Damascena
(#26087223)
Level 1 Coatl
Familiar
Harlequin Stagwing
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Female Coatl
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.84 m
Wingspan
10.53 m
Weight
872.73 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Petals
Petals
Rose
Butterfly
Butterfly
Red
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Coatl
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
7
DEF
6
QCK
7
INT
7
VIT
5
MND
6
Biography
 "She spoke with all their voices in legion, the echoed dirge of the exiled dead." PLAGUE QUEEN THEME | —========================= |
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A spindly skydancer appears at a distance, dragging herself forward to meet you in a slow, drooping pace. Was she beckoning you forward or was that a spasm? Her movements limp, clumsy like she would fall apart at the slightest touch. A familiar sight here, you mused assuredly, a weakling to be culled.
Lurching as she went, she moves carefully among the uproar, unflinching at the pestilence, viscera and detritus building up around her as the doctor gassed the air with germicide and pesticide around him. You cower away from the disinfectant, lovingly tending to your rancid flesh, spoilt in the dawning of the glorious flesh harvest of rot.
Thankful for the reprieve, you size the stranger up and take notice of her quad of eyes, like yours, but with her largest pulsating eye between them. Instinctually, you take the scene in fully. Your vision scanning the acrid yet pungent swelter of your beloved Rotrock, noting the warmth emanating from the bodies- alive or otherwise.
The skydancer's eye was searing, even among them all, blinding your heat sight and corrupting signals. You felt twinges of despair looking into it, not the sheer enthusiastic fear of a predator's pursuit, but a duller one. The kind that drampens and eventually neutres the senses rather than sharpens them in a survivalist fashion. No, this was a slow burning, gnawing desperation so foreign to you; emotionally, a lethal maim, not a superficial wound. Her eyes fixed in your gaze, cocked to one side quizzically as you struggled to tear free from it, smile broadening wide to reveal rotten teeth in tandem to your souring mood.
Her mind's eye throbbed, intrusive, and in time with your rapid heart beat, penetrating your mind and invading your emotions. You growl under your breath despite yourself. Perturbation. Curiosity. Restlessness. Excitement. Thrill. You are so clear, so raw. Beyond an open book, a screaming, blaring broadcast. Shrill exuberant noise drowning out the the darker depths beneath. A sublime cocktail of rich, uncensored feeling.
"You'll... have to ex..cuse the g-good doctor," The voices echoed all around you. Did you detect an accent? A discordant sound, a chorus of croaking; a composite cacophony of voices speaking as if taking the first or final breath and utterance. Almost like a coop of coatls speaking in a legion of death rattles, "he is... ssssqueamish. In the- the wrong profession."
She laughed at the latter, more a deep mutter than a snigger. Pure rattling from the depths of her- their?- chest. Such bizarre dispositions, an imitation of life. Even the cadence, awkward. The sawbones patiently brandished his bleeding cleaver, disinfecting the serrations in slow, vaguely theatening jerks.
"The moon," she replied finally as you wrenched yourself away from the trance. The voices came from inside your head.
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Wratha the undead, was once a lovely, florid dragoness of humble birth among the squalor of the Emberglow Furnace. None of that girl remains. Her love of desert roses, rarely found within the dried cracks of the black sands, is but the only sweet recall of her downtrodden living self.
Where strength ruled the brimstoned streets and fire forged warriors were baptised by the flames of strife and battle, they seared her memory of all bitter recollection. A fighter, she was not and her once familiar home inevitably succumbed. An exile of the Ashfall Waste, the hatchling was captured, enslaved and sold to botanists for experimental work. What you see here is not she, but a sentient mycological being piloting a dragon. The necrophagiac Wratha was transmogrified with. A colony, a corrupting blight spreading their spores across the land. The succulent life pulsing from the Viridian Labyrinth's flower was undeniably irresistible. |
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Archmage Arcanine, a herbalist of arcane botany, specialises in the alien non carbon organisms and irradiated mega flora familiar to her origins.
Born from the fabled meteorite that demarcates her rarefied bloodline and their distinct markings, she upholds herself as an ambassador for the rare and arcane, such as that of the flower growing amongst the resplendent yet mundane wilds of the Viridian Labyrinth. Whispers that speak of magic, incline the Archmage to investigate matters further, she deigns to venture forth and pursue rumoured claims of an awakened magic. . . |
Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
This dragon doesn't eat Meat.
Seafood stocks are currently depleted.
This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Damascena to the service of the Windsinger 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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