Umbraax
(#49306339)
Level 1 Imperial
Familiar
Smoke Gyre
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 36/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Fire.
Male Imperial
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
24.16 m
Wingspan
18.5 m
Weight
7571.86 kg
Genetics
Midnight
Iridescent
Iridescent
Sanguine
Shimmer
Shimmer
Garnet
Thylacine
Thylacine
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
by @CoffeeCaat
My name is Xaruma Sol-Gra Bosul Hridus.
Once, I stood at the right-hand of our leader, Ranadir, as his second-in-command of the Sol-Gra army, a name we were proud to bear. We were the first of our kind, the ones descended directly from the gods themselves. We were brothers-in-arms, fighting for the protection and the peace of this world we came to know as home.
We won the day, but lost everything else in exchange.
I remember dark skies, the stench of death clinging to the once-pure air. I remember standing at Ranadir's side when we began the sacrificial ritual to cast the barrier to banish the Shade from our world into the nether where it belonged.
“This is our final hour. Nothing can be allowed to stop this, or we lose it all.”
My brethren had been so determined, not a single faltering face to be found amongst the crowd of huddled soldiers. The Shade had thrown everything it could at us, and it was our turn to strike back and seal it away for good. None of us cared to contemplate what the consequences of failure would be. It was a fate better off not knowing.
The animal sacrifice had been placed on the altar, the chants recited, all that had been left to do was to plunge the knife through its heart and their world would have been saved.
The earth beneath their feet shook, and as the temple fell, so did their hopes - they needed a live sacrifice for the ritual to succeed, after all. Yet unbeknownst to them, Ranadir had willingly thrown himself onto the altar to complete the ritual, and it was only when the radiant light had burst from the ruins of the temple that they realised what he’d done.
. . .
My name is Xaruma Bosul Sol-Gra Hridus.
Sol-Gra. There is a meaning to the name, but I cannot pinpoint it. Not when I drift aimlessly amongst my own men, who now look to me for leadership. I cannot provide it.
My thoughts are scattered like leaves in the wind. Was that the name I took when I became a member of this force? The name we all share as kinsmen? Vaguely, I recall chanting it with others, but the details of when and where are hazy.
We are all lost sheep, wandering the ruined remnants of this destroyed land. What was my life’s purpose? I remember being face-to-face with the gods themselves in all their glory, but I do not remember why. It doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever it is has faded from my memory and left an aching gap in my chest. I am bound to no one, save myself, and even I am unsure of just who, or what I truly am. A protector of this world? A leader?
Can I truly call myself that, when this world lies in tatters all around me, and my men are just as lost as I am? My claws dig into the cracked ground beneath, for a moment I imagine sinking them into my own flesh and ripping out the beating heart within. It would be so much easier than having to bear this unspeakable anguish, this sense of despair, and yet not knowing what I've lost.
I'm worse than the Shadespawn. A pitiful excuse of a second-in-command, I can't even hold myself together, much less hold the entire team together. I should have been there with him when he gave his life for us, I should have been the one to die. They need their leader, but now we have none. I don't deserve this power, not when I failed them all so miserably.
A brief moment of clarity brings so many dark thoughts crashing into the fragile web of my mind. My legs buckle as I hit the ground, only now does the pain hit me like a blade through the heart - I welcome it, for it reminds me that I'm capable of feeling, and that's better than the numbness creeping through me.
At the urging of my soldiers, I take on an advisor. Someone to assist with my judgements, someone who will be my guiding light in these dark times. Someone who will show me the way to proper leadership, especially considering that dragonkind has begun populating the land.
“I will turn you into the greatest leader history has ever known,” he promises, and though I doubt his words, something about his confidence inspires just a little bit of faith in myself again.
For most part, Trariot’s advice rings true. I need to be firmer with them, he tells me, to quit second-guessing myself all the time. A leader must have the authority to bring his troops under control when necessary, he must have the respect of those he commands. There are times when I admit I’m too lenient on them, times when I have to call them out and make an example of them just to ensure such mistakes don’t occur again. I don’t question this. Trariot is right, after all, I see the improvements with my own eyes, our forces grow stronger for the discipline. It might not sit well with me, having to chastise dragons I once called brother, but it is for the better good. I see that now.
The first test comes several months later, as our food supplies run low. There are no farmers amongst us, we were not made to till the earth and harvest its crops, but the army must be fed somehow. Once again, I turn to Trariot for his words of wisdom.
“You’re surrounded by countless farms, all planted and raised for you by the lesser dragons. Take what you need from them, this army needs it more than they do.”
“That’s outright robbery, Trariot.”
“Do you have any better ideas to keep your warriors from starving? Or would you rather keep lying to them about not having food when there are crops ripe for the taking from these farmers?”
With an ultimatum like that, who am I to refuse?
In the end, though, it works out. Somehow most of Trariot's plans succeed one way or another, even if the methods are less than savoury. Perhaps being a little selfish couldn’t hurt, not if it’s for the good of the army and ultimately, the world we protect. Little by little, it gets easier to do things I once would have balked at. Even if it means separating myself from those I once considered friends, even if it means earning their ire… if it proves to benefit us, then I do it. It’s almost mindlessly simple once I get used to it, why had I ever felt the need to question Trariot's suggestions when they are all meant for the good of our forces?
Centuries have passed since the day I chose him. Our numbers have swelled over the years under my time as leader, and the times have changed. Once, there were arts we dared not dabble in - as per the instruction of the gods who made us - but we have changed since those times. Forbidden as it may be, blood magic has made us so much stronger than before, now nothing can or will stand in our way.
Even so, with this much power...something does not feel right.
Once, being a leader was something I took pride in. Yes, my warriors follow my every command, but the sense of satisfaction is gone. I grow more forgetful lately, too lost in my own musings, trying to figure out what has gone wrong within me. Trariot tells me to take it easy, even a leader must know when to rest and leave things in the hands of his assistants. It seems I’ve come to rely on him more now, his judgement proves to be more sound than mine more often than not.
But no amount of consultation with him can rid me of this sickness of soul, this invisible disease that has come to claim me. My memories and feelings, they drift in and out of my mind like the ebbing waves. Each day I must call Trariot in for his guidance, and each day I end up mindlessly following his whispered suggestions, because in the end, he’s right.
. . .
My name is Xaruma Bosul Hridus.
Hridus? What is that?
Blood drips from between my claws, yet I do not recall hurting myself. The pain is nothing compared to the empty void my mind has become. The dark crimson pooling at my feet takes me back to recollections of days long past, yet the memories blur into a ceaseless mess in my mind’s eye. Something is familiar about the way the blood stains my palm, was there another who did this with me? A blood-oath?
At my feet lies the corpse of a deserter. I do not recall his name, only the look of horror on his face when I lashed out at him. Such treachery cannot be tolerated, it must be rooted out and eradicated before it infects the rest of the troops like a disease. Murmurs of dissent and fear ripple through the ranks of the gathered warriors, but when I look up at them, none dare to meet my gaze. This is how it should be, I muse, they know better than to question my judgement as they once had in the earlier days of my rule.
. . .
My name is Xaruma Bosul.
I am bleeding again.
My arms and shoulders are littered with scratches, the scars of my frustration. Something dark and twisted is writhing in me, but the pain drives it back for the time being. These scars are as much a part of me as the demons in my head that mock me, taunt me to fall as they have into hell. Now they stare at me when I stride past them, no longer replescendent in armour and shining metal - simply a haggard being covered in the marks of my own agony.
How many days has it been? It feels like centuries ago since I last tasted the sweetness of joy. Days blur into weeks, weeks into months, and still I wander this wretched place. My magic, once a gift of the gods, has been corrupted along with my very being. My reflection in the water no longer resembles the demigod I was born as. All I see now are the haunted eyes of a beast staring back at me.
Who is to blame for this? The shadows of my own reflection twist, morphing my face into something nearly unrecognizable, taunt me with wicked whispers. When had it all gone so wrong? I sift through the rumors I’ve heard, the overheard conversations of resentful and frightened soldiers - only one name stands out amongst the rest.
Ah. I see it now.
So he’s the one…?
. . .
My name is Xaruma B-
The hideous screech cuts through my thoughts, I snarl and kick away the twitching body that lies at my feet. Once again, I find myself staring down at claws drenched in deep crimson and even darker stains on the ground around me, the stench of death hangs heavily in the air.
“That’s one traitor dead.” I muse, poking at him just to make sure he’s gone.
Trariot is no more. I don’t need another traitor in my midst, after all.
There is something morbidly comical about the way his limp corpse flops on the ground when I nudge it out of the way. It starts as a quiet snicker, before evolving into maniacal cackling as I hunch over, practically heaving for breath. I can’t help it, it’s too amusing, it bursts from my throat in a fit of crazed laughter that’s impossible to stifle. After all this time, the solution had always simply been within my reach, I’d just never noticed it.
It’s funny, how much lighter my very being is. All these centuries I’ve been chained to my duties as leader, shackled and bound by the burden of my responsibilities. I’ve had to bear the crushing guilt of all the atrocities I’ve committed for the sake of this army for so long that it’s almost a relief to find that weight gone from my shoulders.
No matter. If they have chosen to betray me after all these years of faithful service to them, then so be it. I will take on a new name, a new identity, and crush their rebellion beneath my feet.
I pause.
What is my name?
It escapes me for just a brief moment, before I have it again, though the words seem to slip from my mind the longer I dwell on it.
My name is Xaruma Bosul.
I repeat it over and over, clutching onto the name I’ve known for so long, as if it can stave off the slow corruption of my soul.
I do not want to forget it. It is all I have left.
My name is Xaruma.
I am disappearing. I know this, but I do not know why or how.
Mad laughter bubbles forth even as the tears fall, but I do not understand.
Something horrendous twists within me.
All that I am is unravelling.
I am being undone.
My name is
My name
My
. . .
Umbraax, the mad king, that was what they called him.
Driven insane by the weight of his own demons, so they said. He’d never quite been the same after the fall of Ranadir, and truth be told, neither had most of their warriors. Though immortal, they had not been born without flaws, and time alone was not enough to heal the sickness of soul that had festered over the centuries from their battle against the Shade.
The day Xaruma declared war on his own people was the day it all ended.
Gone were the golden ascended warriors who had once fought bravely to protect the world and its inhabitants. Fallen to grief and the temptation of sin, they resembled the mental and emotional demons that had come to corrupt their souls - dark, twisted beyond belief, and with an insatiable thirst for blood.
The war that ensued from Xaruma’s declaration took many lives and spanned numerous centuries. The earth itself never had a chance to recover from the Shade’s influence, not when the ‘darkin’ - as dragonkind had come to call these immortal abominations - carelessly ravaged the ground beneath their feet in their reckless pursuit of world domination. This later came to be known as the darkin war.
Even after dragonkind had grown to populate most of Sornieth, these darkin still walk the earth of this realm in pursuit of their ultimate goals - in most cases, death and nothing less than the complete destruction of the world. However, they have been known to stay for awhile with those whom they deem worthy of
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