Caosi
(#35056792)
the dreamer
Familiar
Sparkle Nymph
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 43/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Wildclaw
This dragon is on a Coliseum team.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.08 m
Wingspan
5.48 m
Weight
554.82 kg
Genetics
Tan
Savannah
Savannah
Tarnish
Freckle
Freckle
Chocolate
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Wildclaw
Max Level
STR
119
AGI
19
DEF
5
QCK
69
INT
8
VIT
5
MND
8
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
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C A O S I | conjuration
━━━━━━━━━━━ they dream of magic healing and crumbling ruins; you hope for the end. (he is abandoned, torn out of time with eternity in his veins innumerable portraits of fleeting encounters line the halls for they awaken and he holds onto memories) . .
i. beginning
A slighted sorcerer and malicious words weaved from starlight. Disbelief, for the people of Alczir have no knowledge of this magic. It is only when the air is still and night collapses overhead that they understand. A curse delves deep into the heart, gripping and crushing until strength turns into dust. They lie prone, one by one. They discover a way to walk the horizon between dreams and dawn and the youngest scholar is chosen to descend. He slides into brilliant minds and embraces the stygian darkness, ignoring the way it clings to him when he resurfaces. Perhaps his eyes grow emptier with each plunge, perhaps his voice grows weaker as he recites his findings, but no matter. There is no time for hesitance and he plunders and pillages, tearing knowledge with reckless abandon, for these are not his precious ones. He cares only for those remaining. It is through this that he is ensnared; noticed too early and crushed underneath the indomitable force of a protected mind. Inspected and torn asunder until the body fails the fractured mind and he falls. ii. end Time passes. No light, no darkness. No sound, no space. He is nothing.
and in nothing, everything.
iii. creation
Light erupts forth and he is overcome by sensations. This is a body, he remembers, unsettled by his own weight after a lifetime of floating, of unmaking. He reaches out and scrapes his palms against the ground. Feels the rough soil dig in. He is grounded back into existence and he does not know what to do. The world is foggy, disjointed, transient. Sunlight smudges the line where he ends and the world begins, brilliant and unforgiving. He stares into the sky. Something in his surroundings resonates deep within him, and as he raises a trembling hand, the sand follows. He learns about his world and watches as the sun is swallowed by night and the moon blooms forth, distant and unforgivably cold. The desert embraces him, smothering him away and he knows he is supposed to breathe, that it shouldn't be possible to be tuckered away into the earth for so long. He should feel scraping hunger after innumerable rotations of the moon and sun, and yet he is content. The world bends to his will as he paints pale leaves and silver stones. Slender grass tickles him as he passes by and luminous petals unfurl beneath the shelter of gnarled roots, reaching up to press against him. The wind canters ahead of storms that collect into murky pools, falling into deep gouges in the ground. When he looks down, he can see an endless expanse of starlight that veils the world in mist. Trees overcome his castle, until the sun diminishes into a flickering ghost and it is the celestial pools below that illuminate his world. He remembers vast, looming monoliths that scraped the sky and the trees mold into pillars and arches, silk and leather. There are books with empty pages and ink trails from his hands when he presses against them. Food he never missed glistens tantalizingly from smooth plates, with the distant scent of ash when he samples them. He remembers fire, feels his native element fill his veins as enchanted flames linger in the air around him. They are comforting and brilliant and he has no limit to power; within a day the lights flutter throughout his world leaving delicate streaks of light behind. He misses the sky and climbs to the treetops to stare at the cold night that envelops his world. He reaches out to the moon and feels small. There is something quiet in the back of his mind, vulnerable and sickly. He is overwhelmed by nausea at times at the invading wrongness that tides over his mind, at the compulsion that he should be fighting, resisting, for he had a purpose and he has to go back and he doesn't know if they're even alive anymore and how could he have forgotten comebacktouscaosicomeback-- --then it's gone and he admires his world, safe as the walls hum around him and silk envelopes him, pressing him in comfortable warmth. He allows himself to fall into the rosy, soft light of the candles around him and closes his eyes. The sound of ringing sparks fill the night silence. What is there to be fighting against? iv. purpose There is something in his world that does not sing to him, does not lean forward for his touch. He stares, wary as the being stares back. He can hear a heartbeat that does not harmonize with the world's resonance. They are a person, he learns, like he Time passes, insignificant to him. The visitor grows restless, searching the trees for traces of memories, and he follows quietly. Eventually they finds what they are looking for--an orb of visions that glistens when the person touches it--and tells him that they are memories. "I was in a battle," they whisper. "Trapped under stone. They stayed with me until the end. Until I died." He remembers being unmade. Is that death? He watches as they step past the edge of a starlit lake, falling through clouds of light until they are out of sight. A feeling of elation washes past him, foreign and full of gratitude, and he knows it is their last goodbye. They want him to follow. He doesn't. Instead, he takes the stories and pours them over ink, filling books and stashing them away. He stares into the water and catches glimpses of ethereal worlds, describing them as best he can. The world accommodates his creations, expanding his home into a labyrinth of halls and bookshelves. Other visitors follow, and he documents them too. They teach him about histories long past, about mosaics and leaders and wars, and he preserves their words even years after they've left. Years, decades. It begins to meld into an endless sense of being, and he starts to paint his visitors before they move on. Their rooms remain after they've left and he organizes books and portraits within each chamber, sometimes spending days just wandering and remembering. He knows that from before, when he was complete, he was intelligent. It feels good to use his mind towards keeping the memories of others. And through vicarious experience, he develops the insight to guide his visitors. Many have entered the world moments after death, but some are still alive--merely unconscious. Those visitors cannot find their memories until they've discovered a flaw, something that will better them once they return, and he learns to maneuver them towards the right direction. v. entropy Never has a visitor asked about him. Perhaps it is the atmosphere, the way he blends into the world like liquid and ink, but he's grown content acting as a conduit between minds separated by time and distance. The advice he shares is all from the lives of others rather than his own. When she asks, he doesn't know what to say. His memories--his own memories--are long buried under the sands of time, and his earliest recollection is after his unmaking, when his first visitor moved on. Whatever happened before is lost, and he tells her that. She doesn't stay long, with a heart that burns like fire and flickers away just as quickly, but her question stays with him. It stays and festers, feeding the ancient unease in the back of his mind. Where are you from? it asks, malicious and hopeful and tearing all in one. He knows he's lost himself, but this is the first time he has been forced to acknowledge that there was something before there was nothing. He searches through his world for remnants of his past, hopeful and disbelieving, but there isn't an escape for him. He knows that he is anchored down, for the trees are just as much a part of him as the marrow in his bones. But there's a deep longing to know, and it stays with him. The visitors come and go, and with each freefall he feels something tight within his chest. Jealousy. Bitterness. It manifests in his surroundings, and he watches as the lights dim and his castle begins to fall apart. The trees are dangerous now, thorns nurtured by the sharp words he'll never say. The earth lays lifeless underneath his palms. vi. fall Visitors come and go and he continues to write, continues to maintain the ruins. But there is no more plaintive wishing, no more thoughts of what-if. He scours through an eternity of memories, grasping and clawing for a reprieve, screaming to a deaf captor. There's something strangely nostalgic as he pours over crumbling pages, once beloved and cherished. The search is comforting, familiar in a way that nothing has ever been, and he revels in the feeling. Knows that he will inevitably discover something that will unlock his past, something that will free him. He is spiraling, desperation driving each breath as he plummets through a labyrinth of script and hope. Something has changed; the illusion is broken. Incomprehensible faces swarm in the shadows of his eyes and echoing voices linger in the air. It's time to wake up. A cage weaved from starlit spells shudders and creaks. |
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Exalting Caosi to the service of the Lightweaver 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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