Prophet
(#48833557)
Level 1 Skydancer
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Energy: 49/50
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.95 m
Wingspan
4.2 m
Weight
511.63 kg
Genetics
Maroon
Starmap
Starmap
Maroon
Constellation
Constellation
Cream
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
He scrabbles and claws his way into the land of the living; slogs through the black, tarry essence of those that would stop him and bathes in it. Thousands of years ago he would have destroyed them all with a thought, a whim, but he is...reduced. Fallen. Banishment in the underworld has stifled his holy fire, rendered him nearly as weak as the monsters that hound the path he blazes. Still, he presses onward. No one has escaped the depths before, but he is a god, even diminished as he is, and he will. |
It took nearly five hundred years to crack the shackles that bound him to the black stone of the pit; three hundred more to shatter them, and weeks of agony as he healed and climbed. But he ascended, felled the demons guarding his cell, and unleashed his fury upon any who crossed his path. Too long has he been trapped here in the dark. The higher he ascends, the more his power returns- he can feel it pulsing in his gut, white fire begging to be unleashed. He contains it, redirects it- keeps himself in check. He will not lose himself to it, not here- not so close to escape. He'd been alive before the underworld was created; he'd been one of its architects, had masterminded its security and layout, had crafted it all from starlight and the dark stone of the planet. How ironic it had been when the mortals cast him down here. How prideful they had been to assume he would never escape, that he would be content to rot in a prison of his own making, watched by creatures he had created, all those years ago. How prideful, and how stupid. He shatters the protective barrier around the great stone doors, throwing them open; black sludge tracks behind him as he stumbles into the sunlight, and his eyes water as the light nearly blinds him after so long in the dark. He collapses, head bowed low, and breathes in cool, fresh air for the first time in nearly four thousand years. He can feel fury boiling in his gut even as he revels in his freedom, white fire scorching and snapping inside his throat. He stands, pushing his hair back from his face- lank and long, faded from its once-glorious white shade to grey- and he calls upon the fire inside. Now that he has reached the mortal realm, his power responds in full force, fire scourging his mind of doubt, of fear- of weakness. The blade Hallow appears in his palm when he summons it, star-touched and thrumming with intent, and he throws his head back and screams, a haunting cry of rage and deep, long-held betrayal. The mortals were right to fear him; they should have destroyed him when he fell, all those years ago. Their weakness has assured their destruction, just as it ensured his survival. He does not know if any of the old gods remain. He may be the last; the thought enrages him even further, and he throws himself into the sky, six white feathered wings erupting from his back in a pulse of pain-release-relief. He will purge the world of mortal life, one soul at a time, and start anew. |
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Exalting Prophet to the service of the Earthshaker 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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