Mjoll
(#23023)
Level 25 Pearlcatcher
Revenant
Plague Sprite
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Pearlcatcher
This dragon is on a Coliseum team.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
7.1 m
Wingspan
4.04 m
Weight
536.96 kg
Genetics
Forest
Slime
Slime
Red
Shimmer
Shimmer
Spring
Gembond
Gembond
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Pearlcatcher
Max Level
STR
123
AGI
21
DEF
5
QCK
61
INT
5
VIT
10
MND
5
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- Nox
- Sirius
- Messoria
- Darkrose
- Acheros
- Arroyo
- Saphira
- Kvothe
- Boromir
- Unnamed
- Unnamed
- Guinevere
- Adonis
- Malik
- Leider
- Lawless
- Zirconia
- Lukas
- Ralph
- Marybeth
- Einiona
- Aerith
- Arya
- Aurel
- Faelia
- Sweetmelon
- Lyriio
- Hahona
- Silva
- Caliborn
- Heliconia
- GarnetWing
- Xuam
- Poinsettia
- Bou
- Noxia
- Kefira
- Elegon
- Shunning
- Rumspringa
- Unnamed
- SwampMonstur
- Jade
- Alcyone
- Verigost
- Taffy
- Vyntolo
- Scoundral
- Jord
- Fustercluck
- Ooze
- Cholera
- Dilemma
- Ohgodwhy
- Blixen
- BogBeast
- Maestro
- Gian
- Theros
- Exzio
- Roslyn
- Trill
- Gale
- Kyoko
- RGB
- Blackwood
- Salamence
- Masato
- Kithael
- Rimaya
- Galen
- Persephone
- Lena
- Ivy
- Unnamed
- Gaia
- Anthurium
- Hecatia
- Morduum
- Vaughn
- Forestfury
- Unnamed
- Holly
- Kale
- Haloran
- Undyne
- Saihan
- Maleficium
- Arrion
- Poison
- Ramedaar
- Odessa
- Nasus
- Hermetic
- Hezom
- Ed
- Zola
- Parthenon
- Mita
- Fresco
- Archelan
- Bismuth
- Kestrel
- Triis
- Daud
- Astor
- Rook
- Naos
- Unnamed
- Aeolys
- Monsoon
- Vikenti
- Incinde
- Arrun
- Maeruhn
- Ultine
- Imriel
- Talanik
- Anko
- Ibiza
- Inwyl
- Olson
- Ajali
- Vestige
- Vestige
- Sengar
- Rauru
- Emeril
- Serezha
- Nadya
- Verdan
- Aramisan
Biography
Mjoll was adventurous and curious, perhaps never meant to have stayed in her forests and her meadows in the Everbloom. Romping in the weeds and rolling in dandelions were the pasttimes of a dragonling; Mjoll, beautiful and strong, yearned to explore and to cultivate, to create valleys within the pearl of her soul. Why nourish life within the confines of an already thriving land when other clans whispered of the veritable wastelands beyond the Gladekeeper's reach, dry, choking earth yearning for the tread of a caretaker?
Mjoll left while the clans watched and shook their heads. What a waste, they said, of a beautiful dragonness, a flower in a garden. What made the strange dragons outside their homeland deserving at all of the beauty of the Labyrinth? It was meant to stay.
But Mjoll did not. She traveled far, bringing beauty with her, coaxing green shoots and vivid flowers out of the parched earth. Her quest brought her finally to the Icefield, a cold and forlorn place where the bared, black branches of dead trees clawed at her hide and the snow nipped at her ankles. There she met Tiberius, the hulking Plague dragon borne of the winter darkness. Do not come near, he pleaded; I am already dead, and you will only join the others. He hid within an icy cove strewn with the skeletons of dragons far gone. He was frostbite incarnate. His presence chilled the living to the bone. Mjoll refused to accept that the beauty of life could not be brought to him. She grasped either side of his face, all points and edges, and said No. You will join me instead.
It took three days for Tiberius's sickness to eat away at her body. The first day, they walked among the tundra. Mjoll insisted she bring him to the Gladekeeper. Tiberius thought this strange, knowing he would only bring death to everything he touched. The Labyrinth was no place for him. Mjoll insisted it could be. There was nothing that the touch of the Labyrinth could not coax into life.
The second day, Mjoll felt unwell. Despite having made it to the Plateau, the chill of the Icefields clung to her like a frigid crust. Still she persevered. Her tie with life was strong, and the powers of the Plague would not do her harm. Tiberius admired her strength and her pride. He looked upon her fondly, and believed her.
The third day, Mjoll collapsed into the whirling dust of the Wasteland beneath the branches of a dying tree, thin and drained of strength. Tiberius despaired. The hungry snarls of starved clans closed in on him from the gloom beyond. He followed the silhouettes of prowling predators against the eerie light of the Rotrock, like vultures, waiting for his sickness to snuff out the last of her labored breaths. He covered her body with his own. The wild children of the wastes circled in, messy, dripping jaws, drooping flesh, rotting bodies. Mjoll shuddered in her throe of death. Tiberius bellowed:
PLAGUEMOTHER.
And the Plaguebringer answered, rising from the festering Wyrmwound to tower over her children, hungry, starving. She chided him for his insolence, his disloyalty, but like any good mother, offered penance for her son: Death cannot thrive without life to counter. I can save her, raise her from the grasping roots of death, but she will never leave her living grave, and you will never set foot within it again.
Tiberius, desperate, accepted.
Sweet child, Plaguebringer whispered, Are you truly so set on prolonging her suffering?
He wept. She is my Charge.
-
Dragons from all across the Wasteland visit Mjoll's garden now, to witness the beauty she has grown in the face of death. She tends the lush vegetation every day, tall trees and sweet flowers that extend across the waste just short of a mile. She nurses the soft grass, like pillows beneath the scarred and bleeding feet of the Plague children. She brings relief to their wounds and their pain, makes salves to serve the warriors of the Plaguebringer's army. Here she thrives, but she is a fairytale to the dragons beyond the Wasteland. Her soul, and her pearl, rest within the gnarled roots of the tree her former self died beneath. She can never leave.
Mjoll left while the clans watched and shook their heads. What a waste, they said, of a beautiful dragonness, a flower in a garden. What made the strange dragons outside their homeland deserving at all of the beauty of the Labyrinth? It was meant to stay.
But Mjoll did not. She traveled far, bringing beauty with her, coaxing green shoots and vivid flowers out of the parched earth. Her quest brought her finally to the Icefield, a cold and forlorn place where the bared, black branches of dead trees clawed at her hide and the snow nipped at her ankles. There she met Tiberius, the hulking Plague dragon borne of the winter darkness. Do not come near, he pleaded; I am already dead, and you will only join the others. He hid within an icy cove strewn with the skeletons of dragons far gone. He was frostbite incarnate. His presence chilled the living to the bone. Mjoll refused to accept that the beauty of life could not be brought to him. She grasped either side of his face, all points and edges, and said No. You will join me instead.
It took three days for Tiberius's sickness to eat away at her body. The first day, they walked among the tundra. Mjoll insisted she bring him to the Gladekeeper. Tiberius thought this strange, knowing he would only bring death to everything he touched. The Labyrinth was no place for him. Mjoll insisted it could be. There was nothing that the touch of the Labyrinth could not coax into life.
The second day, Mjoll felt unwell. Despite having made it to the Plateau, the chill of the Icefields clung to her like a frigid crust. Still she persevered. Her tie with life was strong, and the powers of the Plague would not do her harm. Tiberius admired her strength and her pride. He looked upon her fondly, and believed her.
The third day, Mjoll collapsed into the whirling dust of the Wasteland beneath the branches of a dying tree, thin and drained of strength. Tiberius despaired. The hungry snarls of starved clans closed in on him from the gloom beyond. He followed the silhouettes of prowling predators against the eerie light of the Rotrock, like vultures, waiting for his sickness to snuff out the last of her labored breaths. He covered her body with his own. The wild children of the wastes circled in, messy, dripping jaws, drooping flesh, rotting bodies. Mjoll shuddered in her throe of death. Tiberius bellowed:
PLAGUEMOTHER.
And the Plaguebringer answered, rising from the festering Wyrmwound to tower over her children, hungry, starving. She chided him for his insolence, his disloyalty, but like any good mother, offered penance for her son: Death cannot thrive without life to counter. I can save her, raise her from the grasping roots of death, but she will never leave her living grave, and you will never set foot within it again.
Tiberius, desperate, accepted.
Sweet child, Plaguebringer whispered, Are you truly so set on prolonging her suffering?
He wept. She is my Charge.
-
Dragons from all across the Wasteland visit Mjoll's garden now, to witness the beauty she has grown in the face of death. She tends the lush vegetation every day, tall trees and sweet flowers that extend across the waste just short of a mile. She nurses the soft grass, like pillows beneath the scarred and bleeding feet of the Plague children. She brings relief to their wounds and their pain, makes salves to serve the warriors of the Plaguebringer's army. Here she thrives, but she is a fairytale to the dragons beyond the Wasteland. Her soul, and her pearl, rest within the gnarled roots of the tree her former self died beneath. She can never leave.
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This dragon doesn't eat Meat.
This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
Plant stocks are currently depleted.
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Exalting Mjoll to the service of the Plaguebringer 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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