Bayhound's dragon Roman

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

3.36 m

Wingspan

3.35 m

Weight

212.94 kg

Genetics

Swamp
Poison

Camo
Trail

Crimson
Smirch

Hatchday

Aug 15, 2018
(5 years)

Breed

Adult
Tundra

Eye Type

Plague
Uncommon

Level 8 Tundra

EXP: 56 / 16009

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Jenu
Atshen

Offspring

none

Biography

Roman the TROUBLED PRINCE
i have an ugliness that's impossible to love

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Blankets of noxious fumes hung heavily over a nest located deep within Plague territory, vats of diseased muck spitting its contents at the foot of three eggs from either side. Underneath them the Wyrmwound's fleshy surface rippled, rolling said eggs on their sides, encouraging them to break free and enter the land of death and decay. It was as if the Plaguebringer herself was watching over them knowingly, the terrain puppeted to her whimsy. Suddenly, one of the gelatinous ovals began to bulge, tiny clawed feet ripping membrane away. Within moments, all three exanded and caved, a flurry of matted hair spilling into the mess. The tiny beasts oozed from their prisons and gasped, lungs filling with the poisonous air of the Wyrmwound before they began to scream.

Their cries, however, were not spurred by pain. No - despite being tundras, their genetic makeup was filled with generation upon generation of Plague ichor, and with each breath they grew stronger, feeding upon the area's atmosphere. Pus sizzled at their fur and they hissed, squirming in attempts to gain footing among the slime and nipping each other whenever they clashed. Hovering over them were a proud mother and father, masks and guises hiding the wicked grins that twisted their faces. They watched as their children grew impatient, but before blood was spilled, they finally offered the babes' first meal: a bed of scrappy forage topped with the flesh of dragonkind. The hatchlings took to it voraciously. Soon, their bodies would adjust to a non-plant diet and they would be become tiny, hellacious mirrors of their cannibalistic parents.

This was the life Roman was born into. Paradise.

His birth Clan was filled with anomalies - from hatchling eaters to necromancers - but all were Plague at their core. As the tundras grew, their teeth were sharpened accordingly, diet changed, and important introductions made. From a young age, the babes were made aware that their lives could serve many purposes, but until they matured they were welcome to celebrate life however they saw fit. For children of the Wyrmwound, that meant the more maniacal and twisted their actions were, the better.

Roman's sisters were perfect plaguelings, causing torment wherever their paws carried them. He was much quieter, preferring to observe before taking immediate action. His parents were not worried by this - their son still displayed proper Plague etiquette. He did not, however, feel as connected to his birthright as they would have hoped. Oftentimes they would find the pup at the edge of their territory or right upon the acidic lake, staring. At first they were hopeful - maybe he was a seer of some kind and felt a deeper connection to the pull of this land than they did. When asked, Roman would either ignore them or disagree, though. He had no idea what they were talking about. All he knew was something was pulling him in... and it wasn't Mother.

When the time came for formal training, Roman simply disappeared. Nary a scent or trace of fluff was left behind, causing the Clan to assume he'd finally misstepped and fallen into the lake. He'd simply left. Why no-one was able to track him, he didn't know; maybe the Gods were looking down on him after all.

Months, then years passed as Roman wandered Sornieth in his search for whatever had been tugging at his soul. First he'd entered the realm of Shadow, thinking his place lied there, but it didn't take him long to leave Lady Shadowbinder behind. He may have been birthed from carcasses and disease, but something about that land felt... wrong. The Sunbeam Ruins were simply out of the question, so Roman skirted The Scarred Wasteland once more, heading for Dragonhome. It felt closer, but still not quite right. All the while he was growing more frustrated, killing prey and small beastclans in his travels purely due to needing release. The longer he went without locating the source of his obsession, the worse off he became, and there came a time where he backtracked, aiming to throw himself away as a sacrifice to Mother. It was where corroded soil met pebble that he finally took a forlorn glance across the ocean, and when he did, it felt as if his organs were on the verge of jumping from his throat.

Arriving in The Viridian Labyrinth was surreal. Roman's brain ached at the sight of so much greenery, but his heart was at ease. The further he went, the more light he became, and for the first time in his life he finally felt peace. It clicked when the mountain named Kamui came into his sights, and Roman found himself frozen in place upon arriving at its furthest reaches. This was where he was meant to be.

Entry into the Clan was easy once the tundra was processed through records, especially as he explained the strange pull he felt even from the Wyrmwound. To their knowledge, the dragons that lived here hadn't heard of the mountain's essence stretching that far, but they did not disbelieve him, either. They knew the power that resided here.

Considering his story, Roman was given a brief history of the mountain and beginnings of the Clan before being released to do as he pleased. At first, the dragon was confused. He was allowed to stay so simply? The advisor suggested he offer a trade or service should he intend to live within their ranks. Roman wasn't opposed to that. The thought of doing so simply didn't cross his mind until weeks later after he'd rested and slept, finally able to do so upon being where fate had intended.

For a while, life was perfect. He found comrades within the dragons here - a few romantic interests even stirred within him. But soon, he realized that while Kamui itself may have drawn him in, his presence wasn't readily accepted by everyone in the Clan. His razored teeth, claws, and eating habits disgusted many, and the ridicule threw Roman for a loop. He'd known nothing else, even as he searched for this place. Wasn't it... normal? He was quick to begin shunning himself, at least during mealtime and while hunting, which is now his contribution to the Clan. Currently he feeds and sticks close to the area's mirrorpack when his urges rise, not yet able to get rid of the newfound shame stuck to his instincts.

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» notes go here
» notes go here

orientation: bisexual/romantic
alignment: chaotic neutral
affiliation: plague, earth, nature

likes: hunting, adrenaline rushes, peacefulness, bones, tattered cloth
dislikes: judgement, expectation, cinnamon, deep water, feeling trapped
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code by epher #101073

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Exalting Roman to the service of the Gladekeeper 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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