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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
23.48 m
Wingspan
22.01 m
Weight
7776.59 kg
Genetics
Fire
Python
Python
Fire
Morph
Morph
Fire
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
Destroyer - Feral Goddess - Divine Parasite
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"It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed." - Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
Crisis knows how the universe works: Fire burns, smoke rises, she devours, and mortals dare. Mortals dared to beckon her to their small, tinderbox world. They dared to to try and capture her her power in something as dull and cold as sermon and song. They dared to give her a name, and call it, as if that earned them an answer. They begged, and that was better, and they begged to burn, and that was better still. But she continued to refuse them her presence. What is one mortal world against the universal inferno of stars? Of nuclear winds, of cosmic eruptions, of places between the planes where a blaze can turn time itself to cinders? Where her smoke rises through heavens to blind smaller gods, where her claws boil gravity and melt space? One mortal world. Merely a matchstick in a forest fire. A half-second spark already fading as it leaps from the bonfire. Pathetic. Unworthy. But mortals must dare, as fires must burn, and just as she burns more brightly than any other, so too did one mortal dare more than all the rest. He dared to not only call her, but to bind her. He dared to trap her great blazing soul within his own mind, her magic held in the cage of his ribs. She did not know how. She knew fury. She spoke its spitting, spiteful language with a fluency his stupid mortal songs could never hope to echo. She knew hatred. She flung it back at his heart with every thought of worship and adoration he uttered. She knew purpose. Because she had been born to destroy, and that was the task he had summoned her for. He wanted her to set his world ablaze. She did not want to give him this gift, to reward him for his impertinence, but she could not refuse. Her power was locked to his will. If he asked, she would devour his entire world. He had only to ask. Ask. Ask, boy, ask, and get this whole godsforsaken ordeal over with you stupid mort- She knew confusion. Why wasn’t he using the power he’d summoned? Why wasn’t he unleashing her on his world? Why was he hesitating? Why start a fire, then ask it not to burn? The boy says his name is Lankester. She does not care. He does not free her. She does not know why. She screams, and screams, and screams, and he does not care. Time passes. She does not know how much. She does not want to care, but she does. Between the screaming, she waits, and she seethes. Crisis knows how the universe works. Mortals dare, and mortals die. One day, one way or another, she will be free of this prison of flesh and blood who calls himself Lankester. He will call on her power, or he will die, and either way the result will be the same. Crisis does not know patience. But she’s learning.
Feed the flames
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Exalting Crisis to the service of the Arcanist 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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