Scar
(#36802416)
I am the Plaguebringer's chosen one. What do you want?
Familiar
Boilback Slink
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Bogsneak
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.29 m
Wingspan
7.34 m
Weight
665.06 kg
Genetics
Crimson
Iridescent
Iridescent
Crimson
Shimmer
Shimmer
Gold
Runes
Runes
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 5 Bogsneak
EXP: 166 / 5545
STR
17
AGI
10
DEF
10
QCK
11
INT
16
VIT
11
MND
10
Biography
- Scar Wyrmblood - Warrior - He/Him -
Primary Elemental flight rep of Plague
- Positive | Neutral | Negative -
Mate:
N/A
Par 1
Par 2
Born touched by the Plaguebringer's own claw, it's not inaccurate to say Scar has always had a large head.
In his old home, his fellow plague dragons subtly always ensured he would survive - After all, it wouldn't be a good look to let the god's chosen one die.
Scar spent the majority of his life fighting for his deity, but eventually found himself unable to stay. He soon found himself in the presence of the Roseglades dragons; he's currently still refusing to admit that he enjoys his new home, torn by the notion of betraying the Plaguebringer by supporting this nature clan.
-Art-
N/A
Lore from previous owner
Primary Elemental flight rep of Plague
- Positive | Neutral | Negative -
Mate:
N/A
Par 1
Par 2
Born touched by the Plaguebringer's own claw, it's not inaccurate to say Scar has always had a large head.
In his old home, his fellow plague dragons subtly always ensured he would survive - After all, it wouldn't be a good look to let the god's chosen one die.
Scar spent the majority of his life fighting for his deity, but eventually found himself unable to stay. He soon found himself in the presence of the Roseglades dragons; he's currently still refusing to admit that he enjoys his new home, torn by the notion of betraying the Plaguebringer by supporting this nature clan.
-Art-
N/A
Lore from previous owner
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| xxxx |
He was born the color of blood freshly spilled, exactly the same shade as the wet, oozing insignia that had been slashed across his egg at the time of his laying by the claw of their God. His coming was prophesied; certainly, no one knew exactly when It would begin, but as his mother had moved aside to tend to other eggs and his was revealed, pulsing with not just the normal pestilent green light, but with red, the last few living Seers had been called. They had confirmed what those watching had suspected: the time of the Calling was upon them all. The first things he heard as he erupted from his shell were the joyful, expectant screams from a thousand draconic throats, all cheering his survival up to this point. He had passed the first test: that of birth, of surviving long enough to be given claws and teeth and hunger and will. It was said later that his hatching was so explosive that some shards of his egg had cut a few of the spectators, and that none of them had lived a week past that event, so virulent were the diseases within. As you can imagine, all of this gave him a rather swollen head. The cardinal rule in the Plaguelands is “Survive.” Tacked on, of course, is “by any means necessary.” Although it doesn’t strictly mean it, this often results in every dragon for themselves; indeed, it is seen as a sign of weakness in many Clans to depend on another dragon for any kind of support. This was especially true for his own Clan. If you cannot survive on your own, what use are you? But you also probably don’t want to let the first Chosen of the Plaguebringer in thousands of years die, right? That might reflect badly on you. Thus, he had a rather privileged childhood, for one living on the Rotrock Rim. His allies were rather furtive, it is true—no one wants to be seen helping another dragon either—but they were there. He was never hungry, even when he failed to hunt for himself. He was never sick, although that could be attributed to the strength of the Plaguebringer coursing through him. He grew large, an odd sight in the Rim, where many dragons and most of the fauna were of the “skeletal” persuasion. And he grew ever more convinced of his own invincibility, his own abilities. His fantasies about being Called by the Plaguebringer grew more and more elaborate, until he was not only leading armies carrying diseases within them into the lands of the Gladekeeper, he was also able to call the Plaguebringer Herself to him at will, their torrid love affair leveling forest after forest. If he had ever spoken these daydreams aloud to anyone, they might have killed him, regardless of possible consequences. It was a good thing, then, that he thought himself so far above the other dragons of his acquaintance that he never deigned to speak more than a few words to them. And so it was that he came into adulthood, immense and vital, beautiful to behold. His color remained that of fresh blood, shimmering wetly in sun or moon’s light. The Seers were called again, and they nodded their ancient heads over his perfection, pronouncing him ready for the next step, the last one before he would be sent into the world at the whim of the Plaguebringer Herself. On the next full moon, he was brought to the very edge of the Wyrmwound. They dipped pelt-covered roots into the seething, roiling mass and painted his body with the slime of a thousand plagues, the ancient runes burning themselves into his skin one after another. Through it all, he remained silent, staring into the very center of the Wound, opening himself completely to the Plaguebringer and Her will. And at last, at last, they were finished. Only one step remained. Or, technically, four. He waded into the Wyrmwound up to his knees, and remained there for the rest of the night and into the next day. He was still standing there the next morning, when the sun made the fresh wounds sting. And he was still there at noon, when the wounds suddenly healed and flashed from injured red to bright, molten gold. He was ready for Her Call. | xxxx |
a labor of love brought to you by:
artist | Pard (lore writer) | trainer
artist | Pard (lore writer) | trainer
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