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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
19.7 m
Wingspan
20.91 m
Weight
9377.39 kg
Genetics
Aqua
Iridescent
Iridescent
Aqua
Shimmer
Shimmer
Maize
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Imperial
Max Level
STR
121
AGI
13
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Lineage
Biography
|
༻ D E C L A N ༺
charismatic | patient | humorous
O C C U P A T I O N - Scholar A L L I E S - F A M I L I A R - 
A R T - Art Here A L L E G I A N C E - 
W E A P O N - Rapier ྿
|
"Insert quote here."
⚔ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Revenge is an enrapturing sensation. Warm and cool, malevolently sweet, a lust that carves deep into one’s spirit, becomes something so much more than the simple word, for words cannot give definition to the age-old desire for vengeance. A giddy lightheadedness, vision crystal clear and senses heightened, something deep inside that stirs and cries in hunger. Pain and excitement and the indignation, all at once, a drive beyond anything instinctual could bring forth. A bizarre mixture that from which a strange hope is birthed, a need, a want so great that, for the chance of catching just a simple glimpse, one will put everything on the line. Inquisitive, eager to please and even moreso to learn. He was an embodiment of true light progeny, driven by an insatiable curiosity, a pursuer of the highest truth, and he was destined to bring honour to his clan and to the family name, to his predecessors before him. By his beauty, and by his wit. An acute mind, a heart of flame. Mischief glinting in pale golden eyes, the baby of the clan who had them all wrapped around his claw. His parents and siblings had doted upon him, their pride and their joy. He was the apple of their eyes. He was the baby of the clan. He was perfection, he was hope, he was the future. Few could resist his advances; he had them all wrapped effortlessly around his claw. A flash of brilliant white teeth, and rules would let slide. Brother, son, partner in crime. Great histories of his clan, favoured by the Lightweaver, the knowledge of worlds at their clawtips. Scrolls, tomes, ancient codices. Rows upon rows of leather-bound books, candle wax dripping lazily onto the ground. He had spent a large portion of his childhood wandering the grand halls of the study, sprawled upon the ground, studying papyrus and battle formations. The scents of incense and leather and dust, dignified wooden bookcases, eyes squinted against the candlelight. He was a budding scholar, he had so much more to learn, from the world, from the elders and philosophers he lived among. And in time, he promised himself, he would know it all. But then the peace was shattered. Screaming bolts of arcane magic. Heavy crossfire. Blood splattering on the walls, arterial spray, maroon and dark crimsons the work of an expressionist who painted only in reds. Organs, slick and sliding, dull thumps of bodies hitting the earth. He was terrified and little more than a hatchling, and he defected to the opposing clan. Head hung low, shame and regret hounding him with every step, memories of his parents’ bodies slumped next to the camp entrance, scarlet smears upon the scraggly grass, of the stream in which he had swum and played and splashed about with his brothers and sisters, running red with the blood of his kin. He hated them, with every beat of his heart, every particle that formed his very being. But he knew he was an outsider, was not trusted and never truly would be, and he would never have the power to avenge his family. And so he bided his time. Undyingly loyal, rising through the ranks with his charm, with his wit. All the while whilst the voices sung in his ears, while the muddled emotions, the desire for vengeance, lust of revenge, raged within his heart, a fire stoked by the constant memories, of death and loss and conquest, flashed before his eyes. Forced smiles through gritted teeth, grass tearing beneath his claws, and he could see it already, crimson bubbling from ruined throats, eyes glassing over and warmth sticking to his paws. And he was completely focused on the thought, and he could not think of anything else. He had become the leader’s trusted general, trusted advisor. Declan knew that the time had come. He let it take over, the feelings that had been trapped within, and his world was engulfed in a wall of flame. “B-brother?”The dying's voice was but a rasp, air whistling from a hole torn in his throat. His talons twitched pathetically, scrabbling at a bit of dirt over and over again. A fiendish grin curled across the drake's visage, youthful eyes marred by an expression that was impossible...should not have been seen in the eyes of one his age. "Your brother is dead," He sneered. With a whip of his tail, the imperial spread his wings. Looking back, he smiled, showing more teeth than necessary. "By the way," His voice was a smooth as a snake, gliding effortlessly over the velvet night air. "It was I who killed him." |
Art
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