Peryite
(#41888218)
Level 1 Spiral
Kesh
Contaminated Ambassador
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Spiral
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.09 m
Wingspan
3.29 m
Weight
120.94 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Metallic
Metallic
Obsidian
Alloy
Alloy
Berry
Ghost
Ghost
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Spiral
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
Previous lore
Morgoth was never really one for thea
So it was peculiar to him to find himself amidst a group of dragons who, for the better part of the hour he'd spent watching them, have done nothing but flash the glow of their capsules and cackle and sing and crow out strange, haunting noises that may have passed for the singing of a vocally-impaired parrot. Morgoth can't say why he's still there, still watching, other than the fact that these dragons are bizarre and captivating the way mysteriously dead things were bizarre and captivating. Morbid, perhaps, and he thinks that might fit this group just as well.
Yet, for all of his misgivings of their free and unpredictable natures, Morgoth is fascinated. They don't ask him to join their festivities-- are they celebrating something? He can't tell, and begins to think this might be a common occurrence for them-- more than once, and at his reluctant silence they leave him to watch from a low-hanging bough. But he doesn't leave, as he told himself he would at the start of their screeching songs, nor when the fire underneath their cauldron flares inexplicably blue, and not even when they suddenly crowd around the fire and sway and buck and howl like, well, a bunch of animals.
It's such a foreign display, he can't help but be sucked into the energy they generate. It's intoxicating, almost; he feels it buzz beneath his scales, itching at his bones. He wants to think himself a simple dragon, above such barbaric behaviors, but the longer he sits and watches, the more his blood burns and strains.
He's so absorbed, he doesn't even notice the small, dark Fae alight on the branch above him until the rich, yet toneless voice spills through the noises of the crowd and jerks him out of his reverie.
"You are welcome to join, friend," she says, and when he blinks at her, he can't tell if she's amused or annoyed at his surveillance. Her head fins twitch, though, and he decides she's merely being amicable. Strange, he thinks, for such a wickedly-dressed creature. She must be the resident witch of the clan, though it was just as easy to think that of any other dragon below.
"Not my scene," he tells her, and the roughness to his voice seems almost jagged compared to hers, despite how flat it sounds. "I stay to the shadows, and I watch."
Her head tilts. He feels her eyes roam over the slithered loops of his body, and he wonders if she's scrutinizing the red pattern laid over his scales. "We all stay to the shadows, my friend," she says, "be it the still ones or the more...lively." She casts a glance out at the party still dancing about below, and he follows it with his own. There are shadows down there, stretched out long and narrow by the fire beneath the cauldron. Those shadows writhe and skip, though, very unlike the darkness he had long settled himself into up in the tree.
"I do not dance or sing," he says, and the mere thought of it cools some of the heat under his skin. "I am steady and silent, not loud and brash."
She laughs. Morgoth blinks, a bit startled by the sound.
"You think any of them can dance or sing?" she asks, and if it wasn't accompanied with the clicks of her laughter, he wouldn't have been able to realize the jest of her words. "Look at them all. Movement is movement, sound is sound. No need to attach any sort of dignity-- or lack thereof-- to it."
He doesn't answer right away; he finds himself caught between two thoughts, one the standard of his feelings regarding anything so wild and unrestrained. The other is less forthright, but it's there, seeding hesitance through him. Could he be one to let go, bare out whatever lurks in his soul and let the world answer in kind?
The Fae hums. "Do not fret, my friend," she says, and he watches as her wings flare wide. "You can belong here, if you desire. You were made for the shadows, for the darkness. You are kin. We will welcome you, if you so wish it."
And then she was gone. Morgoth doesn't see her join the others, but he assumes she must be somewhere among her kind, jumping and darting through shadows and sparking embers the way her brethren do.
His own wings snap open. It was high time he learned the world would not answer him buried in shadow, but living as one: fleeting and wild and wholly unpredictable.
Morgoth was never really one for thea
So it was peculiar to him to find himself amidst a group of dragons who, for the better part of the hour he'd spent watching them, have done nothing but flash the glow of their capsules and cackle and sing and crow out strange, haunting noises that may have passed for the singing of a vocally-impaired parrot. Morgoth can't say why he's still there, still watching, other than the fact that these dragons are bizarre and captivating the way mysteriously dead things were bizarre and captivating. Morbid, perhaps, and he thinks that might fit this group just as well.
Yet, for all of his misgivings of their free and unpredictable natures, Morgoth is fascinated. They don't ask him to join their festivities-- are they celebrating something? He can't tell, and begins to think this might be a common occurrence for them-- more than once, and at his reluctant silence they leave him to watch from a low-hanging bough. But he doesn't leave, as he told himself he would at the start of their screeching songs, nor when the fire underneath their cauldron flares inexplicably blue, and not even when they suddenly crowd around the fire and sway and buck and howl like, well, a bunch of animals.
It's such a foreign display, he can't help but be sucked into the energy they generate. It's intoxicating, almost; he feels it buzz beneath his scales, itching at his bones. He wants to think himself a simple dragon, above such barbaric behaviors, but the longer he sits and watches, the more his blood burns and strains.
He's so absorbed, he doesn't even notice the small, dark Fae alight on the branch above him until the rich, yet toneless voice spills through the noises of the crowd and jerks him out of his reverie.
"You are welcome to join, friend," she says, and when he blinks at her, he can't tell if she's amused or annoyed at his surveillance. Her head fins twitch, though, and he decides she's merely being amicable. Strange, he thinks, for such a wickedly-dressed creature. She must be the resident witch of the clan, though it was just as easy to think that of any other dragon below.
"Not my scene," he tells her, and the roughness to his voice seems almost jagged compared to hers, despite how flat it sounds. "I stay to the shadows, and I watch."
Her head tilts. He feels her eyes roam over the slithered loops of his body, and he wonders if she's scrutinizing the red pattern laid over his scales. "We all stay to the shadows, my friend," she says, "be it the still ones or the more...lively." She casts a glance out at the party still dancing about below, and he follows it with his own. There are shadows down there, stretched out long and narrow by the fire beneath the cauldron. Those shadows writhe and skip, though, very unlike the darkness he had long settled himself into up in the tree.
"I do not dance or sing," he says, and the mere thought of it cools some of the heat under his skin. "I am steady and silent, not loud and brash."
She laughs. Morgoth blinks, a bit startled by the sound.
"You think any of them can dance or sing?" she asks, and if it wasn't accompanied with the clicks of her laughter, he wouldn't have been able to realize the jest of her words. "Look at them all. Movement is movement, sound is sound. No need to attach any sort of dignity-- or lack thereof-- to it."
He doesn't answer right away; he finds himself caught between two thoughts, one the standard of his feelings regarding anything so wild and unrestrained. The other is less forthright, but it's there, seeding hesitance through him. Could he be one to let go, bare out whatever lurks in his soul and let the world answer in kind?
The Fae hums. "Do not fret, my friend," she says, and he watches as her wings flare wide. "You can belong here, if you desire. You were made for the shadows, for the darkness. You are kin. We will welcome you, if you so wish it."
And then she was gone. Morgoth doesn't see her join the others, but he assumes she must be somewhere among her kind, jumping and darting through shadows and sparking embers the way her brethren do.
His own wings snap open. It was high time he learned the world would not answer him buried in shadow, but living as one: fleeting and wild and wholly unpredictable.
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Exalting Peryite to the service of the Stormcatcher 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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