he really thought about it, he could trace the beginning of it all to a conversation overheard. The hunters of his home clan were bragging about their first kills, the thrill of it, the brutality! Morgoth felt a trill of excitement go through him. He had reached adulthood only a few days prior and thought nothing of it, but he had forgotten about the door of battle that was now open to him.

The next day, as the sun rose over the scarred wasteland, Morgoth was nowhere to be found. A panic set over the clan, searching desperately for their lost young dragon. There was no need for the worry. He returned by noon, covered in blood as red as the gems that dotted his skin. He had gone hunting, he said with a terrible grin. It was fun. At first, there was some confusion as to why he returned empty-handed, but the other hunters quickly spread the story of his first kill.

It was a Crimson Emperor, usually taken in as a familiar. It was strange that he didn’t spare its life, they thought, and even stranger he didn’t bring the meat back to the clan. When they found the sight of the kill, the situation became clearer. He never meant to bring anything back. Morgoth was strong enough for an easy, clean kill. That’s what everyone had expected of him for his first kill. The proof to the contrary, however, was in the carnage he left behind, in the lack of wounds on his own body. The Emperor had not died a quick death, nor one of a prolonged battle. The grisly scene Morgoth left behind hinted more towards torture. It was fun, he had said. Every one of his clanmates looked at him strangely from that day on. They had thought he was simply a mischievous young nuisance who was often accidentally cruel in his games. They had been wrong.

Morgoth enjoyed the fear and respect of his clanmates for what seemed like a surprisingly brief amount of time before he decided to move on. One of the hunters had returned from an expedition with a story of a dragon descended from the most powerful warriors that ever lived. They said he had servants accompany and worship him wherever he went, and that he was impossible to kill. For the first time in a long time, Morgoth was interested. He chased whispers and rumors for the next few months, planning on finding this legendary dragon and defeating him and take his followers as his own. Followers could be fun, he thought.

It was not long before he found him, standing tall and aloof and watching him with a condescending stare. They called him Tyrian. He was a gorgeous shimmering skydancer, even Morgoth could admit that, but he wasn’t as magnificent as he expected. Really, he looked a bit… cocky. And weak. Laughter bubbled up Morgoth’s throat. The stories were a lie, he thought. It was just an average dragon. Normal in every way except for the size of his ego. How delightful! Far more interesting, he thought, than just some legendary warrior. Tyrian glared sharply at the sound of Morgoth’s amusement. Noticing this, he quickly stopped, swallowed, and bowed.

“My lord,” he said, bending low to hide his smirk, “I’ve been searching for you. My name is Morgoth and I’m a warrior with strength beyond any of your ranks. If you’ll have me, I’d be happy to serve you.”

Tyrian looked at the bloodstained dragon curiously before nodding. “Accepted. Pleasure to meet you, Morgoth.”

He smiled toothily. "The honor is mine."

Servitude under Tyrian was everything he had hoped for and expected. An endless litany of weaklings flinching at the sight of him was really all he needed to stay content. Of course, hearing Tyrian’s ridiculous delusions every day didn’t hurt, either. There was only one thing amiss. Another dragon, pure and white as the driven snow, stood always by the lord’s side. He introduced himself as Avaron, and he was kind, generous, and thoughtful. Morgoth hated him at first glance. Their personalities were too carefully mirrored and their paths too closely paralleled to him to tolerate the noble’s other servant. But, in a way, that burning hatred was just as entertaining as anything else. It was for that reason and that reason only that he never challenged Avaron beyond a scathing comment and disdainful sneer.

To all those who know of him, his name and title are sources of fear. Stories have spread. Rumors of savagery and of power, all curled into his leering smile. He's almost as well-known as his Lord and the white knight, now. His name is often uttered in the same breath. It's not uncommon to hear of the Tyrant and his two closest servants, the Protector and the Fierce.


amazin story by resplendentChaos