Bernstein
(#22961116)
Try as I may, to hide it away, the fury it never leaves me
Familiar
Porphyry Flamecaller
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Fire.
Male Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
31.73 m
Wingspan
18.39 m
Weight
6676.5 kg
Genetics
Sunshine
Python
Python
Orange
Morph
Morph
Sunshine
Crackle
Crackle
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Imperial
Max Level
STR
102
AGI
40
DEF
10
QCK
51
INT
9
VIT
31
MND
10
Biography
| __._ |
 Demons are strong. Mortals are weak. Demons love to hurt and destroy, to bring forth pain and mortals despise it. Those were the rules and they were good. They made the world go round and round, in endless, nauseating circles, over and over and over again. But of course rules were nothing without the exceptions, they are despicable but necessary and they make his stomach churn with the fires of hell. His mother, his sweet as sugar, soft as clouds mother, who had crawled from the depths of hell, dragged her tattered carcass out of the guts of the earth, away from scorched soil and charred bones, caked with dried blood, all of it her own. She crawled and shivered, squirmed and somehow made her way across half the land, before finding a willing host, a dying woman, taking over her decaying shape the moment her soul left. She was merciful where her kin only knew violence and viciousness, knew only of softness and forgiving as stronger ones carved scar after scar after scar into her flesh. The world built and broke on its rules, they made sense, except when they didn’t. Case and point, his father. The man was mortal and frail compared to his infernal mother, the ice to her fire, except she was water and he was lightning, scorching away at her essence with heavy hand. The pact offered was rejected and he simply took what he wanted, mistook her for nothing more than a crazed witch, amusing to play with and then drop. Except that her stomach had grown round and swollen after he had played over and over again with her. She was scared of what the children would be like. Fool he was, he didn’t listen to her. And then the children were born. Two of them turned into blood and smoke and he was glad, happy, free off the leash of responsibility. Except one boy was left, the runt of the batch, shaking and clear eyed, he looked so innocent until he opened his mouth to snarl. Rows after rows of teeth in a mouth almost too small for the sharp amount of teeth, crooked and jagged and very much lethal to tear and shred. His father was abhorred from the horror of his deformed son, his mother utterly relieved it were just teeth and nothing more. Fire and beatings couldn’t stop the boy from growing and her from feeding him her life force. Her power, her tainted soul, her motherly love, she gave him her all and the boy grew and grew, steadily, surely. Soon, he towered over the abuser of his past, was cast aside, now that he could no longer be an amusing toy. Too dangerous, too wild, his infernal side reared its ugly horned head, whispered in dark growls of war and bloodshed and the feeling of superior power as he shattered lives and bones alike underneath his claws. Wherever he went, war followed, became his shadow, his best friend and only constant in his chaotic life. Like a beast with war liquid in his veins, he was untamed and unbroken, scars stretching over skin and muscle, a champion dressed in a wreath drenched with crimson. That was, until he challenged the Undying one in his endless hubris, gaze veiled in red and rage puffing hot and shattering on his every exhale. It took a battle for him to taste defeat, salt and dirt, his body broken, missing chunks of his wing, his arm – gone, cut off by a mighty blow and his rage grew, wilder, more and more dangerous, like the fire that he was born from, that could not, would not harm him. Draped in armor and given an army, he was put at the head of the military, a vicious, kicked dog snapping his jaws and drooling in mindless rage, nothing remained of the little boy hanging to his mother’s tail. And the Empire did not disappoint either, as he upheld the law with an iron fist, as he lead the army over and over again on a blood red crusade. For as long as he would fight, he would remain on top of it all, fire burning within his chest. The fire that consumed it all, the anger that would protect him from the coldness of the world. As long as it was burning, he would be save. . . In the roar of fire and war drums, underneath waving banners of Empires clashing, he felt at home. With the armor dragging and pulling heavily on his shoulders and his limbs, he felt safe. Secure. And here he wanted to return to as often as possible, clashing of weapons and jaws snapping, threatening to tear at his scarred throat, he loved it here. Except when he was sent to fight this foolish, foolish boy they called the Blood Emperor. “You looking handsome again, Bernstein.”, the young guardian joked, flirted, his rapier slender and bending underneath the force of his strike, claws scratching over metal in a shower of sparks and splinters of metal, dirt kicking up as they twirled and whirled around each other, flame and flower, clashing and struggling to win, to overpower the other. “Oh, I mean General or was it Warmaster? Wanna know something else?” “I want you-”, a push, a shove, dark, hoarse voice bellowing out with pure rage, darker even as it shook and spiked, turned into a bellowing roar thundering over the field strewn with corpses and soiled with blood, alight by lightning and fire. “-to f—cking die!” “Cute, you’re always so angry”, chuckling the young Emperor dodged and whirled his rapier through the air once more, silks and armor heavy with sweat and blood, but not his own, for some reason never his own. Flower whirling pink and vibrant around his shifting form, the horn of retreat blown, the battle was over, the war ended in pat. Again. “You would look so good in my harem. I would make you my head concubine too.” Left speechless, the war hungry creature towered soiled and wearing a horned crown of thorns, the only beauty he had ever known was the brokenness of his own image, of a battlefield after the fires had been snuffed out. . . Same and same attracts, or so people kept spewing. A thief and a mongrel of mixed heritage, they made a strange pair, the two of them. Ironically enough, when they first met each other, Bernstein looked right past him, the scrawny little thief with his blackened eye, split lip and bruise colored skin. He was just one of many, shaking and quaking as the General stomped right past them, a foul wind that cut deep and carried the heat of volcanoes and battle with it. What actually made Bernstein turn his attention, his gaze towards the skinny Wildclaw was an unpleasant event, accused of being responsible for a foiled assassination attempt onto the Head of the Guard, Thora should have been sent into the dungeons. Should have disappeared with the rest that went down that dark hole, gaping like a hungry set of vicious jaws. Hungry for souls to be fed to it. Whatever drove Bernstein into bending the judgement, no one could claim to know, he himself wasn’t even sure of his reasons. Reasons other than bleak minded, destructive boredom. So instead of emptying another leaking cup of cheap booze, like he always did when off the battlefields, Bernstein took to his second, more dominant vice. Violence, plain and raw, as he beat and tossed Thora’s too light body like a clump of dirt into the same, over and over and over again. Not even stopping when bones broke and shattered, he thought this little fool of an assassin would not last long, would break before long. But Thora never did. He fought back, spat insults and declared his innocence loudly. Not that it mattered, no one in the Army was innocent, most of the Knights were forced into their position as a punishment and redemption towards the crowd they wronged. Criminals for the lack of a better word. Thora’s crime was a light one, thievery on a noble foolish enough to enter the no man’s land of misery, disease and starvation that were the slums. If it were up to Bernstein alone, he would have ignored it, but the Army at that point needed the fresh bodies. He always needed more fodder to throw at enemies, to use as stepping stones to get to that elusive high of war and carnage. In the end, the assassination attempt faded into obscurity, at least it did for Bernstein. There were many that sharpened their knives and prepared their poisons to bring him down, he wouldn’t waste time on holding onto useless grudges against the mere puppet left to hang. Same could of course not be said for Thora, he who had suffered gruesome abuse through Bernstein’s hands, over and over again. The Wildclaw surely must hate his General for his uncaring attitude. Bernstein himself found his way of thinking about Thora change. Soften. It was the sole reason why he stepped in on the battlefield, abandoned his eternal duel with an old foe to rush in and prevent an enemy soldier from killing Thora in coldest of blood. The boy survived the battle, but he would be eaten alive in this war, of that Bernstein had no doubt. He claimed, this was why he pushed the boy, why he changed it from beating him senselessly into training the kid viciously, whipping him into the best shape he had ever been in. Blades, Spears, Bows or without any weapon at all, Bernstein forced him through it all, blind to the jealousy within the other knights that he planted with his sudden display of favoritism. Strange, how things had changed in a span of a few short years. The little thief had become something akin to a partner to Bernstein, in battle and off the field. A friend, a dear comrade. Their behavior around each other, towards each other softening to the point their will they, won’t they state of fluidity became the talk of all the districts. Curious how something as fragile and precious as love could bloom in soil as tainted as the Undying Empire. . . ”Oi,B-bern!”, choking around words and cheap booze alike, the boy looked up at him, wide eyed, cracked teeth visible in an insecure, blush colored smile and Bernstein found it for a moment, hard to breathe in the dingy, thick air of the seedy pub. Someone chuckled, low and rough and hoarse and it took his alcohol fogged brain far too long to understand it was coming from his own throat. “W-why ye laughin’!?” “Yer funny, can’t help meself.”, he poured himself another drink, as deftly as one could with only one arm and two cups to fill. He watched the other choke once more around drink and words unspoken, he wanted to say something, so, so badly. It was fine, Bernstein himself had something to say as well, could just as well begin this conversation that was so clearly dying to happen. “Ye good, lil fella? Me got som’thin to tell ye.” It's been brewing for a long time. He couldn’t even place his chipped claw on the exact when, neither the how. Just that it had happened, that he had stumbled, tumbled, fallen headlessly for a doll faced, wide eyed, little thief that had crashed into his life and attention so obnoxiously. Helplessly as well. Maybe he should not do it, maybe he should just swallow his words and let things continue as they were. That was what a smart man would do. But Bernstein had never claimed to be a wise man. “Me has fallen for ye, Thora.”, he spoke, gaze fixed on dark green eyes. “Can’t help it, don’t want to. Me loves ye.” 
| ___ |
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