kibeth » Hibernal Den » Rosethorn

Rosethorn

(#33453745)

Boreal snaps

Familiar

Undergrowth Shovelsnout

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

5.34 m

Wingspan

2.18 m

Weight

5448.41 kg

Genetics

Obsidian
Savannah

Obsidian
Stripes

Fern
Runes

Hatchday

Jun 02, 2017
(6 years)

Breed

Adult
Snapper

Eye Type

Nature
Glowing

Level 25 Snapper

Max Level

STR

114

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

Biography

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• • ROSETHORN
a team nickelklaus dragon

nature flight representative

watchful• tranquil • singer of songs

xxxx

There is an inherent duality to life on Sornieth, down to the most basic level. Adventure and obstinacy. Growth and destruction. Life and death. Darkness and light.

Often, a dragon is born with an affinity for one over the other. Fire, Light and Nature often love the bright days, the life-giving Sun. These cower in the night, shrinking from the noises that their dulled eyes or small pupils cannot see. Others revel in the blackness, the feel of the earth as it cools and stores its energy away, the moonlight glinting off Water’s rocks and rivers, making Earth’s gemstones gleam, or opening the world’s playing field to Shadow tricksters. These are natural affinities, and they do not disrupt the order of things. But occasionally, a dragon is born with an attraction to their seeming opposite.

And when that dragon is a Snapper, with all the time in the world to devote to their will? The results can be devastating.

She awoke in the dark, as all things do. She awoke in the dark, straining in a confined space not much larger than her own curled form, and she needed release. She awoke in the dark, and without knowing how or why she did it, she broke free.

Pieces of dark brown shell flaked off less like egg shells and more like wood chips as she struggled. The glowing rune etched on the upper surface of her prison continued to pulse with sickly light even as it was cleft in uneven halves with the strength of her upper body. She stretched herself up and out of that tiny space and was rewarded by…nothing. No friendly faces to greet her hatching with joy. No warm fire. She awoke in the dark, pushed through into the wider dark, and stared around with eyes that glowed as sickly green as the egg had.

It cannot be said that the fault was hers. No one can choose when their consciousness calls them to life. And it cannot be said of her Clan, either. Not entirely. They prepared as best they could, and several had already spent sleepless nights watching over the egg, telling it stories in slightly frightened, hushed voices of the great warriors of the world before her, whose comings had likewise been heralded by the mark of the Gladekeeper upon their eggs.

They knew she would be great. But whether that would be “great and terrible” or “great and noble,” they did not know. And that made them fear her at least as much as they looked forward to her arrival. They made every preparation they could think of, said all the prayers they knew. They enshrined her egg in the center of the Lair, made it essential to the daily life of the Clan.

So it was just bad luck that the Clan slept the sleep of exhaustion on the night that the gently rocking egg split open. But fate spares no one.

She spent the night in the shattered remains of her shell, wet with fluids and alone. She stared unblinkingly at her surroundings, first one way, then the other, the slow portions of her mind that commanded thought coming to life long after the rest of her had awakened. She stared at her own body, at the glowing runes etched across the deep, dark scales. And most of all, she stared at the ground, as tiny white flowers sprouted from the soil around the places where her forefeet rested, or where some of the shell’s ichor had spilled. She stared at the moths drawn to both her glowing body and the small flowers. And slowly, very slowly, she began to know herself.

The rest, as they say, is history. Of course, her Clan awoke eventually. Of course, they tried to make amends. Did she forgive them? Perhaps. But the damage was done. She awoke alone, and that is how she remains, to this day.

She is inscrutable. Those who have met her tell of the Snapper that appears out of the darkness, cloaked in moths, and disappears again without a word or even a nod. Flowers grow from her footprints, though at least half of those that grow are crushed again under her weight. She moves with the slow certainty of a glacier, and with a similar promise of destruction for those who stand in her way.

She awaits the call of the Gladekeeper. How will she respond to it? Not even she knows.

xxxx

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artist | Pard (lore writer) | trainer

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