Frowzy
(#50942840)
The Red Devil
Familiar
Spirit of Plague
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Mirror
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.77 m
Wingspan
4.17 m
Weight
391 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Piebald
Piebald
Sanguine
Paint
Paint
Blood
Smirch
Smirch
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Mirror
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
8
DEF
6
QCK
8
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
5
Biography
FROWZY
The Red Devil
Instinct is undaunted by terror, unchained by logic. It is the path from which all other paths diverge.
|
 Aelig says: “Mirror packs are actually so uncomfortable, it's like bees are crawling inside my skin. It's a sense of oneness so complete it's almost a sound, a grim buzz. One of us … One of us … One of us…. Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains. It's like tasting a feeling and the feeling is power.”  Vitiligo says: “Many homicidal lunatics are very quiet unassuming people. Delightful fellows. I don’t feel this one is going to be of that kind. And you must remember that anyone who's mentally unhinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength. A madman has all the advantages on his side. He's twice as cunning as anyone sane can be.” |
    Frowzy  
|
In the beginning, there was nothing. Then, everything. From chaos, came creation. From discord, came life. Within the disorder of Plague, he was born. All things were born of chaos and all things will end in chaos. He knew nothing but this inconstant constant. It was an instinctual understanding that required no learning, a truth as sure as the stars light the night sky. Structure was an illusion forced by uncertain hands—there was no grand plan nor great evolution, only a temporary existence upon an ever-changing cosmos. Such was just the way of things. He was never some innocent impressionable hatchling. He had always known exactly what he was. It was as if his existence was a straight arrow shot from a bow: Simple, vicious, and its outcome predetermined. He was born of the battlefield, with sharp claws capable of rending flesh and bone. He was a bird of prey wrapped in slick scales, bringing death in a flash of red. He was wind and he was silence, without compromise or diplomacy. It was kill, or be killed. Eat, or be eaten. Master, or be mastered. It was the law of the Plague Flight, and so it was his law. He was born from the womb of death, where the jagged land itself was scarred. His beginning foreshadowed his end. When he fought, it was without thought or contemplation. It was an honest affair. Face to face, eye to eye, claw against claw, with nowhere for foes to flee. When he flapped his wings and rained the venom of the grizzled lands and sordid wastes down onto others, he did not do so out of a desire to destroy. He did not think of abstract things like mercy or cruelty. He did not know of philosophy, or beauty, or justice. He was merely an embodiment of the chaotic world, a world that created and destroyed in equal measure, acting out of instinct to defend itself. He did not seek out conquest or battle. In fact, he sought very little. He had no desires or dreams for the future. He lived only in the current moment. Pure, undaunted, living in the most primeval sense of the word. He knew of joy only as the joy of running in a pack. Family to him was the group of nameless mirror dragons, who howled together with him in the hunt. The same thirst and thrill was embedded within all of them, a bond of blood that tied them to each other. The individuals themselves did not matter. They died as they lived. The pack drifted, evaporated, divided, spawned, and breathed. Only the shared understanding between them mattered: That simple kind of knowledge that needed no mind or thought or reason. They did not speak to each other, yet in the pack there was perfect harmony. They were him and he was them, they were of one mind and one soul. There was no doubt or conflict, no time wasted, no speeches or rallies or promises of glory—There was victory or there was death. This to him was joy. He followed the path that unravelled before him as he went, with no decisions or planning. If he was hungry, he ate. If he was tired, he slept. Each movement a natural continuation of the one before, every step carried the weight of destiny. He was an echo of the untold generations reflected down through the ages. He was each dragon born after him, and each dragon that lived before him. He was a tiny piece of the soul of the living world—a passing anomaly of order conjured by a dreaming universe, fading in and out of the collective consciousness. Now, in this very moment, he was alive, and that was enough. He needed nothing else. |
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Frowzy 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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