Fade
(#43116760)
Level 20 Fae
Familiar
Shalebuck
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Female Fae
This dragon is on a Coliseum team.
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Collapse the dragon details section.
Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
1.54 m
Wingspan
0.98 m
Weight
3.19 kg
Genetics
Midnight
Iridescent
Iridescent
Obsidian
Shimmer
Shimmer
Violet
Capsule
Capsule
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 20 Fae
EXP: 3536 / 111687
STR
105
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
50
INT
5
VIT
5
MND
5
Biography
f a d e | witch mother
She remembers some of it.
Every time, every new hatching after every death, slivers of that life follow her to the next. In her youth she doesn't know what the visions and dreams mean, but there always seems to be a breaking point-- a snap, a shatter, of whatever barrier prevented her from knowing the history of her soul, and then she is whole once more. Or, at least whole enough compared to the last time. She knows, deep in the dark recesses of this mind that has wandered through millennia, that part of her is lost to the cosmos with each reiteration of herself; that every time she breaks through another shell and blinks up at the same ancient sky with newborn eyes, there is less and less of that first Imperial dragon from the dawning of her kind, and more of some new thing worming its way into the carcass of her old, broken soul. It used to frighten her, when she began to understand the decay of herself in every body she inhabits. She would go mad with fear and throw herself to the arcane, begging for the power to restore the pieces she'd lost.
It never worked, though. And now she thinks those times spent ravaging the world for answers tore a larger chunk from her spirit than any other life.
Whatever is left of her, it's still enough to remember-- to understand. The fleeting thoughts and memories of those lives she can bear to sit through are still clear, still comprehensible. She can accept them for what they are, and hope that the next time-- the next life-- will bear the memories of this one just as easily. She can hope, but she also knows better.
She doesn't remember her name. Like most of herself, it's dissolved into the ether, lost in time and space and recycled into something new, as life does. She doesn't know most of the faces that accompany those first cracked memories: they're too broken, too fractured, to make any clear distinction. But she knows herself in those. She can remember her body, the long, fluid spine with leathered wings and proud antlers crowned atop her head. Ask her a color and she would draw a blank, but she knows the shape, the feeling of power in a body larger than anything else but the gods themselves. It wasn't the last time she'd taken such a form in her many lives; countless Imperials she'd lived, and others among them, but they were always her favorite. They were her first.
Sometimes her soul aches a bit when she sees them. Now, sequestered in this tiny body-- she's hardly larger than a cat, now-- she finds it a bit ironic. Comical, even. In another life she would have bemoaned the chances and cursed the gods for their mockery, but in this one she still grasps a sense of humor at least. She can chuckle at herself, knowing that once long ago she had been massive and awe-inspiring by stature alone. It occurs to her at some point that the size of her newest body reflected the crumbling remains of her old soul, that perhaps she's merely shrunken this much because it's the only shape that can fit the tiny pieces left over-- but then she recalls a time where she'd been a Fae centuries prior with a soul much more intact.
Perhaps that was why that life was so short lived, then; she'd been too large for the life given her, and the boldness of that soul had ruptured her from the inside. (Not literally, she knows, because that death was one of the more vivid of her scattered memories. Squashed beneath an avalanche was hardly a dignified way to go.)
She remembers other things, too. Sometimes it's a place. It's not always an immediate thought, and she wouldn't recognize it from the memory alone. But if she finds herself there, in a place once important to this soul years ago, she knows it in her heart. She remembers the love, the hate, the sorrow. If it's strong enough, sometimes she can recall a face or two, another soul entwined for that lifetime. She tends to look on those memories the most fondly, and there are days where all she can do is sit in that place and remember.
Most of her companions don't know the truth behind the witch mother. They know her as old and important, and some can even sense the primal soul lingering within her, but they don't know her. They don't know her first life, or even the hundreds following it, nor why this soul continues its trek through space-time, falling apart with every body it takes. She doesn't know why either, truthfully; once, she had known the purpose of this cycle, of the drawn out death of a soul strung from life to life, but now it's as forgotten as her name. It has something to do with herself and her power, and the body of her first strewn across a graveyard with others like her. And a monster that rises from the center.
But, despite that her memories and her soul only follow in fragments, her power is the constant that remains. It is raw, it is wild, and in some lives it is wicked. That magic tastes of a primordial essence, of time and space and energy long shaped into something else. It feels of beginning, of origin, and it flows under her new skin like a demon haunting her from long ago. She has to tame it in each life-- focus it into something manageable. And this one, thankfully, has gifted her with a bit of reprieve, as the demon doesn't rebel against her as it normally did before. She can channel it freely, and it obeys.
Usually.
The witch mother is not lonely in this journey, though. She has gathered souls like hers, those that wander, and keeps them beneath her wing for safe keeping. The eldest of them, still many centuries her junior, is the mirror who met her in this place. He, too, has lost his name, and so he calls himself Vanish. It is a good name, she thinks, for their kind.
The others gather soon enough. She can recognize some of them, those that have shared more than one life with her, and some of who were once her children in one of her many cycles. She keeps them, because they are hers, and they know it. Most don't know why they know it-- only that in their bones, in their soul, the witch mother draws them in and gives them love and purpose. They are kin through time, and she will find them all.
Fade, she calls herself now. It's a fitting name that reminds her of lost time and memories, but it rings true for the life she lives now among the shadows. She is a master of the craft, and she keeps her secrets tucked securely at the tome on her hip in a language long dead. It's scribed in the same vibrant violet that glows from her throat and chest; an inkwell of magic, a potion of love and desire and bottled emotions unique to her being. There was a reason she'd been gifted this body by the Shadowbinder. Though she still feels that power from her first life, it's been formed into something new-- something different. It lingers in that capsule, shining and liquid.
And now the possibilities are endless.
Fade smiles.
This was not her first life, and it won't be her last.
additional lore:
"Magic has existed since the beginning; it was there when the universe was newly born, and when time began to flow into the empty space now occupied by existence itself. Some say that magic is existence, tempered not by time but compounded by it, formed by it, as if it were the foundation on which time trickled through until its shape was eroded into something else entirely. But magic is not so substantial. It fluctuates and manifests itself in various ways, never seeming to hold the same form for too long. As if the energy of the universe is restless-- sentient, almost. In search of something beyond the confines of itself. It is argued amongst many scholars that this, perhaps, is the origin of our wanderlust; not just to the physical mysteries of this world, but to those beyond it where our bodies cannot follow. Our curiosity is innate because magic is innate, and thus we take on its desire to know. To live. To experience.
In other words, magic is what sustains life. Not the sun, not the earth, not water. They are physically necessary, yes, in order to maintain the body given to us during this cycle. But there is always another. Hunger and thirst and sickness are simply symptoms of life, not markers of it. What truly defines us is the magic that has become uniquely ours-- that sliver of the universe that is you, regardless of what body you happen to inhabit at any given moment. Many now refer to this as a soul: a speck of cosmic dust that decided existence was worthwhile, after all.
To put it simply: You, my dear, are magic."
Fade falls quiet. The silence wraps through the clearing, broken only by the gentle pop and snap of the low flames beneath a large, open cauldron that she sits at. Her eyes are dark and difficult to make out through the black strands of mane that fall around her face, but there's still a twinkle of deep violet that shines in the firelight. As most Fae, she appears solemn; morose, even, with the blank stare she directs into the water inside her cauldron. Occasionally the fins on either side of her face twitch, though it's not clear what emotion she might be feeling. She remains wordless for a few moments longer and in the silence it feels as though the universe is holding a breath.
Then, surprisingly, Fade smiles. It almost looks bizarre on the face of a dragon who, until this point, had been as expressionless as a river rock. But there is something behind it-- a glimmer, a hint-- that the smile contains more than just the odd shift of facial features. There's a knowledge hidden within, and when she gazes up, it's like her entire presence has changed. Ancient is the first word to come to mind, though it doesn't fit with the image of a young Fae still perched on the lip of the cauldron.
"As I said," she continues, and though her voice still sounds artificially smooth, the edges of her tone seem to warm. It's as if she has somehow managed to thaw the barrier of Fae language just enough to allow the faintest eke of emotion-- understandable emotion, anyway-- into her words. The soft lilt of her voice almost sounds... amused. "Magic changes. It does not dwell long in one form; 'long' being subjective, of course, as it cannot also be so easily defined. But there is sometimes a pattern. Myself, for example."
She seems to hesitate for a moment, as if the thought she were leading with is abruptly suspended. Her fins twitch again, and the fire continues its gentle crackle.
Finally, after a small period of time, Fade sighs. The wind appears to sigh with her as it kicks up some of the dead leaves littered around the base of the cauldron's fire, and together the leaves and the embers scatter into the breeze as it gusts away. "Dear friend, this is not the first life I have lived. Nor will it the last, I assume. There are others like me, but we are not many-- the magic in our souls is less fickle than most, and it clings to the forms of dragons for more cycles than usual. At least from what I have gathered, and I have had many centuries to wonder about it." Her movement is strangely noiseless as she pulls a tome from the strap buckled over her shoulder. With a bright violet claw, she flicks open the lock and lets the covers fall apart.
"Our magic stays with us, of course," she continues, and her voice has become muted again. The trickle of amusement is gone. "Just as it will stay with you, however it decides to express itself in your next iteration in the world. But, be careful. If you are too stubborn-- if your magic does not change, as it is wont to do-- you will pay a price. Your soul is not meant to be stagnant." There's a heaviness to her words, though they are spoken just as easily and evenly as all the others she's expressed so far. "I know from experience, friend. Magic will break free one way or another."
She taps a glowing claw on one page. "I suppose, then, I should explain this to you. In this life, I was gifted with a potent form of magic--" she gestures briefly to the shining purple liquid contained in her throat and chest, behind the translucent scales that keep it contained there, "--that is capable of some truly wondrous spellwork. Though my soul is old, it still imbues this body with what I've called an Inkwell: a potion unique to my being in which the purest form of magic-- a soul-- is captured." She pauses, and then the soft click of her throaty laugh accents her words as she adds, "Not my actual soul, of course. It is more of, ah... the essence of it. My power. I wouldn't have much left in my Inkwell if that weren't the case."
She gestures toward the book again. "My Book of Shadows contains those like myself: dragons with unique power bottled up in their capsules. You might be surprised just how strong of a spell you can make with one drop from an Inkwell. And there are others I found, those without an Inkwell but a penchant for spell weaving in the old tongue, who are capable of creating some truly devastating magic." Fade touches the paper fondly. "I call them my Scribes. And when we're together--" the Fae smiles again, and it is no less strange than it was the first time, "Oh, how powerful we are. The strength of our magic combined will see no equal."
The book snaps shut. Fade laughs again, and it blends with the snapping flames still glowing beneath the cauldron. "So you see-- this Book of Shadows I keep, it is my record. My collection. I will draw the Inkwells and Scribes of Sornieth to me, and together, my child, our magic will change the world. It is our nature."
Without warning, she reaches out a claw and a drop of shimmering violet liquid falls into the water of the cauldron below. The water ripples, and the fire beneath surges bright before flickering out of existence. The space around the cauldron plunges into darkness.
Fade's hollow laughter echoes out from the shadows until it recedes into the breeze.
Like the wind, she too is gone.
Every time, every new hatching after every death, slivers of that life follow her to the next. In her youth she doesn't know what the visions and dreams mean, but there always seems to be a breaking point-- a snap, a shatter, of whatever barrier prevented her from knowing the history of her soul, and then she is whole once more. Or, at least whole enough compared to the last time. She knows, deep in the dark recesses of this mind that has wandered through millennia, that part of her is lost to the cosmos with each reiteration of herself; that every time she breaks through another shell and blinks up at the same ancient sky with newborn eyes, there is less and less of that first Imperial dragon from the dawning of her kind, and more of some new thing worming its way into the carcass of her old, broken soul. It used to frighten her, when she began to understand the decay of herself in every body she inhabits. She would go mad with fear and throw herself to the arcane, begging for the power to restore the pieces she'd lost.
It never worked, though. And now she thinks those times spent ravaging the world for answers tore a larger chunk from her spirit than any other life.
Whatever is left of her, it's still enough to remember-- to understand. The fleeting thoughts and memories of those lives she can bear to sit through are still clear, still comprehensible. She can accept them for what they are, and hope that the next time-- the next life-- will bear the memories of this one just as easily. She can hope, but she also knows better.
She doesn't remember her name. Like most of herself, it's dissolved into the ether, lost in time and space and recycled into something new, as life does. She doesn't know most of the faces that accompany those first cracked memories: they're too broken, too fractured, to make any clear distinction. But she knows herself in those. She can remember her body, the long, fluid spine with leathered wings and proud antlers crowned atop her head. Ask her a color and she would draw a blank, but she knows the shape, the feeling of power in a body larger than anything else but the gods themselves. It wasn't the last time she'd taken such a form in her many lives; countless Imperials she'd lived, and others among them, but they were always her favorite. They were her first.
Sometimes her soul aches a bit when she sees them. Now, sequestered in this tiny body-- she's hardly larger than a cat, now-- she finds it a bit ironic. Comical, even. In another life she would have bemoaned the chances and cursed the gods for their mockery, but in this one she still grasps a sense of humor at least. She can chuckle at herself, knowing that once long ago she had been massive and awe-inspiring by stature alone. It occurs to her at some point that the size of her newest body reflected the crumbling remains of her old soul, that perhaps she's merely shrunken this much because it's the only shape that can fit the tiny pieces left over-- but then she recalls a time where she'd been a Fae centuries prior with a soul much more intact.
Perhaps that was why that life was so short lived, then; she'd been too large for the life given her, and the boldness of that soul had ruptured her from the inside. (Not literally, she knows, because that death was one of the more vivid of her scattered memories. Squashed beneath an avalanche was hardly a dignified way to go.)
She remembers other things, too. Sometimes it's a place. It's not always an immediate thought, and she wouldn't recognize it from the memory alone. But if she finds herself there, in a place once important to this soul years ago, she knows it in her heart. She remembers the love, the hate, the sorrow. If it's strong enough, sometimes she can recall a face or two, another soul entwined for that lifetime. She tends to look on those memories the most fondly, and there are days where all she can do is sit in that place and remember.
Most of her companions don't know the truth behind the witch mother. They know her as old and important, and some can even sense the primal soul lingering within her, but they don't know her. They don't know her first life, or even the hundreds following it, nor why this soul continues its trek through space-time, falling apart with every body it takes. She doesn't know why either, truthfully; once, she had known the purpose of this cycle, of the drawn out death of a soul strung from life to life, but now it's as forgotten as her name. It has something to do with herself and her power, and the body of her first strewn across a graveyard with others like her. And a monster that rises from the center.
But, despite that her memories and her soul only follow in fragments, her power is the constant that remains. It is raw, it is wild, and in some lives it is wicked. That magic tastes of a primordial essence, of time and space and energy long shaped into something else. It feels of beginning, of origin, and it flows under her new skin like a demon haunting her from long ago. She has to tame it in each life-- focus it into something manageable. And this one, thankfully, has gifted her with a bit of reprieve, as the demon doesn't rebel against her as it normally did before. She can channel it freely, and it obeys.
Usually.
The witch mother is not lonely in this journey, though. She has gathered souls like hers, those that wander, and keeps them beneath her wing for safe keeping. The eldest of them, still many centuries her junior, is the mirror who met her in this place. He, too, has lost his name, and so he calls himself Vanish. It is a good name, she thinks, for their kind.
The others gather soon enough. She can recognize some of them, those that have shared more than one life with her, and some of who were once her children in one of her many cycles. She keeps them, because they are hers, and they know it. Most don't know why they know it-- only that in their bones, in their soul, the witch mother draws them in and gives them love and purpose. They are kin through time, and she will find them all.
Fade, she calls herself now. It's a fitting name that reminds her of lost time and memories, but it rings true for the life she lives now among the shadows. She is a master of the craft, and she keeps her secrets tucked securely at the tome on her hip in a language long dead. It's scribed in the same vibrant violet that glows from her throat and chest; an inkwell of magic, a potion of love and desire and bottled emotions unique to her being. There was a reason she'd been gifted this body by the Shadowbinder. Though she still feels that power from her first life, it's been formed into something new-- something different. It lingers in that capsule, shining and liquid.
And now the possibilities are endless.
Fade smiles.
This was not her first life, and it won't be her last.
additional lore:
"Magic has existed since the beginning; it was there when the universe was newly born, and when time began to flow into the empty space now occupied by existence itself. Some say that magic is existence, tempered not by time but compounded by it, formed by it, as if it were the foundation on which time trickled through until its shape was eroded into something else entirely. But magic is not so substantial. It fluctuates and manifests itself in various ways, never seeming to hold the same form for too long. As if the energy of the universe is restless-- sentient, almost. In search of something beyond the confines of itself. It is argued amongst many scholars that this, perhaps, is the origin of our wanderlust; not just to the physical mysteries of this world, but to those beyond it where our bodies cannot follow. Our curiosity is innate because magic is innate, and thus we take on its desire to know. To live. To experience.
In other words, magic is what sustains life. Not the sun, not the earth, not water. They are physically necessary, yes, in order to maintain the body given to us during this cycle. But there is always another. Hunger and thirst and sickness are simply symptoms of life, not markers of it. What truly defines us is the magic that has become uniquely ours-- that sliver of the universe that is you, regardless of what body you happen to inhabit at any given moment. Many now refer to this as a soul: a speck of cosmic dust that decided existence was worthwhile, after all.
To put it simply: You, my dear, are magic."
Fade falls quiet. The silence wraps through the clearing, broken only by the gentle pop and snap of the low flames beneath a large, open cauldron that she sits at. Her eyes are dark and difficult to make out through the black strands of mane that fall around her face, but there's still a twinkle of deep violet that shines in the firelight. As most Fae, she appears solemn; morose, even, with the blank stare she directs into the water inside her cauldron. Occasionally the fins on either side of her face twitch, though it's not clear what emotion she might be feeling. She remains wordless for a few moments longer and in the silence it feels as though the universe is holding a breath.
Then, surprisingly, Fade smiles. It almost looks bizarre on the face of a dragon who, until this point, had been as expressionless as a river rock. But there is something behind it-- a glimmer, a hint-- that the smile contains more than just the odd shift of facial features. There's a knowledge hidden within, and when she gazes up, it's like her entire presence has changed. Ancient is the first word to come to mind, though it doesn't fit with the image of a young Fae still perched on the lip of the cauldron.
"As I said," she continues, and though her voice still sounds artificially smooth, the edges of her tone seem to warm. It's as if she has somehow managed to thaw the barrier of Fae language just enough to allow the faintest eke of emotion-- understandable emotion, anyway-- into her words. The soft lilt of her voice almost sounds... amused. "Magic changes. It does not dwell long in one form; 'long' being subjective, of course, as it cannot also be so easily defined. But there is sometimes a pattern. Myself, for example."
She seems to hesitate for a moment, as if the thought she were leading with is abruptly suspended. Her fins twitch again, and the fire continues its gentle crackle.
Finally, after a small period of time, Fade sighs. The wind appears to sigh with her as it kicks up some of the dead leaves littered around the base of the cauldron's fire, and together the leaves and the embers scatter into the breeze as it gusts away. "Dear friend, this is not the first life I have lived. Nor will it the last, I assume. There are others like me, but we are not many-- the magic in our souls is less fickle than most, and it clings to the forms of dragons for more cycles than usual. At least from what I have gathered, and I have had many centuries to wonder about it." Her movement is strangely noiseless as she pulls a tome from the strap buckled over her shoulder. With a bright violet claw, she flicks open the lock and lets the covers fall apart.
"Our magic stays with us, of course," she continues, and her voice has become muted again. The trickle of amusement is gone. "Just as it will stay with you, however it decides to express itself in your next iteration in the world. But, be careful. If you are too stubborn-- if your magic does not change, as it is wont to do-- you will pay a price. Your soul is not meant to be stagnant." There's a heaviness to her words, though they are spoken just as easily and evenly as all the others she's expressed so far. "I know from experience, friend. Magic will break free one way or another."
She taps a glowing claw on one page. "I suppose, then, I should explain this to you. In this life, I was gifted with a potent form of magic--" she gestures briefly to the shining purple liquid contained in her throat and chest, behind the translucent scales that keep it contained there, "--that is capable of some truly wondrous spellwork. Though my soul is old, it still imbues this body with what I've called an Inkwell: a potion unique to my being in which the purest form of magic-- a soul-- is captured." She pauses, and then the soft click of her throaty laugh accents her words as she adds, "Not my actual soul, of course. It is more of, ah... the essence of it. My power. I wouldn't have much left in my Inkwell if that weren't the case."
She gestures toward the book again. "My Book of Shadows contains those like myself: dragons with unique power bottled up in their capsules. You might be surprised just how strong of a spell you can make with one drop from an Inkwell. And there are others I found, those without an Inkwell but a penchant for spell weaving in the old tongue, who are capable of creating some truly devastating magic." Fade touches the paper fondly. "I call them my Scribes. And when we're together--" the Fae smiles again, and it is no less strange than it was the first time, "Oh, how powerful we are. The strength of our magic combined will see no equal."
The book snaps shut. Fade laughs again, and it blends with the snapping flames still glowing beneath the cauldron. "So you see-- this Book of Shadows I keep, it is my record. My collection. I will draw the Inkwells and Scribes of Sornieth to me, and together, my child, our magic will change the world. It is our nature."
Without warning, she reaches out a claw and a drop of shimmering violet liquid falls into the water of the cauldron below. The water ripples, and the fire beneath surges bright before flickering out of existence. The space around the cauldron plunges into darkness.
Fade's hollow laughter echoes out from the shadows until it recedes into the breeze.
Like the wind, she too is gone.
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