Level 25 Spiral
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Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Spiral
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style


Infectionist's Emblem
Ebony Antlers
Haunted Flame Candles
Simple Gold Necklace
Simple Gold Bracelets
Crimson Rogue Gloves
Scarlet Wooly Coat
Bloody Neck Bandage
Viper's Breastplate
Carapace Arm
Red Rose Flowerfall
Crimson Rogue Footpads
Crimson Rogue Trousers
Crimson Tail Feathers
Viper's Tail Guard
Crimson Rogue Tail Binding


Accent: Many Eyes Plague


Scene: Plaguebringer's Domain


3.35 m
1.96 m
115.12 kg


Primary Gene
Secondary Gene
Tertiary Gene


Feb 04, 2014
(9 years)



Eye Type

Eye Type
Level 25 Spiral
Max Level
Pestilent Slash



  • none


  • none


Infectionist's Emblem Haunted Flame Candles Ebony Antlers Simple Gold Necklace Simple Gold Bracelets Scarlet Wooly Coat Bloody Neck Bandage Crimson Rogue Gloves Carapace Arm Red Rose Flowerfall Katana Crimson Rogue Footpads Viper's Breastplate Crimson Rogue Trousers Crimson Tail Feathers Viper's Tail Guard River Royalist Tail Rings Crimson Rogue Tail Binding

Bleed the Heavens

He who spreads the disease of madness and sin.

  • He is alone when they meet him, out in the wilderness. Alone, unarmed—they take him in, no questions asked. Indeed, why should they ask? They've heard all the stories before: betrayal, abandonment... The desert breeds folk as hard and merciless as its heart. They speak only one question, and it is to ask for his name. It is the simplest of answers, and yet the one he gives them is wrong.

  • He is a good boy. Angel, that's his name—and they believe it, too. He drifts around, eager to make friends, and he does: Wherever he stops, laughter bubbles up, and they are heard repeating his name. He leaves pockets of silence behind, clanmates struggling to fill in the gap. Minutes ticking by. And then arguments erupting, jokes that turn into insults. They tell themselves it's because they miss him. Over and over again.

  • Hunting time. He wishes them luck as they leave. "Be careful," he tells them. "Someone might make a mistake."

    "What kind of mistake?" they want to ask, but the next minute, he's gone. Only his words remain, turning over and over in their heads. Words that come to mind later, when one of their clanmates slips and the quarry gets away. They can't help asking, "How did he know?" He must have seen this happen before. That would mean too many mistakes. Too many mistakes others made...

  • A Guardian looking for his familiar—he's had it since he was a child. "Someone must have eaten it," another laughs, only to be smothered beneath a wave of remonstrances. Just the usual jokes and apologies, but this time, his gaze lingers on each face. The joke festers and boils within him, and in the fever of rage he perceives how they avert their eyes a bit too quickly, laugh just a bit too loudly. He looks at their ribs, the jutting bones of their faces. Underneath the anger, the thought cajoles him: Aren't you hungry, too?

  • He tells the old dragoness, as she stands watch over the clan's sleeping hatchlings, that he's amazed she's worked at the creche for so long, endured so much whining and screaming. He praises her, but the problems he speaks of strike a chord deep inside her, and it continues thrumming even after he's gone. When the clan next sees her, she's reaching claws out to the nearest child. It takes a group to wrestle her away and ask her what is wrong. Perhaps it's just the heat; she's tired and fatigued. They expect an apology—yet it never comes. "It was the noise that broke her," those in the know say later on, their faces grim. "Too much noise from the children. She wanted them to be quiet... forever."

  • There's been an accident...or perhaps it was a fight? It doesn't really matter. The injured are asleep in the infirmary tent with nothing but the pale moonlight. A shimmer at the tent flap—and he appears. Night nurses, passing by, see him bending over each stretcher, whispering to the patients tenderly, so tenderly. "He must be comforting them or saying prayers," they sigh. But there are no words of comfort from him, no prayers. There are only names, each one hissed beneath his breath with the viciousness of a jagged knife. The knife twists in their brains, aggravating and wounding, and the patients awaken with murder in their eyes.

  • It must have been left there as a gift: just a packet of seafood, but it means so much to her, surrounded by desert as they are. It's neatly wrapped, placed atop her own hoard; perhaps someone will share it with her?

    She offers it to a friend. It's painful to see the looks on the other's face: the incredulity, then the rage. "Thief!" he bellows, and he strikes her. That's how the fall begins: with a mistake, an accusation, and an offer of friendship rotting upon the sand.

  • It's all coming apart. It's time to choose sides. You can feel everything splitting down the middle. Somewhere in there, somebody asks you why. But it puzzles you: Why should they ask? Haven't they heard the stories before? Betrayal, abandonment... The desert breeds folk as hard and merciless as its heart. Only nights before, an offer of friendship was thrown down. Anyone could have saved it. But nobody did. Now there are only lines to be drawn and crossed. You look at them, and all the whispered words, the sidelong glances, come together inside you in a roar. It engulfs you in a wave of fury. And you ride the storm.

  • As the life rushes out of your skin, it leaves behind a cold so deep it shocks you into clarity. The world stands out in stark relief. Amidst the fighting and the dying, beneath the typhoon of noise he waits, an island of serenity. The delight on his face chills you more than death ever could. You tell yourself, as you always do, that it's a trick of the firelight...but as you look at the expression on the body next to you, and the next and the next, you realize your eyes never played tricks on you. Only your mind did. You noticed from the beginning. You just chose not to believe...

  • He does not feed on the wreckage. No flesh for him, no blood. He lingers over each corpse, and the anguish on each face feeds his heart better than mead or meat ever could. As he stands over you, his smile gleams like a knife, and his eyes grow deeper than the dark. You speak his name. You say, "But... you're our... Angel," and as your life leaves you, you hear those final words—

    "Please... 'Angel's' just a nickname."
--- Written by @Disillusionist, edits by @After

Created when a desperate demon fused with a dying hatchling. For most dragons, just standing in his presence is enough to let his powers begin warping their minds. Where he goes, chaos and hate and bloodshed is soon to follow. Only those with impressive mental fortitude can withstand his effects, though what his ambient power can't defile, his teeth, claws, and blade are sure to do so in its stead.

(Other supernatural beings on the other hand aren't affected by his weird aura at all.)


cold, callous, cruel. seems to be of the belief that the world exists for his amusement. enjoys driving clans apart and watching their members fall prey to their own doubts and distrust, corrupting the clan from the inside. feeds on the magic of his victims, which hastens the onset of their insanity.

has no concept of love or friendship and sees those that believe in them as weak. doesn't see his actions as wrong or right, just as actions without morality involved. he does what he wants, takes what he pleases, and if the world has to burn for his amusement, then so be it. life and light causes some instinctive revulsion within him that he doesn't particularly understand but also doesn't care to figure out.

knows enough from watching others about how to act just well enough to let other clans allow him close. can participate in idle chatter, ask questions, and even manipulate others with flattery, but his words are hollow and spoken only for the purpose of getting a desired result. will approach almost anyone, but stays the hell away from magical healers and warriors skilled in spirit-related combat.

sharklike smile. doesn't have a pulse. doesn't seem to need to breathe, either. plants coming into contact with him wither and die not long after.

is currently unaware of Byzmara, as well as the fact that Katsura and Ataetr are still alive in some sense of the word anyway.


The demon possessing Ataetr was only driven out during his battle with Katsura - greatly weakened and split into many shards, but not killed. Clinging to existence out of sheer hatred, one lone wisp of the demon's spirit fled from Remnant to Sornieth, searching for another dragon host. It was too weak to possess most dragons, but eventually it came across an abandoned hatchling on the verge of death. Despising the weakened, wretched creature but left with no other option, the demon attempted to possess it.

Perhaps it was that they were both so close to death that neither could keep themselves separate, but whatever the case, where before there was two, now there was only one. Demon and dragon, half conscious, half rotten, hatchling instinct mixing with supernatural malevolence. It was something new, something warped, something that existed on too many planes, bridging the living, the spiritual, and the dead.

He rose up from his nest, hunger and hatred welling up within him, and decided the world was his.
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