Amiri
(#24897805)
Silent witchdoctor
Familiar
Redtail Gryphon
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Skydancer
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.38 m
Wingspan
5.82 m
Weight
695.11 kg
Genetics
Orca
Iridescent
Iridescent
Orca
Shimmer
Shimmer
Ice
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 7 Skydancer
EXP: 1293 / 11881
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
|
Amiri
Nicknames: None • Witchdoctor / dark arts mage 
╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮ "The black arts don’t take kindly to power hungry folk. Dragons don’t understand- it’s a responsibility, a burden, not a source of endless energy." ♫ (Grimes) - (Genesis) ♫ ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ |
Amiri has rarely touched a book that would not help him improve his skills in the dark arts. He would spend hours, and even straight days, studying and practicing, and one would consider themselves lucky if they found the poor Skydancer asleep. His feathers are not as pristine as an average dragon of his species would be, but he says he has no time for that. His studies and the health of others (as well as Iro) are the only things he believes that matters, as these are the only things that keep him going. -Builder
GruesomeGoo wrote:
Plumbing the depths of writing long forgotten can lead one to many startling and revolutionary discoveries. Unimaginable power and unimaginable evil can lurk between the dusty pages of an off-cast book; for most, a risk not worth taking. But for Amiri, a challenge! A treasure! And most of all, something new to learn!
Most who see the scholarly doctor of the black arts, with his sharp featured face buried in a book, assume that he has always been an introverted bookworm; but those dragons would be quite surprised if Amiri ever did speak the truth of his past. At one point, Amiri served an ancient clan as a sort of celebrity doctor; one whose words were like honey to the ruling family. Everyone loved and relied on him, until he came across that damnable book; The Dracon Nïckahenna. What horrors were unleashed from that infernal tome, none will ever know...for the clan was exterminated down to the last fragment of eggshell, in an event so horrifying it scarred Amiri for life, impeding his speech and sucking him into a deep depression.
But Amiri was like the phoenix; rather then give up on the dark arts, he tunneled deeper. Soon, his power had grown twofold since that dark day, and he swore to master the black arts to ensure such evil would never be unleashed on his watch again. And so, he pours over the ink-stained pages, mastering the secrets contained within; committing the knowledge within to memory. Were it not for Iro, his fellow scholar, Amiri's gifts may have never come to light again.
Iro was once just a visitor to Amiri's vast library of knowledge. But, he was the first to discover Amiri's talent with the powers of life and death, and pushed him to be the best he could possibly be, helping countless other dragons within the clan with everything from minor scrapes to debilitating diseases. Amiri as of yet has been unable to come up with the words to thank Iro; his stammer grows far worse around the mysterious, tall, burning-eyed sorcerer, and his heart always begins to jump a beat when they meet eyes.
An odd sensation. Perhaps one day he will discover why this happens...it could be a rare form of heart defect...
Most who see the scholarly doctor of the black arts, with his sharp featured face buried in a book, assume that he has always been an introverted bookworm; but those dragons would be quite surprised if Amiri ever did speak the truth of his past. At one point, Amiri served an ancient clan as a sort of celebrity doctor; one whose words were like honey to the ruling family. Everyone loved and relied on him, until he came across that damnable book; The Dracon Nïckahenna. What horrors were unleashed from that infernal tome, none will ever know...for the clan was exterminated down to the last fragment of eggshell, in an event so horrifying it scarred Amiri for life, impeding his speech and sucking him into a deep depression.
But Amiri was like the phoenix; rather then give up on the dark arts, he tunneled deeper. Soon, his power had grown twofold since that dark day, and he swore to master the black arts to ensure such evil would never be unleashed on his watch again. And so, he pours over the ink-stained pages, mastering the secrets contained within; committing the knowledge within to memory. Were it not for Iro, his fellow scholar, Amiri's gifts may have never come to light again.
Iro was once just a visitor to Amiri's vast library of knowledge. But, he was the first to discover Amiri's talent with the powers of life and death, and pushed him to be the best he could possibly be, helping countless other dragons within the clan with everything from minor scrapes to debilitating diseases. Amiri as of yet has been unable to come up with the words to thank Iro; his stammer grows far worse around the mysterious, tall, burning-eyed sorcerer, and his heart always begins to jump a beat when they meet eyes.
An odd sensation. Perhaps one day he will discover why this happens...it could be a rare form of heart defect...
Iro carefully lands on the rotting wood platform, keeping his wings unfolded until he’s reasonably sure the whole darn thing isn’t about to collapse under him. It's horrible climate for this kind of material- the spray of the open ocean behind him casting barnacles and algae on the sides; the heat from the volcano making it swell out of its screws and the winds from the Southern Icefield bringing frost to deal the final blow. How was this dragon alive?
The ancient wood- how long ago was this whole place even built- creaks under his claws as he makes his way forward, pushing the Yeti-fur cloth aside with his head and walking into the tunnel it leads to. It’s dragonmade, not natural, but with clean carving that Iro had never seen before and after a few minutes he steps out into a huge room, spiraling upwards into the mountain.
It was once meant to be grand, he can tell; several bookshelves at the far end of the room, containing so many that they’ve spilled onto the floor, hundreds of gilded chests filled to the brim and scattered about, half-finished statues lining the walls. Everything has been dusted immaculately, each statue lovingly cared for even as the food in the corner gathers mold, but there is so much only one dragon can do- considering this madman lives alone on an island five miles from the mainland.
Iro blinks. “You know, you’ve got some real nerve accusing me of being a killer when you’re out here living like this.”
The Skydancer in the middle of the room yelps in alarm, tripping over the pile of books next to him and sending at least three other stacks falling down as he whirls around to face Iro-
And then shoots deathmagick straight at Iro’s face.
It’s only his immaculate reflexes honed through years of dodging knives and arrows and axes and cleavers and cutlery that saves Iro’s life- the magick barely misses the top of his wingfeathers as he ducks onto the floor.
“Some REAL nerve!” Iro half-yells, voice thankfully not cracking. “You practice the dark arts?”
“Y-you,” The skydancer starts, recognizing him with a start, then visibly stops to gather himself. “Did you follow me home?”
“What? Oh no, I just asked around until one of the Shopkeepers pointed me in the right direction.” Iro dusts himself off and decides to let the near-death experience slide- he did scare the poor thing, after all, and by the looks of things he didn’t get many visitors around this place. “But really- you practice black magick? I mean, they told me you were a witchdoctor, and that territory usually does come with some morally gray spells that are more on the obsidian side- but considering the way you went off on me in the market, I really didn’t think you were capable of it. Why do you live here, by the way? This place is a mess- I thought I was going to break my neck just trying to get inside.”
“I-” The Skydancer shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. He lifts his forelimbs and gestures quickly- the sign language of the Icefield, by the looks of it.
Iro removes his goggles and squints at the other’s hands. “Telling you now- my job has messed up my eyesight quite a bit.” He squints harder. “Why am I here? Ah, right. Since you were so prissy about your Hoard of books in the market, I figured you would have Disenna’s encyclopedia on poisons somewhere in your collection… oh, there it is.”
He takes a step around the boiling cauldron to get to the book half-hidden by parchment scrolls and then nearly falls over backward as the other dragon lands in front of him- wings stretched out defensively, hissing louder than any Skydancer should be able to, veins of black seeping down his eyes.
I told you before, he signs furiously, I’m not going to assist you in murder.
Iro raises his hands placatingly. “I only need the antidote.” He says quietly. He needs it because the victim’s mate paid twice the amount for him to get one, but the witchdoctor doesn’t need to know that. “I may be the best toxicologist in Sornieth, but I’ll be the first one to agree that I’m not skilled in… well. Reversing my poisons.”
The Skydancer searches his face, eyes narrowed as he tries to judge if Iro’s lying.
“Fine,” He says finally, stepping aside. “B-but I'll be c-coming with you to the mainland to brew it.”
Iro shrugs, unbuttoning his bag and picking up the book to slide inside. “Fine by me. I’ve suffered worse fates than having a pretty dragon watch me as I brew.”
The Skydancer sputters something behind him, but Iro’s lost interest- he hops over the fallen pile of books and cranes his head up to look up at the room. It’s definitely been left halfway- he can see rotted construction beams at the very top of the room where someone had been planning to drill through the last layer of rock to let some sunlight in.
The other dragon irritably clears his throat from the entrance, raising the cloth with a wing pointedly.
Iro laughs. “Oh, what’s the rush, sweetheart?” He grins as he saunters over, docking the other Skydancer under the chin with his tail. “This place is fascinating! I want to look around a bit.”
The Skydancer stares at him, mouth open. Iro winks at him and saunters back to the bookshelves. The parchments get more worn as he goes further in, until the last shelf barely holds anything resembling paper- crumbling bits of decomposed letters, the ink practically unreadable.
And look- Iro’s only a simple fairdragon; but even he knows how to recognize hidden power. The shelf is actually humming- a low, deep song that entices you closer and urges you to look inside- a luresong; something that hasn’t been heard in a century. This stuff is ancient; and ancient means rare, and rare means expensive.
“You know, you could probably sell some of these and make a huge fortune,” Iro calls back over his shoulder. He crinkles his snout at the strong scent of sulfur and blood wafting off the floorboards as he steps closer, carefully not touching any of the runes carved messily into the wood. He peers at a chest filled to the brim with distorted statues of dragons screaming- which actually look like they’re made from Vastenite, a metal that hasn’t been yielded from the Earth dragon’s mines in decades. Iro whistles lowly. “A very big fortune. You could get your whole rickety lair glammed up by selling just one of these, you know?”
“I am not selling these,” The skydancer snaps, swinging the chest shut with his tail. “Just one could kill off a hundred dragons in the- the most excruciating way. Do you have a-any idea how they would be misused?”
Iro huffs in amusement, straightening up. “Your loss.”
He trails a claw over another shelf as he walks- also humming, but strangely not as loud- and then gasps in delight. There’s a pile of chests in the corner, each neatly stocked to the brim with bottles and vials filled with liquids Iro has never seen before.
And Iro has seen everything, mind you- from commonest antidotes a hatchling could mix up to the poisons made from the rarest of ingredients that only he knows how to create- and he’s sure that even the oldest experts in alchemy wouldn’t be able to name the stuff sloshing away in these fragile, intricately carved glass bottles.
His claws itch to touch and grab and stash as many as he could in his bag and flee- but again, this Skydancer specializes in the black arts. “Are these safe to touch?” He calls back over his shoulder, making sure to keep his voice calm and disinterested. He rakes his gaze over the bottles excitedly, lips moving soundlessly as he tries to figure out what's inside each one, liquids bubbling angrily in shades he couldn’t name.
He turns around in irritation when his only answer is silence for several moments- then freezes, inhaling sharply.
The witchdoctor is standing in front of the place where his deathmagick from earlier had landed, where the tail end of a barebones vine that had stubbornly clung to life in the harsh environment had shriveled up on impact. Purple rot creeps up its stem as Iro watches, and he grimaces a bit as he looks up and sees how big the plant had grown- covering the entire ceiling, stems draped over the bookshelves- all of it about to die.
The witchdoctor gently cradles the end of the plant, even as the ends of it decompose into ash between his claws, ears flattened in distress. Then he lowers his head and starts chanting in a language Iro has never heard in years of traveling with the fair- deep and haunting and terrifying as the baritone echoes around the stone room. The runes that Iro had avoided earlier start glowing lavender, small trinkets hovering in the air from the sheer force of the magic, the room abruptly going from lava-warm to shadow-cold.
Iro’s heart starts thumping against his chest, feathers rising up defensively all over his body. His instincts are screaming at him to run- there’s something sinister and powerful beneath the magic, behind the witchdoctor’s voice, under the echoes of the room. Something undeniably dark and inescapable and merciless- something that freezes him to the ground in terror, leaving him unable to even shout at the dragon to stop.
The witchdoctor’s face looks even more skeletal than before, his markings deepening in color and skin going impossibly pale. His eyes are leaking black and red and purple as he brings his other hand up to tenderly brush against the half-decaying leaf. His chant gets louder and disembodied voices floating out from the darkened passageways behind him- Iro gasps in fright at the sound of them, cold fingers dragging across his tail, cackling laughter against his wings- but he still can’t move a muscle, panting wildly above all the noise.
The runes start singing sharply as the chant picks up speed, the witchdoctor no longer dragonoid, objects rattling in their cases and bottles cracking and artifacts trembling in the air-
And then the deathmagick stops.
Abruptly, everything fades away- the warmth of the volcano sinking back into the room, the runes going silent, the voices gone so suddenly it already felt like he had hallucinated them being there.
Iro exhales unevenly. He’s more shaken than he’s been since he’d woken up alive in a room filled with toxins when he should have been dead- he wants nothing more than to get out of here, away from this crazy dragon and this horrifying room.
He cants a quick look over his shoulder- but the hallway behind him is colored a normal darkness now, even though he can no longer tell where it ends. He spooks and leaps over to the witchdoctor, who- thank the Plaguebringer, looks like a normal dragon again.
“What?” Iro says hysterically, barely holding himself back from grabbing onto the other’s feathers for comfort like a panicked hatchling. “What was tha-”
He looks down and freezes again- between the Skydancer’s claws is a leaf, green and healthy and alive.
“What,” Iro says flatly. He pulls his goggles down and blinks hard- but no, the shriveled plant that was guaranteed a miserable death seconds ago is very much alive and flowering. “What? Did you- did you just bring that vine back to life?”
“Uh,” The Skydancer leans back a bit as Iro leans into his space intensely. “Yes?”
Iro waits for a second of silence. Then two. Then three.
He throws his hands and wings into the air. “ELABORATE!” He yells, making the other jump. “What the Shade- you can’t just bring things back to life!”
“All I did was extract the deathmagick back out of it,” The other dragon says, frowning. Like it’s a completely normal thing to do. Yeah, just kill something and then revive it back again, like that’s something every dragon was capable of doing. “It’s not hard.”
“It’s not-” Iro sputters unintelligibly. He wants to grab this dragon by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to go out and have a long chat with as many dragons he can find to make sure he’s not going insane. “You just brought something back to life! Properly back to life, not necromancy, not ghost summonings- you brought that plant back from a sure fatality, after it was hit by deathmagick and you’re telling me it wasn’t hard?”
“It’s not! Well-” The witchdoctor tilts his head. “I- I suppose only dragons who’ve survived a dip in the Beashallow Lake could access the proper ley lines?”
“You know where the Beashallow-” Iro lets go of the dragon to go pace around the place, fear forgotten. He can’t deal with this dragon. He’s out here hidden on a barren island, practically a minor god, with actual control over life and death- and his lair is falling to pieces for absolutely no reason and he’s convinced that this is the best life can offer him.
Iro takes a deep breath and turns around to the other, hands pressed together, “Look, witchdoctor-”
“Amiri,” The Skydancer mutters.
“Amiri,” Iro amends, then promptly loses all the calm he’d collected. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU COULD BE LIVING IN A PALACE, WITH ALL THE RICHES YOU COULD EVER WANT! YOU COULD BE THE MOST POWERFUL DRAGON ON SORNIETH!”
“I DON’T WANT POWER!” Amiri shouts back, so suddenly that Iro nearly jumps out of his own skin, cowering back a bit as the witchdoctor's eyes bleed black again. “The last time I coveted power, my entire Clan- they-”
Iro watches as the dragon’s eyes glaze over, a million miles away; fear and horror and grief flashing in his eyes. The shadows suddenly look like tears, anguish blanketing the other’s features, wings drooping down in defeat.
He winces, guilt thrumming loudly in his chest. “Hey,” He calls out unsurely, reaching out one wing to blanket the other’s. “I- Sorry,” He offers. The Skydancer blinks and turns towards him.
“Sorry,” The other dragon whispers back, “I didn’t- didn’t mean to yell.”
Amiri sighs, hanging his head down for a few moments before jerking back up and signing,“The black arts don’t take kindly to power hungry folk. Dragons don’t understand- it’s a responsibility, a burden, not a source of endless energy. So many misuse it- and when you misuse it- whether in grief, or rage, or for revenge, or for power- the magick gets angry. The anger is what warps into something that thirsts for blood, for revenge, for mindlessly hurting anything that comes in range. I try to find these objects and coax them to let go, before they hurt unsuspecting dragons.”
Iro remains silent, inching closer. Amiri pulls out a worn photograph from his cloak, smiling tenderly at it. He hesitates a moment, looking at Iro with a silent plea, before handing it over.
Iro takes it cautiously; aware that even the slightest movement could damage the ancient paper. His lips part in surprise as he looks down- its a picture of a Clan, flourishing and happy and laughing as the picture is taken; and front and center is Amiri, laughing wildly as a Mirror ruffles his headfeathers and a smiling Snapper drags him into the middle of the frame.
Amiri lets out a hitched sob from next to him and Iro wishes desperately that he knew what to say. “I was the doctor of the Clan. But then one day I picked up a book on the black arts, lured in by its singing. And I came here to open it and the next moment, they were all-” He falters a moment before signing, “-dead.”
Iro opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it. He doesn’t know what to say- what comfort anyone can give for this.
He shifts, uncomfortable, as Amiri pulls himself together. Him being in a Clan once makes sense- Iro can tell now that he’s standing in a half-finished storage room- a place for Greater Clans to store their Hoard when it becomes too large to keep in the Lair. He can see laugh lines in the corner of Amiri’s eyes, though Iro has only seen him angry and miserable.
He glances at the statues around the room- and then makes a strangled noise of horror. Amiri looks up at Iro confusedly, but he’s already pushing past the witchdoctor and holding up the photo to the Snapper statue at the entrance, a faint gleam of green on the stone that matches the scales of the one in the picture.
Iro puts a hand to his mouth, feeling sick. He whirls back around to Amiri desperately- but the other only looks away in confirmation, grief spreading over his features.
“How long ago was this?” Iro whispers, looking back down at the photo. He could- he could see the Great Tree in the background, flourishing and alive. He’d been planning to just take the witchdoctor along, show off his find to his fairmates, get some hard money out of his power and talk his way out of a few arrest warrants; but now- “Amiri, how long have you been alone in this cave?”
Amiri flinches like he’s been slapped, eyes wet. He doesn’t answer.
“Nope,” Iro decides. “You’re coming with me.”
“W-what?”
“There’s knowledge out there that you won’t find in your books,” Iro says firmly. He’s going for everything he thinks will hook Amiri in- he’s not leaving the dragon here to martyr himself when he inevitably stumbles upon a dark artifact too powerful for one dragon to subdue. “I’ll bet you haven’t had the chance to study the effects of deathmagick on actual dragons, have you? You could save so many lives by doing your extraction thing on them- you have no idea how many succumb to curses on the daily. Pillar shards, maybe if you heal enough people, you could find out how to reverse the curse on your own Clan.”
Amiri’s eyes go wide as he looks around at the statues.
Iro moves closer. “The fair will accept you in easily- Pippa will be more than happy to have another healer with us.”
Amiri shoots him an unimpressed look, “You want me to travel with you murderers?”
Iro laughs, shaking his head. “Well, you can stop any murders I try to commit, can’t you? Plaguebringer, we could make a whole game out of it- they pay me to kill someone and then someone else will pay to bring them back. The poisoner and the antidote-maker! What a team we’d make!” Iro slings a hand around Amiri’s shoulder. Then he frowns. “Say, did it hurt you to save that plant, by the way? You’re looking a little peaky.”
“H-huh?” Amiri says, confused.
Iro pushes his goggles back up to remove the green tint and- yeah, the witchdoctor definitely looks more flushed than earlier, no longer a shade of stark bone. He frowns harder, pressing the back of his hand to the other Skydancer’s cheeks. “Don’t think it’s fever, but you’re definitely warm. Here, have one of these, sweetheart.”
He opens his potion bag with one hand, rummaging around the clinking bottles until he finds the one he wants. “Have this. It’s a cure-all, designed by yours truly! Here, drink.”
“I- It’s not the-” Amiri ducks his head into one hand with a sigh. “No. I can smell ginger in that- ginger does nothing for any ailment; it just worsens it.”
“Tough crowd,” Iro says lightly, putting it back in. “But- hey. Listen to me. How about you travel with me for a month? It’s not like your cave is going anywhere. One month where I can prove to you that there’s more to life than this, that you could probably find ten times the dark artifacts traveling than by staying here.” He gently eclipses Amiri’s hands with his own, smiling at him. “That you could put your talents to much better use and save so many more with me. What do you say?”
“I-” Amiri’s even more flushed than before, eyes flicking down to their hands. “I-” He looks back at his books unsurely, then at the statues. “Fine. One month.”
Iro grins, surprisingly genuine. “Great!” He cheers, “Come on then, sweetheart, let’s try to reach the mainland before nightfall- I gotta introduce you to the rest of the fair folk.”
“I don’t even know your name,” Amiri mutters, sounding appalled with himself.
“It’s Iro,” Iro says, laughing. “And I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun together.”
(By Brandysilverfire)
skin for 600g
Healer/Dark magic proficient
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Exalting Amiri to the service of the Flamecaller 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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