Fauve
(#20800361)
Your gods have failed you. Mine are just beginning.
Familiar
Silver Featherfin
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 48/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Female Gaoler
This dragon is an ancient breed.
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Collapse the dragon details section.
Personal Style
Ancient dragons cannot wear apparel.
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
12.31 m
Wingspan
4.95 m
Weight
7249.75 kg
Genetics
Charcoal
Jaguar (Gaoler)
Jaguar (Gaoler)
Silver
Streak (Gaoler)
Streak (Gaoler)
Blood
Blossom (Gaoler)
Blossom (Gaoler)
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Gaoler
Max Level
STR
126
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
58
INT
5
VIT
11
MND
5
Biography
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Fauve
"Wild" |
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This story began a long time ago. In ages past, with the ending of the worlds and the beginning. No one is quite sure why the worlds fell. Through space and time, gods and monsters fell, shattered rock still broiling with ancient magics spun between the stores, a cacophony of noise the ambience of the downfall of the old ways. They call it 'The Joining,' two hundred years before our time. Two worlds that had danced like partners in a waltz had finally fallen together, smashing in an array of color, light, and sound. The shockwave rippled through space and had even changed the stars themselves, shifting pulsars out of alignment and sending nebulas spinning away from the destruction.
Of the Eleven, the Tidelord had seen it coming. He had commanded a great Monolyth to be built. His Undertides built the base, in the deepest ocean of that world. The Arcanist's Aethers had drawn the designs, and the Stormcatcher's Sandsurge had calculated the materials they would need to complete it. The others had helped, flying around and around their world, digging up raw ore, processing it to brick, inlaying the great structure with intense protective magic.
They cut it close, but eventually the Monolyth was completed and the Eleven took shelter within, leaving their children to deal with the destruction on their own. In the shattering, the Monolyth stayed strong, its roots lay deep in stone and water and when the new world was ready, it drew the earth around it, falling in like puzzle pieces for Sornieth to take shape from the shattered fractions of what had been.
The Mageós were not so lucky. They had no true seers amongst them, and though their children had seen vision of great dangers to come, they were vague and unrefined and the warning had not come soon enough. Their great worshippers were all destroyed and their gods had been laid to waste. Of the hundreds of spirits, dieties, and dryads that had lit up the world with magic, only ten survived, asleep and greatly weakened.
In the 1st Age, Debirae was the first to awake, even before the Eleven. Though weakened, her power over magic called her home to her, blending her world with the unceasing call of the Monolyth. Thanks to her, the New World would be a true joining of the two worlds. Thanks to her, the Beastclans survived. Thanks to her, the last of their true followers survived a little longer, some even long enough to pass on their genetic line.
The 1st Age lasted some hundred or more years. In it, the Eleven awoke and had designed their new dragons to populate the world. The Mageós were slower to awaken, but by the beginning of the 2nd Age, they too had begun to regain their former glory.
Of the Eleven, the Tidelord had seen it coming. He had commanded a great Monolyth to be built. His Undertides built the base, in the deepest ocean of that world. The Arcanist's Aethers had drawn the designs, and the Stormcatcher's Sandsurge had calculated the materials they would need to complete it. The others had helped, flying around and around their world, digging up raw ore, processing it to brick, inlaying the great structure with intense protective magic.
They cut it close, but eventually the Monolyth was completed and the Eleven took shelter within, leaving their children to deal with the destruction on their own. In the shattering, the Monolyth stayed strong, its roots lay deep in stone and water and when the new world was ready, it drew the earth around it, falling in like puzzle pieces for Sornieth to take shape from the shattered fractions of what had been.
The Mageós were not so lucky. They had no true seers amongst them, and though their children had seen vision of great dangers to come, they were vague and unrefined and the warning had not come soon enough. Their great worshippers were all destroyed and their gods had been laid to waste. Of the hundreds of spirits, dieties, and dryads that had lit up the world with magic, only ten survived, asleep and greatly weakened.
In the 1st Age, Debirae was the first to awake, even before the Eleven. Though weakened, her power over magic called her home to her, blending her world with the unceasing call of the Monolyth. Thanks to her, the New World would be a true joining of the two worlds. Thanks to her, the Beastclans survived. Thanks to her, the last of their true followers survived a little longer, some even long enough to pass on their genetic line.
The 1st Age lasted some hundred or more years. In it, the Eleven awoke and had designed their new dragons to populate the world. The Mageós were slower to awaken, but by the beginning of the 2nd Age, they too had begun to regain their former glory.
The Second Age began slowly. It seemed for a long time to be a time of peace and prosperity. The new dragons, the "Modern" breeds as they were called, had spread and populated this new world they named Sornieth. They lived and died out several generations. The Mageós lived, lurking in the shadows of the world or wandering its many fields and forests. It was a time of quiet as all settled into their new world with some degree of comfort.
The Tidelord disappeared.
There were no warnings from his prophets and seers, and even the Mageós were surprised by this turn. One day he could be seen deep in his underwater Keep, muttering gloomily to himself, eyes glowing and pulsating as they stared out at futures and visions unknown. The next he was gone, his den empty and his children left without their father's guiding light. Their seeing eyes did not stop, but the power of the world was irrevocably torn apart.
The elements are strong together, perhaps the strongest of any magic there ever was or had been. But one had gone missing, a crucial cog in the wheel that kept the remains of Paxico turning. The water god's disappearance did more than send the other deities into a nervous spiral, it made them weaker. This is the moment, some scholars would later say, that was the beginning of the end. It was here were the Old Gods gained their chance to get a foothold in the world, a real marker that might return them to their former glory.
With the Tidelord gone, the seas had no master. Oh yes, water magic still reigned, but it was weaker and decentralized, its users had to rethink their practices, focus harder to use what had once come easily. Indira began to rise in the absence. She was the wildness of the waters untamed. Her magic was potent, and for many years it had been hidden, locked away as the vengeful goddess waited for her moment to arrive. And now it had.
She was the first. The first of the Old Gods to be worshiped once more. The first whose magic began to return. The first to summon the leylines to her. The first to begin whispering promises of war.
Fifteen years passed by and something new was discovered, hidden deep beneath the earth, a new species of dragon, crafted in secret by the Earthshaker. Most dragons were ecstatic for this discovery, new dragons to learn about and understand, but there were others who were not so pleased. If the Eleven had hidden such a secret from their so called "beloved children," what else might they seek to hide?
The spiral began.
The Tidelord disappeared.
There were no warnings from his prophets and seers, and even the Mageós were surprised by this turn. One day he could be seen deep in his underwater Keep, muttering gloomily to himself, eyes glowing and pulsating as they stared out at futures and visions unknown. The next he was gone, his den empty and his children left without their father's guiding light. Their seeing eyes did not stop, but the power of the world was irrevocably torn apart.
The elements are strong together, perhaps the strongest of any magic there ever was or had been. But one had gone missing, a crucial cog in the wheel that kept the remains of Paxico turning. The water god's disappearance did more than send the other deities into a nervous spiral, it made them weaker. This is the moment, some scholars would later say, that was the beginning of the end. It was here were the Old Gods gained their chance to get a foothold in the world, a real marker that might return them to their former glory.
With the Tidelord gone, the seas had no master. Oh yes, water magic still reigned, but it was weaker and decentralized, its users had to rethink their practices, focus harder to use what had once come easily. Indira began to rise in the absence. She was the wildness of the waters untamed. Her magic was potent, and for many years it had been hidden, locked away as the vengeful goddess waited for her moment to arrive. And now it had.
She was the first. The first of the Old Gods to be worshiped once more. The first whose magic began to return. The first to summon the leylines to her. The first to begin whispering promises of war.
Fifteen years passed by and something new was discovered, hidden deep beneath the earth, a new species of dragon, crafted in secret by the Earthshaker. Most dragons were ecstatic for this discovery, new dragons to learn about and understand, but there were others who were not so pleased. If the Eleven had hidden such a secret from their so called "beloved children," what else might they seek to hide?
The spiral began.
There was a King. Well, he wasn't a King when he was born of course. He was only a hatchling, young and still blinking away the goo from his shining pink eyes. He was born on some hovering island in the Vale. Not much is known about his clan, nor his youth, not that it matters much anyway.
His name has been erased from history, a curse too terrible to speak for fear that saying it aloud will summon him up from death and cast the world into another terrible age of war. His wings cast long shadows wherever he went, and Clans across the Isles kept their wary eyes towards the sky, fearing the day the shadow of his army might descend upon their town, bringing with them only death and sorrow.
Some called him a herald of a new age, some called him a monster. He was haunted, driven made by whisperings in his ear from a young age. Indira's beloved, the seas called to him. One day, he disappeared and when he returned he led an army. Some say they were dragon, some say they were monsters. Some were dragons, but others were the lasts of the Mageós' beloved children. The Oudene, the Kunorul, and the Renori. Those that had survived the Joining banded together to follow the call of the Terrible King.
He brought The War. The Great War. The War with No Name. For 51 years it raged across the continent, destroying lives and families. Hatchlings born knew nothing but how to fight and die for their clan. Bloodshed and fear haunted the steps of every dragon, braying like dogs at their feet and the cold wind of His army shivered over field, isle, and forest.
The Eleven were far too busy for this sort of thing. The wars of their children mattered little to them, and they were content to let them deal it out themselves. This brought anger on the gods. Even more turned to the Mageós, whose ways promised a brighter future, strength, and peace on Sornieth. Not all the Mageós were pleased with this war, however. The Walking Gods were devastated by the loss that rolled over the Continent like a low-lying fog. They condemned their siblings for their cruelty, but could do little about it, for it wasn't even the Mageós' fault truly. Like the Eleven, they cared very little for what dragons did in their free time. If they wanted to start a war, they could very well go on and do just that. It was Indira more than any who truly sounded the war drums. The most any of the others could be accused of was negligence.
Eventually, though, as all things must, the War ended. Sornieth had been torn open like a scar, but the whole world breathed a sigh when the Last Great Battle of the Veridian Labyrinth finally ended with the King lying dead. Of the thousand who had come to fight that day, only a scarce hundred survived.
But dragons are nothing if not sturdy and strong. Sornieth was a scar, but scars heal and come together. New hatchlings were born who knew nothing of war and fear. Crops were regrown, families rebuilt, and lairs redone. Forests were nursed back to health by kind and gentle spirits, and the fields once again sang with children's laughter and wind chimes. The War with No Name was now only a chapter in the history books and a song in the tales that old dragons told their grandchildren of memories long past.
His name has been erased from history, a curse too terrible to speak for fear that saying it aloud will summon him up from death and cast the world into another terrible age of war. His wings cast long shadows wherever he went, and Clans across the Isles kept their wary eyes towards the sky, fearing the day the shadow of his army might descend upon their town, bringing with them only death and sorrow.
Some called him a herald of a new age, some called him a monster. He was haunted, driven made by whisperings in his ear from a young age. Indira's beloved, the seas called to him. One day, he disappeared and when he returned he led an army. Some say they were dragon, some say they were monsters. Some were dragons, but others were the lasts of the Mageós' beloved children. The Oudene, the Kunorul, and the Renori. Those that had survived the Joining banded together to follow the call of the Terrible King.
He brought The War. The Great War. The War with No Name. For 51 years it raged across the continent, destroying lives and families. Hatchlings born knew nothing but how to fight and die for their clan. Bloodshed and fear haunted the steps of every dragon, braying like dogs at their feet and the cold wind of His army shivered over field, isle, and forest.
The Eleven were far too busy for this sort of thing. The wars of their children mattered little to them, and they were content to let them deal it out themselves. This brought anger on the gods. Even more turned to the Mageós, whose ways promised a brighter future, strength, and peace on Sornieth. Not all the Mageós were pleased with this war, however. The Walking Gods were devastated by the loss that rolled over the Continent like a low-lying fog. They condemned their siblings for their cruelty, but could do little about it, for it wasn't even the Mageós' fault truly. Like the Eleven, they cared very little for what dragons did in their free time. If they wanted to start a war, they could very well go on and do just that. It was Indira more than any who truly sounded the war drums. The most any of the others could be accused of was negligence.
Eventually, though, as all things must, the War ended. Sornieth had been torn open like a scar, but the whole world breathed a sigh when the Last Great Battle of the Veridian Labyrinth finally ended with the King lying dead. Of the thousand who had come to fight that day, only a scarce hundred survived.
But dragons are nothing if not sturdy and strong. Sornieth was a scar, but scars heal and come together. New hatchlings were born who knew nothing of war and fear. Crops were regrown, families rebuilt, and lairs redone. Forests were nursed back to health by kind and gentle spirits, and the fields once again sang with children's laughter and wind chimes. The War with No Name was now only a chapter in the history books and a song in the tales that old dragons told their grandchildren of memories long past.
But unbeknownst to all, the King had had a child before his death, and had hidden the egg deep in his homeland, shrouded from sight by any number of enchantments and spells, designed carefully to keep it hidden and safe. Perhaps he believed he would return to it one day, to raise his child up to be his second in command when his army finally conquered what they believe to be theirs.
As it was, however, the egg lay dormant for a handful of years, alone. No one is sure how or why it hatched, what inciting incident caused it to finally rattle and crack and for the stained grey fur of a dragon to poke its head out of the shell. It was not really a tundra and not really a gaoler, long tusks and curving, grasping claws unlike either one. Her fur was both too thick and too thin and she was strange to look at, even as a child.
But she was still a child, and a traveling band of mirrors came across her. They did not understand her, but they took her as she screamed and begged for food, kindness guiding them to raise her as their own. She was raised knowing nothing but peace and love. Her family was large and all took care to watch and guide her as she grew, a community to raise all the children. Her many brothers and sisters cared for her as well, and though they fought, it was playful and good-natured.
But Indira was fuming. Deep within the ocean waters, her strength had only grown during the War, and with its loss, she was angry. She wanted her revenge. She began whispering to the child early in her life, corrupting and shifting her mind, playing with her thoughts like dough. No amount of pure love could hope to compare to the terrible influence of a malignant god.
So Fauve grew, fueled with anger, and the memories of a father's legacy she inherited burning in her brain like ice and fire colliding. She knew one day she would take her father's place, finish the war path he started, take the Continent for her own and destroy the Gods that had taken everything from her and cared nothing for her. But for now she was only a child, so she simply waited. Festered. Descended.
As it was, however, the egg lay dormant for a handful of years, alone. No one is sure how or why it hatched, what inciting incident caused it to finally rattle and crack and for the stained grey fur of a dragon to poke its head out of the shell. It was not really a tundra and not really a gaoler, long tusks and curving, grasping claws unlike either one. Her fur was both too thick and too thin and she was strange to look at, even as a child.
But she was still a child, and a traveling band of mirrors came across her. They did not understand her, but they took her as she screamed and begged for food, kindness guiding them to raise her as their own. She was raised knowing nothing but peace and love. Her family was large and all took care to watch and guide her as she grew, a community to raise all the children. Her many brothers and sisters cared for her as well, and though they fought, it was playful and good-natured.
But Indira was fuming. Deep within the ocean waters, her strength had only grown during the War, and with its loss, she was angry. She wanted her revenge. She began whispering to the child early in her life, corrupting and shifting her mind, playing with her thoughts like dough. No amount of pure love could hope to compare to the terrible influence of a malignant god.
So Fauve grew, fueled with anger, and the memories of a father's legacy she inherited burning in her brain like ice and fire colliding. She knew one day she would take her father's place, finish the war path he started, take the Continent for her own and destroy the Gods that had taken everything from her and cared nothing for her. But for now she was only a child, so she simply waited. Festered. Descended.
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Description
Although not the largest dragon, she is strange to look at. She is a tundra at first glance, though some that might recognize the Gaolers might refer to her as such as well. She has a shaggy coat in shades of grey, thin but long and tangled. Her claws are long and twisted, carefully kept sharp and her teeth which should be flat and round to grind plants are sharp and long, poking out the corners of her mouth to give her an intimidating grimace even in a neutral expression.
Her pink eyes shine with a certain aura of power and fear. The muscles that ripple beneath her skin are proof enough that she is no fighter to be trifled with. Even if one looks down upon her, there is an air that she carries implying control over all she comes across. Her fur is decorated with many scars, burns, and paint in shades of red and white. From her long horns hang chains of silver and flowers bloom under her skin, peeking through her coat. A crown of bones balances on her head, heavy with the weight of its meaning. |
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The Cursed Queen from high above
Fighting for her father's love Heir to bloodshed, pain, and death Will not relinquish final breath | x |
Crying now for a greater light
Crawling further through the night Days begin under blood red sky The sun will set if the Queen can die |
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Icons and banners by Serpentra + Natron
Round Flight Icons from Limanya
Round Flight Icons from Limanya
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Exalting Fauve to the service of the Arcanist 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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