Dexter
(#46470314)
Tonight's the night
Familiar
Sanguine Multimist
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Male Skydancer
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.59 m
Wingspan
5.12 m
Weight
726.82 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Piebald
Piebald
Sanguine
Sludge
Sludge
Sanguine
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Skydancer
Max Level
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
DEXTER - Head Warrior
His antennae are a damn nuisance. Always dangling in the way, always making him feel for his opponents. If it wouldn’t trouble Joanna, he would sever them himself, tear them out at the root and return to his work protecting the clan. But Joanna sees to his wounds often enough, and it would hardly be fair to place another injury on her plate, especially a self-inflicted one.
So Dexter lives with the ability to feel his opponents’ anger, their fear and frustration, and he lives with their blood soaked deep into his wings.
More claws than he’s ever faced before. Blades and arrows aplenty, all pointed at him, at his clan. But he stands resolute, the last bastion. The only bastion. Without him, the scum of Sornieth will be free to torment the Daemoniorum, and he cannot allow that.
The only option is to face death. Become death.
He spreads his wings wide and welcomes their violence. It is nothing compared to what he means to inflict.
The linen wrapped round his sternum is snug, but not tight. Already, though Joanna changed it recently, it has lost some of its stiffness and support as Dexter’s wounds seep into it. He makes a pretty canvas, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the beholder’s eye favors all shades of scarlet and maroon.
She sometimes stays up through the night to heal him, and it makes his heart twist and curl behind his ribs. What exactly has he done that warrants bringing her so much worry, so many sleepless evenings? Protecting the Daemoniorum is his duty, his calling, the one thing he refuses to fail in, but even his successes leave him riddled with guilt when Joanna fusses over him.
The clan healer is so tender when she works, too. So patient and thorough, inspecting every wound down to the smallest scrape for signs of infection or complication. And somehow, she whisks it all away, brow furrowed while she works. It seems, sometimes, like the last thing she wants to do is heal anyone, like her talents are a curse.
But she brings Dexter back from the brink of death every time, without fail. He supposes his gratitude means little when he goes out and charges into the slaughter all over again.
They plead for their lives. They ask if he has lost his mind. Why do they deserve this kind of pain, this kind of suffering? They are only soldiers, acting on someone else’s command!
He kills them one by one when possible. And when he finishes, he takes his time tearing their commander apart.
His vision is hazy by then. Blood runs into his eyes, and it is only sheer force of will keeping him upright. But he cannot suffer this dragon to live, cannot allow an enemy of the Daemoniorum to fly free into the night to plot another attack. They have proven themselves willing to bring harm on dragons who have done nothing but possess territory they wish to claim, and for that, Dexter will have their heads.
One. By one. By one.
He takes a breath, shaky and short, before rounding on the wounded commander. The Wildclaw shivers under his gaze, and he wonders how much of herself she can see in his eyes. How much of a reflection exists there?
And how much of a kindred spirit?
A month of den rest. An entire month for Dexter to heal, to rest, to recuperate.
An entire month to sit with his sins and decide if he is judge and jury for those in the same way that he presides over the atrocities of others.
This happens every time he returns from battle, whenever his wounds are too deep to brush aside. Despite Joanna’s healing prowess, he still must allow nature to take its course in restoring his body. It makes for an exquisite form of torture, one where he must watch the Daemoniorum’s other warriors go about their days, unprepared for the worst dangers should they arrive. And if they do come, he will be only half the dragon he needs to be.
Half the beast, perhaps.
But he sits, because Joanna knows best. Dexter sits, and he waits, and he dreams of the day he can take his judgment back into the world, the day he can cross claws with another threat. Restricted to the heart of the Daemoniorum, he feels like a dead dragon walking, a shambling corpse. Only a battle will make him feel alive. No, only a victory will do that. A triumph over some evil, a success against some malevolent force.
At least there will always be threats to deal with. He does not look forward to the day that his own sins are the only ones left to judge.
Bio by Tues.
Art by Annago
First ever hatched primal
Dexter
Built in darkness
Lusts for blood
Clan Warrior
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Exalting Dexter to the service of the Shadowbinder 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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