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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
26.85 m
Wingspan
17.34 m
Weight
6816.02 kg
Genetics
Midnight
Iridescent
Iridescent
Black
Shimmer
Shimmer
Gold
Flecks
Flecks
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
》 W A G O S H 《
 Strength ████████████████ Wisdom ████████████████ Defense ████████████████ Charisma ████████████████ Magic ████████████████ Intelligence ████████████████ |
Babies are born screaming. Small lungs sample their first taste of air only to then expel it in a mighty expulsion of displeasure, of pain, of confusion. Babies are born screaming because creation is a violent, intensive, and yet phenomenally beautiful thing. Wagosh does not believe she was born screaming. If she was, then the vacuum of space swallowed the sounds before they’d even left her parted lips. Cold, unyielding, and oh so lonely. There had once been warmth, a raging inferno so scorching that it would strip the scales off a dragon’s hide and leave not even ash behind. This glorious blaze had been Wagoshi’s home, her creator, her mother. It spits her out without a semblance of care nor mercy, flinging her into the startlingly blank and terrifying world of being. Consciousness ripped into sudden realisation is excruciating. It is shards of glass embedding deep into her skin and burning, bubbling blisters popping one by one. It is crushing pressure bearing down on her from above, twisting and tweaking her until she is warped incomprehensibly. Hurtling through the atmosphere, Wagoshi feels her form shaped and moulded by the intensive wall of pressure which slams into her. Like molten metal, she is forged into reality, into being, into life itself. Agony, agony, agony. Claws rupturing through her nailbeds to break open tender flesh and weaving nerves. A series of synaptic triggers as organs link into her system; stardust and liquid cosmos solidifying. Her eyeballs roll forwards, bile ebbs and trickles into her guts, and a deafening roar starts up as newly pulsed blood rushes through her ears. Wagosh is born in violence, as all beings are. She is not even provided the opportunity to meet her mother. The dying star winks out into nothingness as its daughter plummets. Falling and falling and falling. Twisting, turning, and tumbling. Shooting stars are not intended to live long past tomorrow, and yet Wagosh finds herself a miracle. She lands, and when her eyes snap open, she is alive. Air which reeks with the overwhelming abundance of existence. There is the scent of grass, springy and plush beneath Wagosh’s tender nails. There is the taste of ozone, scraps of the cosmos still clinging to her hide. There are floral perfumes which tickle her nose as she inhales deep and feels her diaphragm expand. As she expels the air, birdsong fills her ears, and Wagosh imagines what they may smell or taste like too. There are so many of them, a kaleidoscope of colours which flicker and dart throughout the air. Wagosh leaps up to catch one, but she is too slow. Still, a feather flutters free of the creature and lands atop Wagosh’s nose. She sneezes, and then her chest rumbles with the first sweet taste of laughter. She is alive. A world teeming with existence, and Wagosh is alive amongst it all. She is alive, and it is beautiful. Although childlike wonder soon dulls beneath the primal, basal instincts of survival; Wagosh does still maintain her adoration of this world. Each leaf, each drop of rainwater, each worm writhing through the dirt are all oozing with untold secrets. What separates her from the field mice which dart about her claws? What is the purpose of thorns and why do some flowers only unfurl upon nightfall? Wagosh loves the singing of crickets and cicadas, but they will never tell her just who it is that they sing for. The moon? The stars? Perhaps even the withered remnants of her mother. Wagosh will still speak to her at times. Is that what the little insects do, too? How many of them were also plucked loose from the stars? The curiosity continues, but it must shift to make room for the remainder of her newly fledgling emotions. Pain. Grief. Terror. This world is ripe with wonder, but it also teems with untold horrors. Wagosh witnesses the cruelty of her fellow dragon and the rottenness of war. She observes the way selfishness and greed twists the hearts and the minds of the sentient, and she cries as dynasties fall. Valuable, irreplaceable species are wiped clean from the slate of creation. Noble bloodlines and selfless hearts are bled dry. Wagosh can do nothing when others are unwilling to heed her warnings or accept her aid, and yet she still grieves for each and every one. She lives for a very, very long time, and yet in the grand scheme of things, it is but a blip of an existence compared to the inevitability of entropy. It is this ceaseless fighting and thirst for bloodshed which drives Wagosh into the scarred, sandy deserts of the lightning flight. Vast, empty dunes which rage with storms of both dust and searing electricity. It is a dangerous and inhospitable land the unprepared dare not traverse. Wagosh finds a peace in it, and from that peace, her curiosity returns. What are these strange, humming pillars which jut from the earth like jagged teeth? There are spiderwebs of black wires which hiss and arc as she approaches them. All around her, the air physically vibrates with energy. It is fascinating, and it is breathtaking. The dancing arcs of blue electricity remind her of the cosmos she was birthed from. They remind her of home; of her mother. Supernovas, nebulas and the waxing, waning light of a dimming sun. Violence and violet electrical arcs. The blaze of a dying star comparable to heated sands shifting beneath her feet. Wagosh can smell ozone and petrichor here, she can smell the electricity just as surely as the cosmos had once lingered upon her skin. At night, when the clouds veil the sky thickly, the waltz of lightning is like pulses of stardust. Wagosh wishes to learn everything she can about this natural phenomena. How it works, how it scorches the earth with its touch, how it hums and sings and speaks. Wonder revived, she searches for her answers. She was not expecting to find a home here. Find a family here. The dragons of clan Tintreach may not have been spat from the stars, but their blood flows with the same vibrancy for life that Wagosh’s own does. Together, they can listen to the stars sing as wanderlust guides their feet into a better future. Lore by SealedSalt |
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Exalting Wagosh to the service of the Stormcatcher 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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