Sethov
(#38798310)
Have you learned nothing?
Sweetalker
Ghostly Rat Lord
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Nature.
Male Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
26.71 m
Wingspan
20.25 m
Weight
6132.12 kg
Genetics
Hunter
Metallic
Metallic
Hunter
Alloy
Alloy
Sapphire
Stained
Stained
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 6 Imperial
EXP: 1761 / 8380
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
|
SETHOV
╭━━━━━⚔━━━━━╮ resolve reserve revenge ╰━━━━━━━━━━━╯ 
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Have you learned nothing? For the death of my enemies, anything. T H E • L I N E • I T S E L F • I S • T H I N There's a rumor. Clan Paralian has a tradition. There is always one, and he is always horrifying. A large, foreboding imperial, guarding the perimeter of their lands. They say the first was an undead beast named for a dying star. They say he had no face, his skull bright and bone, the lights behind his sockets long past living. They say the second was very much alive. They say he rose with the dawn one dark morning, heaving his body out of a steaming pit of tar. But what can be said about this one? "There's a little bit of both in him, don't you think?" Llyr almost manages to hide the tremble in his voice as he whispers to Vivienne. Her response is a flitting stare, back and forth, back and forth. She doesn't want Arista to catch her looking. "We don't need another abomination," snarls Lilithe. "Ati and I have our hands full with her," she pointedly hisses, flaring her crest in Vanadis' direction. "But this one can speak, Lilli," Atilana responds, measured as always. "I don't think that's ever happened before." The truth is that she knows it hasn't happened before. What she doesn't know is how a child of the Gladekeeper came to be this way. Antares has taught them that the line between life and death, plague and nature, surviving and thriving is thin. Tenuous. You can walk that line, or dance it, if you're the Red Shaman. Read it, speak it, sing it back into the void that seeps beneath that line. Because while the line itself is thin, the scar it cuts runs deep. Too deep. And Atilana worries that at some point, the imperial she's looking at fell in. A • D A M N E D • P R I N C E Remember, there are only two things. Your objective, and what stands between you and that end. It has been a long day, and an even longer season. Sethov's knowledge of magic isn't just comprehensive, it's innovative. Transformative, even. Antares is eager. Alizarin may actually be jealous. But Arista is worried. Because Atilana was right. She always is. The morning he came - and the night that followed - resurfaces in Arista's mind. By the light of soft embers in the highest chamber, Ati and Ari sat in knowing silence together. Right or wrong, Sethov's aura is twisted. Literally mangled, melted down and reformed. And done so well that it might have escaped another's notice. But not a magus, and certainly not a skydancer magus at that. Atilana is first to speak. "I've felt auras like it before, but not exactly. The clan I was born into trailed Luminax for some time. It was dangerous but necessary work." Their pyre crackles softly, as if to validate her claim. Arista is silent, staring into the glittering charcoal. She has never seen an emperor, nor would she like to. "But an emperor's aura, it has a shattered quality. If you're perceptive, you can still feel the traces of the ones within the many. There are places in the Hewn City, and even around the Moonportal, with a similar quality." Arista has never been to either of those places, but she knows the Seedscar. Its signature is more different still. Pulsing from the inside out, opposing energies that seep into one another. Emerald and crimson, crimson and emerald. Not shattered, but separate. But Sethov isn't shattered or separate. Not tentatively seeping nor a sum of parts. "It's fluid," Arista says finally. "Exactly." "Singular." "Right." Like a too-rich dessert. Drunken, dark, black cherry velvet ichor. Arista has never seen an emperor, but she has seen one too many an ambitious archmagus. Atilana tilts her head knowingly. "I'm going to ask him," Arista says. Atilana gives an amused huff. "Not immediately. But eventually." "And you think he'll tell you the truth?" "He will." Arista fixes her companion in the eye, and Atilana knows she is resolute. And he does. Tonight, she is years into knowing him - by the things he says and doesn't say, by the way he moves and doesn't move, by the places on his body where the bones show sometimes, and the things carved into them. Still, it probably hasn't been long enough, she thinks, even as she settles into the crook beneath his jaw, against his throat. As she has many nights before, as she will many nights yet. His left foretalons trace the patterns along her back. He has them memorized. Emerald and crimson, crimson and emerald. Finally, she asks. "Oh, Princess." He sighs. His voice is dark and elegant as his body. "I thought you knew." Remember, there are only two things. "I did this to myself." I had to. |
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