Tactician
(#31425373)
Level 1 Pearlcatcher
Familiar
Parda
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50
out of
50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Pearlcatcher
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.02 m
Wingspan
4.4 m
Weight
560.62 kg
Genetics
Clay
Jupiter
Jupiter
Metals
Saturn
Saturn
Metals
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Pearlcatcher
EXP: 115 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
7
INT
7
VIT
6
MND
7
Biography
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One Who Tames Lions Tactician Humble | Emotional | Gentle The Tactician- He was never a prestigious man. Born to townsfolk, raised by good people, schooled by a middle-of-the-road college and assigned a headstrong, proud-hearted Lord on a border town. It was what others called a doomed assignment, but it was one he grappled with teeth bared. From the moment his boots hit the ground he never stopped working. Not to say that Morgan didn't pull her weight - she did, and often she cared for her burned-out counterpart - but the amount of effort they poured into the lordship often took everything from them. She was fearless. He was metered. She would fight until her muscles broke and her blood spilled. He would cover her back when she buckled. It was his duty to keep her alive, to keep her royal whims in check, and most of all to keep her happy. And happy she was, for the two at times would flirt and fawn. Life was good. They talked of marrying one another, but couldn't find the time to plan a wedding befitting of the two. With the neighboring nation's agitated state, the two knew that their time together would be limited should it come to war. And war came crashing in as it always does; brutal, raw, and unconcerned of the machinations of men. Towns razed, battles lost, resources dwindled. They saw one another less and less, he spent his time pouring over maps and books. The only time he found her was when she was recovering after battle, he would count every new scar and replace her bandages himself. Her well-being was his job. His life. He'd trained since he was nine years old simply for the honor. As the battles got harder to win and she got more and more frustrated with loss the two found themselves at odds. Morgan wanted to stay on the field, to not retreat, to stand their ground and put an end to the callous cockiness the enemy army had gained. It simply wasn't possible. But nothing was impossible to her. In her life nothing had been out of reach. For days he couldn't find her. Nobody had heard or seen hide nor hair of her, which was supremely unsettling for [NAME]. It had stopped being love long ago, at this point he was worried for her safety. He tore through the halls, searched every spire and sent parties out into the streets. Nothing came from it. She had... vanished. It was only when the bodies started to be found that he learned what had happened. Morgan was dead. Her retainers were dead. Her best battalion was dead. In fact, the army she lead had been slain over the span of a day. Of course, they all had funerals, families who grieved, but none grieved as hard as he. He coordinated the funeral with all the tactical brilliance he had left in him. Every last ounce of love he could muster spoke of where the blue and black roses went, the colour of the satin in her empty casket, the golden arches, and last of all... a memoir of all the swords she had used. Without a lord to keep, he resigned. He could never imagine a battalion without her skill at the spearhead, he could never think of a unit more tuned to the way he forced the flow of battle. Morgan was dead, and for that he wandered the earth in the vain hope that he could find reason to live outside of tacticianship. |
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