Ciceron
(#35448456)
Level 1 Imperial
Familiar
Golden Bantam Fangar
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Imperial
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
31.36 m
Wingspan
16.41 m
Weight
6930.38 kg
Genetics
Antique
Skink
Skink
Antique
Butterfly
Butterfly
White
Opal
Opal
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
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C i c e r o n__G o r e "The Banished Prince." Member of The Radiant Sect ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════
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“Love you always, miss you always ... leaving the place of ice and snow.
Never look back, never forget.”
― Jessica Day George
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___ ___|| Valentine Gore _______father ◆ the king ◆ a tyrant ____  ____|| Bishop Gore ________father ◆ the king ◆ a tyrants lover ____  ____|| Soel ________mate ◆ deceased ◆ princess to a rival family |
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══════════════════════════════════════════════════ A r t ══════════════════════════════════════════════════
Click on the thumbnails to view the artwork in full
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___↦ art by duiilcet ↤
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________↦ art by Elvhenan ↤
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___↦ art by Kassillea ↤
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________↦ art by artist name ↤
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══════════════════════════════════════════════════ L o r e ══════════════════════════════════════════════════
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In Sornieth, there’s a breed of dragons known as “Imperial”. They are named for their majestic sizes and grace; it is not uncommon to find them in command of a mighty clan or kingdom. Ciceron, however, was currently as far from “imperial” as it was possible to be. He lived (if it could be called that) among the reeking stalls of the eastern fishing markets. The markets were still a part of the Sunbeam Ruins, but they stood in the shadows of great cliffs, and they received warmth and light only for a few hours each day. | _____ |
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Those hours were at an end, and Ciceron held back a sigh as he watched the sun slip behind the clifftops once more. He was standing in shallow water, trying to scrub the stink of fish from his scales. It was a losing battle. He feared the stench of fish would follow him all his life. “At least I can bear this. But the stink of death...” He wearily shook his head. He was untried in battle, but he still knew the horrors of it. Once, he had been every inch an Imperial. Once, he had been a prince.
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Ciceron’s last name was Gore, and it was one that described his family perfectly. He was born in a vast empire of Ice—and his fathers, Valentine and Bishop, had made it their mission to expand their empire further. From their stronghold of ice and steel, they frequently sent out armies to subjugate the clans just beyond their reach—and anyone who didn’t immediately surrender was ruthlessly crushed underfoot. The two Kings of Gore produced a number of children, many of whom were only too glad to carry on the family business. But it was inevitable that one of them would shy away from conquest and slaughter. That child was Ciceron. He was mighty in form, and it came as a great disappointment to his family that he was, in their opinion, not mighty in mind as well. The disdain in their eyes froze colder than any blizzard. Ciceron found himself scorned on every side—his siblings turned their backs on him, believing that, if they showed him any sympathy, they would endanger their standing at court. One of his fathers, Bishop, was a bit supportive at first, but as the years wore on and Ciceron showed no sign of stealing his heart, even that meagre show of paternal care began to fade away. Bereft of support, and facing growing pressure to take up a warrior’s blade—or face worse assignments—Ciceron decided to flee his home. One of his brothers, a major-general in the Gore navy, had recently arrived to take on supplies, and Ciceron saw a means of escape. One foggy night, while the ship was being loaded, he slipped from the castle and swam out to the bay. He snuck into the hold and hid among the barrels of fish, and there he stayed as the ship began its voyage. Yet discovery was inevitable. When the ship was some days out at sea, the sailors dragged him up onto the deck. There, his brother, the major-general, waited for him. Ciceron knew that the punishment for desertion was death. Nonetheless, he struggled to explain: “It’s not something I can do: the fighting, the killing, all of it...Brother, you must understand. I’m too weak....I can no longer live under our family’s name. I can’t bear it...!” The crew glanced uneasily at each other. They’d heard the rumors before. Pitiful, pathetic Ciceron, too squeamish to take up a blade. But here was irrefutable proof that the rumors were true, straight from their own prince’s mouth! Such cowardice was unthinkable within the lands of Gore. They looked to their leader, awaiting the order to dispatch their prisoner. But the major-general was smiling faintly. Although he served his parents faithfully, it must be said that he had something of a rebellious streak, too. Perhaps he recognized in his brother a kindred spirit... or could it have been pity that stayed his hand? “That Ciceron certainly was pitiful, wasn’t he? Whoever thought of a Gore calling themselves weak?” the sailors asked later, in an attempt to understand what happened next. Instead of being killed, Ciceron was granted amnesty. The ship made straight for the next shoreline they saw, the wild coast of the Sunbeam Ruins. Now the sailors harried Ciceron, forcing him to flee the ship; he launched himself into the air and landed on the shore with nothing to himself but his name.
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That was some weeks ago. Since then, Ciceron had stumbled through the wilderness alone, his once-fine whiskers and tail dragging in the muck, his polished claws becoming chipped and dull. He was dangerously thin when he arrived at the coastal town, and a few dragons gave him food out of pity. “Here, everyone is kinder. I will stay,” he decided. Ciceron remained in the town while he regained his strength. He foraged and sometimes received handouts from the townspeople. He questioned them carefully and soon learned he was on the edge of the Sunbeam Ruins. That cheered him up: one of his fathers, Bishop, had been born in the Ruins and had spoken highly of the place. Ciceron knew that the Light dragons were lovers of truth and knowledge. Surely this was a good place for him. He was unworthy of carrying on the Gore family name, but here, he could be who he was. “Dragons here are good, kind....No conquest, no battle. But even so...” Ciceron looked worriedly towards the south. “I shouldn’t stay here long. They might find me...” He contemplated this later on as he crouched at the edge of the village square, thinking deeply. “Some honey for your thoughts?” He looked up, frowning. He didn’t see the speaker first, and no wonder: He was a Fae, small and bright, hardly larger than one of Ciceron’s toenails. “Would you like some honey?” The Fae’s brow furrowed. “I mean, you look terrible. This might make you feel better.” He was holding out an earthenware jar, and his fins quivered with insistence. Ciceron was deeply moved—such a small, frail creature, but so generous, so kind. “Thank you,” he answered humbly. He pinched the jar between two claws and tipped it over his mouth. A single drop of honey fell onto his tongue: small, but startling in its sweetness. It cleared his head. “I’m Rhisiart,” the Fae introduced himself. He took the jar back and exclaimed, “My, but you are hungry!” Ciceron hung his head in shame. It was quite a sight, even if one didn’t know he’d been a prince: a vast Imperial cringing before a minute Fae. “Forgive me, sir. If it was costly, perhaps I can repay you. I—” “It was a remark, not a rebuke,” Rhisiart cut in, “and anyway, that’s not how we do things here.” “It’s not?” Ciceron blinked. In his old home, it had been give-and-take all around. You didn’t receive something without giving up something else in return. “Absolutely not....But I see by your eyes that you’re a stranger. Where are you from?” “The Southern Icefield.” Ciceron lowered his head. It still hurt to think of the family he’d left behind. Would they be angry at him for deserting them? Or would they rejoice that the weakling was no longer around to sully their name? He wasn’t sure which one was worse.... Rhisiart sucked in a breath. “It’s a cold, hard place to live.” He studied Ciceron for a long moment, his curiosity clearly visible. He was obviously dying to know how Ciceron had gotten here, and the Imperial braced himself for a difficult explanation. But instead, Rhisiart said, “I think you’d have an easier time of it in my clan. Honestly, child, the streets aren’t a place for you. We wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly at night, knowing you were struggling out here.” Though his voice remained expressionless, no one was really fooled: Rhisiart’s eyes were soft with kindness. And Ciceron was grateful for it. He halfheartedly made a few more objections, but Rhisiart reassured him that it would be no trouble: “After all, you’re not that large; I’m sure you won’t eat much!” After a few more minutes of discussion, they began trekking back to Rhisiart’s clan. The Imperial queried, “What is the name of your home, sir?” “You can call me ‘Rhisiart’. Or ‘Rhisi’ for short. Our lair is the Radiant Sect. Oh, that reminds me...What is your name?” “Ciceron.” The Imperial could say it with dignity now.
↦ written by disillusionist ↤
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_____________________________________________________ n o t e s » gift from the lovely duiilcet » i will forever reget breeding him |
_____________________________________________________ c r e d i t s » music playlist curated by fletcher | __ |
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