Cassandra

▸ Gender: Female ▸ Orientation: Heterosexual ▸ Homeland: Scarred Wasteland

_______ Plaguebringer Bone Scrimshaw Trinkets A menacing engraving of the Plaguebringer. It is scrawled on the side of a large bonespike and reeks of decay. 105

▸ Birthplace: Clan of the Bloody Flux ▸ Element: Plague ▸ Profession: Priestess / Princess

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She had dreamed of the sweetest things when she was young, the sticky warmth of fever painting her earliest memories as idyllic and residing in that ignorant utopia that she would spend the rest of her life trying to return the world to. Before she even understood anything at all, the Broodfather's voice slithered into her ears, speaking the will of their mistress and god. She-who-had-yet-to-be-named listened, and those words never left her. Her first love, then, was neither a person nor a thing. It was a mandate, handed from divine to her sire and then to her. She was the second link on this chain of receivers but with the vision of thousands more behind her, she vowed that she would not be the last.

Nameless but not purposeless, she nursed on the most delicate of infections -knowledge. While she feasted along with her siblings on the birth of newer and stronger diseases, her hunger could not be sated merely by being a vehicle for infection itself. That was the fate for those beneath her and her family's privilege of insight, for the ones who would be bestowed the Broodfather's gift of awakening only after giving up themselves. That was the price for their long disbelief and under the weight of such mercy, their joy was mad and crude. From those purposeful soulless, she was different. She was more.

Above all else, she longed to be the inheritor of her sire's gift of truth, to open the ears of the purposeless who dwelt beyond the clan's reach. Such things were not merely given, she understood, so she fought for the right viciously over beautiful, breaking words that she learned to identify, dissect, mimic, mutilate, and repair. Her teachers were the finest of their art -scientists and torturers. She watched them work on corporeal bodies and sharpened her own knives on what wit they had left. Steel to word, knives to lies, scalpels to truths. Distant serenity became her microscope as she studied the effects of each tiny cut, discovering the differences between the wounds that healed and the ones that did not. In time, she learned the art of winning in the truest way, absolute in both mind and body.

But not yet.

Her brother was the first of their nest of three to leave. For a while, she dreamed of his corpse erupting with blooming disease that scourged both ground and air, a breath-taking reuse of something old and unwanted. She missed him, she found. She had loved him, she discovered. Someday, she would dedicate her own hatchlings to their god in that way, with those marvelous strains that had she courted in her dreams with muttered promises. For her love of them all, she would do so.

Before long, the desire to bring glory to both herself and the clan ignited fiercely in her heart, the fervor it cast upon her so strong that she felt the earth beneath her tremble under its absolution. What could she do here now, in this land already so infected by the Broodfather, so under his control? Her purpose was stretched thin while languishing in this place with no tangible motivation for challenging her skills. She would become weak and useless in her complacency as the world stretched its wings and surpassed her, rich in life, vibrant in disease, mocking her passiveness. In that way, she would be no better than the purposeless, unable to honor her sire or her god.

Was she not the Broodfather's own daughter? Was she not a dutiful servant of the Plaguebringer? This must be known! She wanted to shout to existence itself that these things were true and justly earned. For that, the world would have to bear the mark of her presence. It was the only fitting offering to lay down at her sire's claws and before her god's altar.

It was for that she left the Broodfather's lands, shedding the instinctual desire to mourn for that awakened world she had been born into. Now her own will stretched out before her and disappeared into the distant horizon beyond the Contagion's borders. She unfurled her wings to a still and dead sky, the absence of wind feeling like a kiss as She-who-had-yet-to-be-named descended upon the purposeless world with her gift.

Thus she became Cassandra, High Priestess to the Plaguebringer and carrier of a word so golden that she could not scorn, only pity, those who were too blinded by its splendor to believe.



It would have been very proper and also extremely predictable to choose the Viridian Labyrinth as ground zero for her silent revolution. Cassandra had no personal hatred for the Gladekeeper's minions. That useless prejudice had been cast to the winds. All would bow before the Plaguebringer eventually; their elemental allegiances meant nothing now.

She had always had a special admiration for the Arcane dragons, however. Their pursuit of knowledge was admirable, if grossly misguided. Their lands were so close to Plague's, yet even on truth's doorstep, the Arcane scholars were like children in their blindness. It was confounding, distressing. She wanted badly to set them on the correct path. They, out of all the other flights, would be most receptive to her message.

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_Original Dragon_ Imperial Wine Speckle Midnight Basic Splash Basic

_Full Gening_ Imperial Wine Giraffe Midnight Toxin Splash Runes