Dramhail
(#50045817)
Level 14 Wildclaw
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.9 m
Wingspan
9.12 m
Weight
532.4 kg
Genetics
Swamp
Python
Python
Algae
Butterfly
Butterfly
Forest
Capsule
Capsule
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 14 Wildclaw
EXP: 452 / 54161
STR
5
AGI
5
DEF
5
QCK
23
INT
43
VIT
5
MND
5
Lineage
Biography
╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮
He dreams that Neptune is a prophet and Jupiter a healer and so wakes up thinking they are more than stars And he cannot tell the difference between a heartbeat and a wave He has a bad, bad sense of time ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ The trail of hoofprints stopped at the mouth of the Blackwater Creek. The prey had taken the plunge into the murky water that collected putrid sludge from the Wasteland and carried it out to the Sea of a Thousand Currents. The sediment was stirred and had not yet settled; a sure sign that the prey's crossing was recent. Dramhail whistled a few short notes, and was met with an enthusiastic bark. A spaniel bounced at his feet before taking off, his nose leading him to the creek's edge. He hesitated, glancing back at Dramhail for reassurance. The wildclaw clicked his tongue. "Go. Hunt." It was enough to embolden the dog, and he gingerly waded into the water. It was warm; warmer than the air around it. And, true to its name, it took on an inky black color when the spaniel's paws struck the layer of rock, sand, and grime that lined the bottom of the creek. The smell was unpleasant, to say the least, but the dog was bred and raised in the Wasteland. He was made for following his nose, and was therefore resistant to repulsive odors. He made it to the other side, with Dramhail striding behind him. His fur was stained with the murk from the creek. (It would take ages to get that pigment out.) The trail continued on the far side of the creek, and the pup bolted into the forest. Dramhail took notice that the hoofprints also continued, interspersed with his hound's pawprints. A flurry of barking drew his attention to the forest. He readied his bow and quickened his pace. After four years of hunting, had he finally found the prize? The Glade Stag was elusive, and had so far evaded every attempt at bringing it down. The wildclaw pondered what he would do with the pelt once Rotclaw had her mages drain the magic. It would fetch a fair price on the market, or he could make a shawl out of it for Nocolith… His thoughts were cut short when he reached the clearing where his faithful companion harried the stag. It stood motionless, and although Dramhail could not see its expression behind the ceramic mask it wore - if it even had a face to express emotion upon - he could tell it was not fear that paralyzed it. It was a sensation all too familiar to him: curiosity. Insatiable, naive curiosity. It turned its head to meet the hunter's gaze with a sort of mind-invasive magic rather than sight. Dramhail froze, a chill coming over him. He could see through the stag's view, staring at himself. His face was nothing but a bare skull, as expressionless as the mask of his prey, yet somehow still projecting a sense of peril. A sense of imminent doom invaded his mind, and the deer played for him its own memory of every creature that tried to hunt it. Each one, it had cursed with a skeletal face; a mask of death. Forever they would walk the earth with a mark of failure, and their minds would be haunted by the animals they hunted.
---
Dramhail woke up with a splitting headache in the medical hut in his home settlement of Blackwater Crossing. His dog sat at the foot of the bedroll, never taking his eyes off of his master. The hunter blinked at the harsh daylight shining in through the windows. When his eyes adjusted, it became clear that the medic, Darwin, would not look at him. The guardian dared not gaze upon Dramhail, as if some ill fate would befall him. "How long was I out? What happened?" Darwin cleared his throat. "Two days," he muttered. "...What happened?" Dramhail repeated. Darwin hesitated to respond. Finally, he gazed upon Dramhail's skeletal face, feeling light-headed as he did so. "The mages are working on researching a cure for your… condition…" He averted his eyes again, seemingly worried that staring into the eyes of the clan's hunter for too long was like staring into the eyes of death itself. "What condi--" "Dramhail!" A familiar voice pierced the air, and Nocolith rushed to her husband's side. She took his hand in hers, and with her free hand, cupped his bony cheek. "Who did this to you? Does it hurt?" Dramhail stared at his wife, still in shock from his ordeal, and in denial about the event he had assumed was a bad dream. "Did wha…?" It finally hit him. He hesitantly reached up to touch his face, and felt dry bone rather than leathery skin. It wasn't a dream. His throat tightened and he managed to croak out three words:
"The Glade Stag."
bio by Namira
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This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
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This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
Exalting Dramhail to the service of the Plaguebringer 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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