Umrot
(#28148898)
Level 10 Snapper
Familiar
Fungusbearing Phony
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Snapper
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.47 m
Wingspan
2.84 m
Weight
5562.62 kg
Genetics
Umber
Ground
Ground
Blood
Fissure
Fissure
Eldritch
Stained
Stained
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 10 Snapper
EXP: 13384 / 27676
STR
5
AGI
5
DEF
5
QCK
48
INT
5
VIT
25
MND
5
Biography
ÛM'ROT
"LOREM IPSUM DOLOR SIT AMET."
I miss sunlight as a hatchling misses its mother. The air that whistles past us in these dark halls brings no comfort of the outside world, that choral shriek is too hideous for even we of the Reedcleft to find homely.
Though I take no comfort at the thought of her, I would pray even to the Plaguebringer for respite from this terrible place. I would exalt a thousand of my young in her name if it meant salvation.
I scrawl this message under the flickering light of a Runestone, though it glows less the further we travel. How long have we been here?
Rull thinks we are trapped, or cursed. He is not one to pick an idea and stick with it. Ah, Spirals... I told him to sit down and cease his whining before I crush the horns on his brow. It seems to work.
Bor figured it out—how long we have been here. I hadn't known he was silently working over this conundrum until he opened his beak and startled us with the low grating tone we are so normally fond of.
Two days.
It is no wonder Vesk claws at the walls. I'd asked Bor how he knew—I don't quite know why I thought the answer wouldn't concern plate tectonics.
Vesk left. One moment she chews at the skin on her claws and the next her crest flattens and she climbs over me to run off in some absurd direction, shouting something about smelling prey.
She is not wrong about smells, though. This place has a strange scent, like the bonebark mold Mother used to bring home in the summer months. It bothers me. A part of me wishes to shake my head and forget all about it and another part, one I am so shameful of, keeps chittering: "Mama's home! Mama's home!" like a mantra.
I am not a hatchling, not for many, many moons—but being down here is making it hard to think of anything else.
What was I..? Yes. The smell Vesk went after: it is rot, this is clear to me now. She will be dragging back a mummy, I imagine. Embalmed like my ancestors, perhaps...
I think something is messing with my head.
Another two days. Bor continues to keep watch. I do not envy him; he has been staring at the tunnel Vesk ran off into for hours now.
Vesk... I am beginning to forget what she looks like.
Let's see... Vesk has two sets of eyes, they sit on her face in a way that makes her look like a strange little insect. They are bright red, like a Millmeadow sunset when the Ashfall forges light up and turn the sky black. She has this awful sort of—
heardanoisesorry.
Something is following us.
Its footsteps echo harshly, like metal striking stone. Rull thinks it is a Delver, but the fool couldn't quite answer me when I asked why in the Stormcatcher's name something as obtuse and inelegant as a Delver would be stomping around in some kind of chasm miles beneath the Scarred Wasteland.
With this in mind, nothing in this place is reminiscent of Plague design. It is entirely sterile, and so devoid of natural constructs that your voice carries hauntingly far. The sleek, blackstone architecture is cold to the touch, and the walls of these tunnels stretch so high that only Rull can see through the darkness to where the ceiling might be.
It's like a labyrinth. There's no sky, but it feels like I'm looking at one.
His words bother me. How can such a place exist with no cartographical footprint?
I... have forgotten Vesk's face. I keep hoping I will catch her scent again, and be renewed.
We have been here too long.
Bor parts with knowledge at his own leisure; none can pry it from his old bones, none can part his keratinous beak and force sounds to greet them from within. I quell the rage I feel when he decides—after six days—to enlighten us on the nature of this inverted superstructure, the one that we seem to be entombed in.
I do not understand what makes him measure when the time is right for his words, and I no longer care to, not when I am gnawing at the organic fibres of my apparel to silence my stomach. Stricken with hunger as I am, however, I do listen. Keenly.
Volcanic rock. Igneous outflows, obsidian; great architecture of Shadow...
His speech is melodic, or maybe I imagine it so.
This is not a place of beginnings, nor of endings. I hear the warbling
"LOREM IPSUM DOLOR SIT AMET."
WORK IN PROGRESS
I miss sunlight as a hatchling misses its mother. The air that whistles past us in these dark halls brings no comfort of the outside world, that choral shriek is too hideous for even we of the Reedcleft to find homely.
Though I take no comfort at the thought of her, I would pray even to the Plaguebringer for respite from this terrible place. I would exalt a thousand of my young in her name if it meant salvation.
I scrawl this message under the flickering light of a Runestone, though it glows less the further we travel. How long have we been here?
♦♦♦
Rull thinks we are trapped, or cursed. He is not one to pick an idea and stick with it. Ah, Spirals... I told him to sit down and cease his whining before I crush the horns on his brow. It seems to work.
Bor figured it out—how long we have been here. I hadn't known he was silently working over this conundrum until he opened his beak and startled us with the low grating tone we are so normally fond of.
Two days.
It is no wonder Vesk claws at the walls. I'd asked Bor how he knew—I don't quite know why I thought the answer wouldn't concern plate tectonics.
♦♦♦
Vesk left. One moment she chews at the skin on her claws and the next her crest flattens and she climbs over me to run off in some absurd direction, shouting something about smelling prey.
She is not wrong about smells, though. This place has a strange scent, like the bonebark mold Mother used to bring home in the summer months. It bothers me. A part of me wishes to shake my head and forget all about it and another part, one I am so shameful of, keeps chittering: "Mama's home! Mama's home!" like a mantra.
I am not a hatchling, not for many, many moons—but being down here is making it hard to think of anything else.
What was I..? Yes. The smell Vesk went after: it is rot, this is clear to me now. She will be dragging back a mummy, I imagine. Embalmed like my ancestors, perhaps...
I think something is messing with my head.
♦♦♦
Another two days. Bor continues to keep watch. I do not envy him; he has been staring at the tunnel Vesk ran off into for hours now.
Vesk... I am beginning to forget what she looks like.
Let's see... Vesk has two sets of eyes, they sit on her face in a way that makes her look like a strange little insect. They are bright red, like a Millmeadow sunset when the Ashfall forges light up and turn the sky black. She has this awful sort of—
heardanoisesorry.
♦♦♦
Something is following us.
Its footsteps echo harshly, like metal striking stone. Rull thinks it is a Delver, but the fool couldn't quite answer me when I asked why in the Stormcatcher's name something as obtuse and inelegant as a Delver would be stomping around in some kind of chasm miles beneath the Scarred Wasteland.
With this in mind, nothing in this place is reminiscent of Plague design. It is entirely sterile, and so devoid of natural constructs that your voice carries hauntingly far. The sleek, blackstone architecture is cold to the touch, and the walls of these tunnels stretch so high that only Rull can see through the darkness to where the ceiling might be.
It's like a labyrinth. There's no sky, but it feels like I'm looking at one.
His words bother me. How can such a place exist with no cartographical footprint?
I... have forgotten Vesk's face. I keep hoping I will catch her scent again, and be renewed.
We have been here too long.
♦♦♦
Bor parts with knowledge at his own leisure; none can pry it from his old bones, none can part his keratinous beak and force sounds to greet them from within. I quell the rage I feel when he decides—after six days—to enlighten us on the nature of this inverted superstructure, the one that we seem to be entombed in.
I do not understand what makes him measure when the time is right for his words, and I no longer care to, not when I am gnawing at the organic fibres of my apparel to silence my stomach. Stricken with hunger as I am, however, I do listen. Keenly.
Volcanic rock. Igneous outflows, obsidian; great architecture of Shadow...
His speech is melodic, or maybe I imagine it so.
This is not a place of beginnings, nor of endings. I hear the warbling
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Exalting Umrot 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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