Marisolstice's dragon Boog

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

7.36 m

Wingspan

10.68 m

Weight

1087.44 kg

Genetics

Spring
Crystal

Sand
Facet

Avocado
Spines

Hatchday

Jan 19, 2016
(8 years)

Breed

Adult
Coatl

Eye Type

Plague
Common

Level 7 Coatl

EXP: 718 / 11881

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Teshub
Nyra

Offspring

Biography

_____________________________Boog_____________________________

Witch Doctor

♛
"The greatest medicine of all is to teach people how not to need it."
♛

_________________________

B I O G R A P H Y

Main Theme: Escaping the Ruins.

______ I.

He tenderly caressed the Dappled Dunhoof.
The red lesions were slowly healing away. Thanks to him.
That gave him a little thrill. He was helpful.
The Dunhoof gazed at him with liquid, thankful eyes, then hung her arms around his neck and nuzzled his cheek.
He liked that, too. Animals were so much kinder, willing to snuggle when they weren’t being tortured.
Engrossed in pawing her fur, he heard the footsteps all too late.
His father burst through the door, took one look at the scene, and roared.
But the Dappled Dunhoof could run! Boog urged her too—watched her take off like a flash of gold-brown light. He fled with her, watching as she fled into the scabrous white rock-line that surrounded his clan.
His heart leapt with gratitude, then terror as his father hauled back on his tail, jerked him, then hurled him to the ground.

II.

After a while, beatings blur together. The mind simply cannot keep track of cruelty.
His parents—they were both excellent examples of Plague dragons. Plague dragons’ natural creed is to cause as much harm as possible. Poisoning, illness, cruel experiments and more—death was seen as a mercy.
Boog began to wish for it.
The night after the Dunhoof, he felt something inside of him—something small, crucial and fragile—begin to crack.
His wrists and tail were lashed to a thorny wooden T. His back muscles felt exposed to the air: he thought his spine could taste the cold. He couldn’t see the stars. His eyes were swollen and shut.
But he knew it was night, because the really insidious creatures came out at night to feed on blood. He felt the little pincers of Flesh Scorpions as they delicately probed inside of him. With surgical precision, they pulled out pieces of him to go and feed their families.
He mewled through the bond and struggled, then sighed. At least he could respect that. They were taking care of young.
And all at once, it struck him, harder than any blow—a punch right to his lower gut.
He had to leave.
He had to leave this place. And once he left this place…
Well, that would come later.
Slowly, patiently coaxing his own muscles to health as he did other creatures, he swayed and jerked until he came free of the thorns. Then he scrubbed the blood and scabs from his gaze, and looked up.
The faint red-purple color that heralded Plague-dawn was rising in the east. He slowly dragged himself upward and limped toward the rock-line, following the Dunhoof.
She would know where to go.

III.

Later, talking with Rosette, he realized he should have died.
But the Beastclans do not forget.
He’d saved so many smaller creatures that they urged him forward.
Sometimes Storm Seekers dropped ripe fruit at his feet. Sometimes the Dunhoof came, carrying pitchers of water. They encouraged him: eat. Drink.
Zalis wove him cloaks. Miths brought him flowers.
Dragons seeing him without context would have assumed he was some odd nature priest, making his way through the wilderness on a bizarre pilgrimage.
So he limped slowly onward.
He didn’t realize that his body was damaged, some of it beyond repair. Neural wiring was shaken loose; muscle-fiber had torn away. Still he limped on, leaving faint red behind him.
The Beastclans say that even the Shade took pity on him. He would have been easy pickings for the shadow-monster, but it left him be. Perhaps it tasted him and found his heart a bit too pure.
But it left him alone, even after he found the Tangled Wood.

IV.

Beatings blur together. Other memories don’t.
He remembers looking up and realizing the world was different. The harsh white-red rocks of Plague gave way to a silky carpet of moss and tall grass. The sky was blue-purple, here, not yellow-red. And every tree had leaves.
The Dunhoof, who had followed him silently as a ghost, nodded and slipped away. They had moved beyond her territory.
He said a quiet prayer of thanks. Then he collapsed and kissed the ground.
He was in the laborious process of trying to rise to his feet when a tall Guardian stood over him, looking down at him quizzically.
He yelped and cringed.
Axaris leaned nearer. “I’m finding many strange wanderers in these woods. Do you need help?”
Boog couldn’t answer. He panted.
Axaris nodded. “I think I’ll help you.”

V.

Healing is a slow process, even when one is a healer.
Axaris tended to him as faithfully as the Beastclans. She insisted over and over again that he not move.
“Pay you,” he croaked.
“Oh, please.” Axaris rolled her eyes.
Eventually she handed over healing duty to Rosette, who had taken an interest in the weird wanderer. Rosette was so cheerful and bright that Boog found himself responding. After days of silly jokes—sometimes broken up by Boog staring into silence—Rosette unwrapped something.
A bone mask.
“For me?” Boog sat up. His muscles twinged, but that was all.
“Mhm. There’s a tradition in Shadow—if you want to move past something, you can don a mask and become a new person. Seemed like your kind of thing.”
With the memory of the Dunhoof vivid, Boog took the mask and tried it on.
It fit perfectly.

Bio template by @Mibella, find it here.

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Exalting Boog to the service of the Tidelord 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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