LemonBoy
(#39447778)
Advisor | Local Cryptid
Familiar
Runeback Slink
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 43/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Male Bogsneak
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
8.95 m
Wingspan
8.34 m
Weight
883.78 kg
Genetics
Antique
Cherub
Cherub
Orca
Butterfly
Butterfly
White
Runes
Runes
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Bogsneak
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
7
INT
6
VIT
7
MND
6
Biography
 LEMONBOY A D V I S O R    ⤚────────⟶ R E L A T I O N S  Ambiguous Relationship  Son 
Extension of Consciousness IKTR: 1 |
╭───────────────────────────────────╮
"It happens all the time. It happens all the time." ╰───────────────────────────────────╯ LemonBoy is the father of Lunick, and another one of VanillaMilkCow's pretty boys. He is an arcanist by trade, and practises powerful magic which is admired by some villagers, feared by others. While he may appear intimidating, beneath the robes and the incense he is actually a sweetheart, and enjoys nothing more than a cosy chat over a cup of tea. To this end, he is seen by many as a therapist and a counsellor, a citrus friend for the worn down and the lonely. He may even offer to lay a curse on one's enemies when all is said and done - two services for the price of one. The sage lives alone in a mystical hut on the outskirts of town, decorated with various trinkets of the arcane, though he is almost always accompanied by the ethereal blushing tangle he claims is a manifestation of his overflowing consciousness. The blushing tangle, not possessing a mouth, does nothing to refute this particular theory. Quote:
POV:
LemonBoy speaks to you in a calming, dulcet tone. You find his sayings comforting, albeit a little ambiguous. - 
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Story by TETRAHEDR0N The clan was in furious debate. The sage listened—or, he tried, but it was getting difficult to hear, much less decipher and fairly consider, each individual’s voice when they were all speaking at once. Fangs flashed, wings flared, tails lashed, arguments splintering into a multitude of furious squabbles, and the sage dipped his head low and closed his eyes. He tuned all the noise out. And listened to a different sound, a higher-pitched ringing that always ran through the edge of his consciousness, sometimes even his dreams, which he now focused on and channeled, letting it flood his mind. Show me, he whispered, in its own language. Though his gaze remained shuttered—distantly, he felt the tasseled edge of his hood tickling his snout—his awareness expanded like a blossom unfurling its petals, a ripple of otherworldly sense washing over the land with the sage at its center. Ash, bone, water, stone. The sage flashed by it all at a rapid pace, searching, searching—There! The ringing increased to an excited hum as the sage dove down a particular dip in the landscape, a canyon, the very one his clan now discussed, and he flooded the ravine with his curiosity, examining and prying with the scan. Nothing? Nothing! The sage crawled farther, until he found— “They’re not there,” he said, raising his head but not opening his eyes. The clan’s bickering ebbed down, and a hushed, uneasy confusion settled over them, until Val—no, VanillaMilkCow ventured, “The longnecks?” The sage hummed in assent, harmonizing with his magic. His voice took on the same quality, vague and dreamy, as he sought to reconcile the anchoring meat of his body and the wandering breeze that was his mind. “They retreated out of the gully, back to their own lair—” Did longnecks have lairs? That was the wrong word, wasn’t it. The sage was tempted to surge forward and find out, but he restrained himself, barely— “without sending anyone after us. They have set guards at their territory’s perimeter, of course, and two scouts at their side of the canyon, just in case . . .” He smiled, seeing one young longneck peek nervously out of their hideout, only for the other to chuck a nut shell at their head, and laugh when the first turned back scowling. “They’re just like us.” It would’ve been easy, to stay out there, continue watching the scouts’ blend of duty and antics, and stray farther, forever. But, well, there was more than his body alone that tied him to the clan. The sage pulled his consciousness back, soothing the reluctant hum with gentle murmurings, and settled into his flesh. He lifted his gaze, and blinked a few times to be rid of the pale pink mucus that had glazed a thin film over his eyes. All the clan stared at him, silent. He grinned in chagrin, feeling a little light-headed and giddy, and shrugged in apology for freaking them out. “They’ve done the same as us. I didn’t look, but I imagine there’s a meeting of their leaders very similar to our own going on right now in their—camp.” That wasn’t the right word either. Dragons murmured about that, swapping theories and opinions, until a voice rang out, “So what do we do about it?” “We attack ‘em, of course! Two measly scouts and perimeter guards—strike from behind, and we’ll have ‘em!” That was definitely Inconel. Most hissed at that, and other ideas were thrown out, to be tossed about and torn to bits by the others, with no general consensus found. “What do you think they’re planning to do?” They all hushed again, awaiting the sage’s response. He mulled the question over, deliberating what he’d seen and felt. “Well, I can hardly know,” he said at last. “I didn’t take a looksie in their heads to read their thoughts or anything.” An uncertain pause. “Can you, uh, do that?” “I would never.” He winked, then cleared his throat. “Regardless. My analysis is the same as before. What we do, they will likely reciprocate. Let that thought guide our actions.” “What do we want to happen,” Robin said thoughtfully. The sage flicked his tail tip towards her. “Exactly.” The round of mutterings were quieter and more contemplative this time. “A diplomatic party,” someone suggested at last. “I’ll head it!” the prince crowed eagerly. “We can discuss how to share the canyon.” “Split its resources equally!” “Fairly, at least.” The debate continued, but at a slower, warmer pace. Slowly it built up in enthusiasm again; Should they offer a peace-offering? How about their clan’s famed fishcakes? Oh, but they’d have to take the longnecks’ nutritional and preferential needs into account. Perhaps this conversation could develop into regular trade—even a full alliance someday! The sage sat back, smiling and content to listen to the rest of the meeting without further comment. He found himself humming again—of course the same note as his magic. He was something of a one-trick pony, after all! But he was glad to see it be useful for the clan, his friends and close ones, his— Ah, that was the word. Home. |
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Skit for Conflagrant Carnival Crash! The strength tester hurtled into the hard stop at the top of the column, setting off a loud and clamouring bell. “How are you doing that?!” the fae running the game yelled (as much as a fae can yell, anyway), scuttling up the tall pole to inspect the heavy weight, which remained fixed firmly in place. The fae yanked at the bell, tried to stop its shrieking racket. “Get back down there, you moth-eaten sock,” they snarled. Back on the ground, the bogsneak in its disturbingly bright robes stared up at the fae calmly, though they weren’t sure they could see any eyes. It was like the creature was perceiving through the many robes covering its head. A shiver ran down the fae’s spine. They gave one final heave and the weight detached from the stop, dropping straight back to the ground with a resounding thunk. The fae coughed slightly in the cloud of dust it sent up. “I guess you… can select a prize,” the fae approached the bogsneak warily. What would it sound like when it spoke? The fae was expecting a garbled mass of tongues to emerge from the larger dragon’s mouth, some primordial sound that would instantly vaporise their tiny bones. The runes and kaleidoscopic patterns on its robes seemed to be shifting, ever changing, like the fates of the living. “Oh, thank you, dear!” a bright, friendly voice, speaking common language with a slight country twang, emerged from the bogsneak’s mouth. “I’ll have that big warcat plushie, my son would love that.” A pause. “That’s cute. How old is your son?” the fae spoke carefully, detaching the requested plushie from the roof of the caravan, wings almost buckling beneath its weight. “Oh, you might’ve seen him around,” the bogsneak drawled. “A big hulking guardian of a lad, always wearing that blasted alabaster armour of his. He loves to make an entrance, that one.” The fae blushed a deep crimson, which was fortunately hidden by their natural mulberry hues. They remembered swooning over the sight of the mighty warrior earlier in the night; just went to show you could never judge a book by its cover. They gingerly held the stuffed toy out to the bogsneak, who opened his mouth and let out… a burp? A cloud of vape? No, it was a whole other creature, emerging from the confines of his throat! The fae looked aghast, as the mass of pink flesh unfurled into a pulsating blushing tangle, its many eyes honing in on its prey… eek! The fae jumped back, every limb trembling, but merely felt a weight lift off their back as the blushing tangle picked up the warcat plushie in its twitching tendrils. “My bung knee has been playing up again,” the bogsneak said cheerfully. “I get my helper to carry larger items for me. Thanks for the game, dearie. Enjoy the rest of your night!” The fae shuddered once more as the dragon in shimmering purple disappeared into the throngs of the carnival, trailed by its floating, fluorescing companion. They saw a lot of weird things go on at the fair, it was par for the course, but this had to be one of the very weirdest. |
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Exalting LemonBoy to the service of the Flamecaller 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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