Mourn

(#47943568)
Level 1 Nocturne
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Familiar

Stormclaw Showman
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Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Nocturne
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Accent: Foxfire Plumage

Scene

Measurements

Length
4.9 m
Wingspan
5.82 m
Weight
486.78 kg

Genetics

Primary Gene
Soil
Basic
Soil
Basic
Secondary Gene
Raspberry
Basic
Raspberry
Basic
Tertiary Gene
Red
Basic
Red
Basic

Hatchday

Hatchday
Dec 24, 2018
(5 years)

Breed

Breed
Adult
Nocturne

Eye Type

Eye Type
Plague
Common
Level 1 Nocturne
EXP: 0 / 245
Scratch
Shred
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7

Lineage

Parents

  • none

Offspring

  • none

Biography

Ostensibly, the plan was that the Paleblood Empress would simply have a bit of an accident.
She may have been powerful, and intelligent, but she was new to rule and her people only saw her as a sweet young princess regardless; and oh, as princesses do she wandered into the forest, she couldn’t have seen the stag, poor thing we only found her in the morning--
One of the second princes’ tanar’ri slips a knife of sharpened antler into a pocket of Mourn’s robes one morning, and nods at him as she walks past, and Mourn feels sick.

Mourn, she says, as she finishes braiding a series of gold ribbons into his hair, I’m thinking of walking in the forest this evening. Would you like to join me? I hear the mulberry trees have started to bloom.

Anything for you, Obyrith, he murmurs, and she smiles like the sun.

You’ll do it, won’t you, says the first prince, eyes cold and trained on the blade Mourn flips in his hand; you’ll kill her. We won’t go to war if she’s crowned, you must know that, tanar’ri. She’s soft. He smiles, crooked. She always has been.

She will cry for you, then, I suppose; and he mirrors the prince’s grin and slides the knife of sharpened antler smoothly between his fourth and fifth rib.



My brothers are trying to have me killed, aren’t they, says Obyrith, that evening while they walk under a lush tapestry of white-and-lavender mulberry blooms. She stumbles over an upturned root, and without thinking Mourn reaches out to stabilize her.

Brother, now, I’m afraid, and he avoids her shocked gaze by reaching for an early-ripened fruit and squeezing it until the nectar drips out over his fingers in wine-red trails. I am loyal, my Empress, to you and you alone. It was foolish of them to forget.

She pulls him close, then, and puts her forehead to his and murmurs, just for the two of them to hear, There’s a bowman about forty meters behind you.

You should run, then, my dear, he whispers, smiling, and he barely feels the arrow sink into his back with the butterfly-soft kiss she presses just below his right eye before she disappears between the trees.

Mourn turns to face the archer, hair and eyes and the world around him glowing like a thousand dying coals, and seconds after it lodges into his shoulder the second arrow is reduced to ash. He barely takes note of the way the wound it leaves drips opalescent with silverpoint poison-- if both arrows were tainted he likely has four hours, now, to live.

He doesn’t need them.



Eit can tell straight away that the ghost in the obsidian room isn’t like the others. None of the drowned ones have antlers, of course; but more than that.

The king of heaven doesn’t animate you, does he, she asks her own reflection in the glass, focusing on the faint outlines of burning mulberry trees and the faint smell of ash.

I am loyal to my Empress, it says, and to her alone, and a warm air current brushes her hair away from her face and although she cannot see the ghost she could swear that it smiles.


.
Ancient Knife
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