Lothric
(#24467414)
L O T H R I C the tower
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Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
29.61 m
Wingspan
24.36 m
Weight
7197.06 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Cherub
Cherub
Obsidian
Peregrine
Peregrine
Yellow
Spines
Spines
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 10 Imperial
EXP: 5158 / 27676
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Lineage
Biography
L O T H R I C the tower
◦ heir to the clan ◦
"Choose thy fate alone. Seize it with thine own hands.
All the more should thy fate entail such foul betrayal..."
theme
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He had never asked to be born, infuriated by his own existence, the prince of Paravelle likes to think the only thing that has kept him from collapsing thus far, against all odds, is by far not his father's attempts at pretending to love him, nor the scholars and doctors of the clan slaving over his rough conditions, but his own anger. The hateful, distrustful stares shot his way whenever his father was not around and when he dared emerge from his chambers said it all, said all he needed to ever know about his clan. His father said they were all kind and needed a gentler approach, but Lothric had never listened to that foolish old man. No matter what, he would never understand. --- Fear pierced deep into his bones, penetrating past his defenses built up carefully over the years of being the clan leader. The hatchling, somehow alive, cried out in pain, with legs unstable, claws shrunken, only odd stumps for wings, whatever parasite that had gotten into his tiny, cracked egg eating away at an imperial's most proud adornments. He looked empty without them, his body oddly withered, the life coursing through his veins only holding on to a promise. It was not a sight for the weak hearted, especially his father, the usually stoic and righteous imperial scared not of a poor future for his clan, but of his son's death. He didn't care for the clan at all, in this moment, only able to look around the medics, sheer terror in his eyes out of the deepest primal love for his only hatchling and heir. "He'll live, right?" He tried a smile, voice shaky, eyes already hiding their tears, expertly, for the cherub pattern on the dragon's thigh matched that of his mother, long gone. "One can hope. It is.. most unusual, to see such a hatchling grow into adulthood." The doctors replied, most turning their heads away, only polite because it was their clan leader inquiring. Such an abomination was seldom to be seen around Sornieth, looking more like a crow with cut wings rather than a proud imperial, tiny and frail, barely the size of his father's very palms. "Unusual or not, he's my son." Mikochronos said, the cool in his voice being enough to close off any type of defiance from the medical professionals. The rumors followed the father and son outside of the healers' pavilion and everywhere else they went. How can a dragon be born without wings? Will he learn how to walk? Incubating for over two weeks, isn't it too long? Perhaps he was cursed never to live. The bright runes appeared around doorways of those especially believing in the arcana, the divine; it was an apparent sign from the Lightweaver, a bad omen to the clan, a cloud hanging over the Hewn City as it always did at the time of his hatching. To give him some credit, Mikochronos did try to spare his son's ears from the rumors, hid him away from prying eyes, leaving him to play in another room while he sat at audience with groups of concerned members of the clan. Lothric could hear them, discussing, first in hushed, then normal, then raised voices. A slam on a desk, the hatchling flinching as the sound reverbed through the walls of his wide, cushioned playroom (so he really could not hurt himself, at all) - "He is my son!" Then silence. "I will no longer tolerate this superstitious talk. My son is not a cursed child, not a stain upon the world, and he never will be what you label him as." Young Lothric couldn't understand the words, not yet, but sensed his father's anger, knew it was him they were talking about, covered his ears with tiny arms in hopes of being anywhere else, a hatchling, suffering, wishing for escapism more than anything else. Sure, his father came in soon after, worried eyes running over him, scanning his son for any harm. Soft words were whispered into his ears, caring touches, hugs pressing him close to his only parents' neck, all empty promises of him always loving his son and staying by his side, forever. Maybe his father had been on his side, once. But now Lothric knew for sure he wasn't. And by all the gods that had ever existed, no matter how corrupt he became, he'd turn himself into an actual abomination to make them all pay. written by @gay4dragonz ---- His bones were paper thin, the long, thin locks scattered over the teen's back, shoulder blades stuck out, every breath shuddering his poor little lungs as the son wept in his only refuge. His mouth was open so wide in an expression of undeniable pain that it felt almost as if the sharp cheekbones would rip his face up from within, skin ghastly pale to the point of a gray helplessly flushing the lightest of pinks as the man shrank down into a boy, wailing into the poor pillow stuffed with the finest of feathers and puffs. His weak hands raised to tug at his hair, tear out more of the watery strands that were already thin, so thin - once he had held at least some pride in his own beauty, but the striking dissimilarity with his father was what caused him to barricade himself alone. He'd always stand in the shadow of the shining smile, those golden eyes and black hair. His thin grayish white and pale eyes could never compare, born like an inkless sheet of papyrus from a baobab, almost as if his parents has refused to give him any of their melanin. He wasn't strong enough to rip out more of his hair, the feeling of helplessness bringing him only more panic. But panic was a second nature to him by now, always distrusting, rushing to get back into his room, bury himself under the blankets and sob. Not even Sir Basaran was allowed in anymore. Aunt Velka had never quite been fond of him, Lothric knew. Most of his knowledge, it came from things he could tell. Weak, disheartened, powerless and broken, inside and outside, he could do nothing more but rage only at himself, curled up so tight no earthly force may part how strong he clutched at his own knees, only crying at products of his misery. The sun would not rise. He wouldn't get better. He'd stay broken, unwanted, sickly. The only thing that dared disturb his cries was a rustle in the floor - barely audible, as if he had just imagined it, rats scurrying beneath the cold, unwelcome marble floors. written by @gay4dragonz ---- Never in his life did he have power. Not the one for smarts or sports or greets or anything in between, Lothric floated outside of the socially accepted bubbles in an outcast league of his own. He'd grown to like being alone - or maybe he just convinced himself he enjoyed it, to make the empty room more bearable. It was filled with toys made for him, pillow palaces, now turned more grim with the large four poster bed with heavy curtains always kept shut. Lothric liked to burrow inside his hot air pocket, barely having enough meat on his bones to keep warm, gliding in and out of the velvet coverings to his private alcove. It had just been his sanctuary, for the powerless to hide. But the voices told him he didn't have to hide anymore. With their help, apparently - Lothric distrusted all people around him, the voices in particular - he would get the power he'd need. His back would be fixed. His posture would straighten out and he'd stand tall and proud, newfound strength in his veins. He didn't believe them, although he desperately wanted to. He didn't see them at least - the darkness had moved around him, shifting wisps of shadows in between dark underground catacombs closed off to the public, and after all, seeing was believing. The young prince had gone off on whims before, his trust damaged and broken, but the voices meant no harm. They spoke the truth. Basaran, Velka, his father, they all always spoke to deceive him. The voices weren't there to lie. They were there to lead. His feet, slow yet with a newfound prance, carried him back up the stairs to his chambers, loose clothes swishing around the wide sleeves and gentle ties, for Lothric did not much care for tight clothes. He just had to sit down and think a little, since his body tired out so quickly his mind had grown stronger, running rampant in his head and flipping tables over the excitement in his veins, the fruition of possibility. The door creaked open and he slipped in, practically flinching away from the figure sat awkwardly on one of the benches. His father, broad and strong as ever, smiled wide at the arrival of his son. Lothric couldn't help but inwardly bristle - he didn't wish for company. But the fond look in his father's eyes got the teen to drop the subject, watching the taller man stand up, eyes half wide in disbelief. "You want out, my son?" He grinned, asking carefully, stepping closer to lie (if not hover) a hand above Lothric's shoulder, with scattered pale hair untied from the hairdo of the morning. The teen nodded, much to Mikochronos' delight. "Really? Where did you go?" A pang of guilt struck the young man to the point of almost bending over but he stood strong, his father still afraid to touch him in fear of making the good posture crumble and cave into the broken and bent bone structure he had been born with. He hadn't seen his son look this bright in months - was that a smile in the corner of his mouth? Those dull dark eyes glimmered. The clan leader noticed the pause, shifting the hand to pet the silky silver hair. "You don't have to tell me, Lothie. Was it alright? Did you enjoy your time?" Lothric was just about to answer yes, but his thoughts lingered on the soft manner his father called his nickname, touched his hair, worried for him. The toys on arrays of shelves in the room were handcrafted with love and mastership, his uncle Basaran making every single one safe, taking note of his interests and health when creating and weaving his back braces out of filigree. Did they really deceive him, to have kept him in their careful care for so long, the pillars of Paravelle? Lothric was not so sure anymore. So he said, "I.. don't know." His father's fondness turned into endearment as he offered a hug, young Lothric gently slotting himself in so he wouldn't be touched so much. It was more out of obligation. "That's okay too, Lothie. That's alright." The paler man eased away from the embrace, arms at his chest, backing away a few steps to the bed. He had to be alone. He had to sleep the icky pit in his stomach off. Mikochronos smiled, proud yet a little somber at the same time, as he always was. "Ah, you should rest. You've had a long day." With a final nod he headed toward the door, lingering to watch his sweet son awkwardly shift his weight from left to right, uncertain. "I'll see you at dinner, my son?" Lothric muttered something in return that even he didn't know, already hidden in his curtains. For his father that was more than enough, the little smile and good mood following Mikochronos down the hall, while the teen curled up in bed, refusing to look at the toys and braces made for him, ignoring the soft manner in which those strong fingers were always gentle with his hair and touching the bones, considerate with the clothing and respecting of what his father thought to be privacy but in reality was entirely new territory of doubt and misrule. The Lothie made his stone heart melt and hardened it back to obsidian all in one as it was dunked inside the ocean of unexplainable emotions in his gut. Tomorrow he'd go back to the catacombs. The voices surely knew what this all meant. written by @gay4dragonz |
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