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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
21.77 m
Wingspan
16.91 m
Weight
9410.29 kg
Genetics
Azure
Starmap
Starmap
Spruce
Constellation
Constellation
Moon
Opal
Opal
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Imperial
Max Level
STR
96
AGI
32
DEF
13
QCK
55
INT
10
VIT
30
MND
14
Biography
| __._ |
 Vengeance stewing for a long time, suppressed, choked and throttled down on every turn, was a dangerous thing. Too explosive in nature to be kept silent for too long. And it had been coming for a long, long time. If it was justified or overly excessive however, was another thing, a whole different topic no one dared to touch out of fear of waking sleeping beasts once more. It was however, the wrong target this long held grudge exploded upon. Not the Empress, not the Emperor. Not even the first born Heir. They came in silently, suddenly, no warning other than the baring of fangs and flashing of claws, blades drawn suddenly. One moment, he had been out and about, enjoying the sunny brightness of his mother’s white empire, the next he found himself in a pool of his own blood, screaming, squirming, crying like a child for his mother. And she came, like a glorious goddess dragging her veil of golden light after her, she descended from heavens, fury and wrath and motherly concern. As he laid resting on his sickbed, the White Empire fell into darkness, for the first time since she had taken hold of it, as his father combed through the ranks, the streets, the houses like a cloud of locusts, a trail of darkest smoke. His roses bloomed no more, grew thick, black thorns instead as they choked the life out of any kind of remaining plants, cutting whoever dared to touch them. And when dusk broke once more, when the sun reappeared, his mother wielded final judgment like the Reaper’s scythe, slaying souls and mortals and demons alike. Even all the way up, in his tower, he could hear their agonized screams, scorched by his mother’s blinding light and falling, crumbling into nothing more than hands full of flaky dust. Yet, this was only the beginning for him, his recovery slow and downtrodden by anguish of mental kind, rooted deeply into his mind, he barely dared to leave the room in which he was hidden away. Wingless, scarred and hurting from so much more than the wounds marring his flesh, he was isolated, marked by a rage he had not conjured up. A rage that had begun to boil long before he was even born. Isolation did not suit him, he wilted and withered like the thorny vines spouted from his father’s rare fit of wrath. His mother tended to him, body and mind alike, nursed his injuries until only the jagged, pale patches of missing scales remained on his skin and then, there was no more chance to hide. He did not like the eternal twilight of his father’s realm, even though it acted as his safety blanket, he despised the whispering, glowing pit in the Throne room, the slithering creatures born from it’s deep, dark maws. Maybe it was because he loved the care of his mother or he adored the sharpness of the light, either way he felt misplaced in the darkness. The gift of his blood only added further salt into the wound, what good was it to be able to never die ? To live but never feel the wind’s caress anymore? The phantom pain of his missing wings spread to his shoulders, his spine, echoed in his skull like a war drum. He was alone. Wingless. The scarred Prince. . . . ”It hurts so much, mother”, a pained whimper, the fading whine of a scared child, he barely managed to keep open his eyes, red from blood, red as his scales, as the pool of liquid warmth spreading all around his curled up, mangled form like a halo of macabre crimson. So cold, how could golden sunlight be so cold on his skin? Something ran down the length of his face, mixing, mingling with the red. “Mother?” Calling out again, he reached out, she was radiant, bright and warm, catching his hand with hers as he started to shake, to crumble and fall, into blackness and into coldness, nothing remained but the pain, even in unconsciousness, he was chased by the icy, searing pain, so hot it made him freeze from the inside out. “Please wake up...wake up, dear..”, angelic and soft, sweet and breaking from tears. “I will find them.”, cold, distant, yet haunting in the dark beauty mixing with the male voice. His ever distant, aloof father finally showing a hint of emotion. Was he dreaming? Was he dead? From a bird’s perspective he watched the room, the people inside of it, he dark and all devouring, she shining and bright, broken in her beauty. And between the two of them, he saw a writhing mess of blue and white, tainted with crimson. “Find them. Find them and bring them to me, Titaneaus.”, his mother’s voice became the sun in midsummer, searing hot and unrelenting in its strength. Falling back down into darkness, his father’s reply became mumbled, jumbled nonsense he could no longer decipher. “For our son, I will punish them!” . . The masquerade had a long, lively story within White City, it was anticipated and beloved by the inhabitants, the few days in the year when night would fall without his father’s influence. When everyone was donning masks to hide who they were. When everyone became someone different and old grudges, pains or worries didn’t exist. So far, he had only watched, too scared, too ashamed for his bleeding wounds stretching over his back to join. Too afraid yet another knife to be plunged in his back. And when he finally dared, when he took up a mask and a costume with artificial feathers that looked so much like his own, no one bat an eyelash at him. He was yet another face in the ocean of masks, another participant and nothing more. Hiding and edging along in the shadows, he was perfectly content with hiding at the edges of the dancefloors and behind his glass of wine. Maybe he had drunk a little bit too much, maybe not, either way, there was something special about the boy that made him stand out of the crowd. They stroke up a small, sweet conversation that escalated far too quickly. Before Oboro knew it, they were dancing, running and giggling like children as they ‘stole’ from the lavish banquet, sipping the wine straight from the bottle, feet dangling over the edge of the palace’s roof. Nameless, anonymous, it could have ended there, never to be seen again until the next masquerade. And yet, on the last day of the festivity, he found himself unable to quench curiosity. Desired to put aside the masks and facades and see the lasting truth. He was willing, the boy was not, at least not at first, hesitant, nervous, scared. . . ”You are hiding your identity for a few days, but I hide everything that I am all days of the year, hiding the appearance of a true monster.”, the boy’s eyes were big and golden, fearful and too wet under the light of the stars, hands shaking so badly he had to put aside the half empty bottle of wine. Gloves with metal claws plucked at a lavish costume and Oboro had to push down the desire to reach out, reach out and peel the fabric off with his teeth. Lay bare no doubt porcelain skin. As pale and pristine as the mask his golden eyed companion was wearing. “I…” “Please? I promise, I won’t cast you aside.”, a monster was little more than a creature whose beauty fell out of the crowd thinking. A monster was nothing but a misunderstood opportunity. Reaching out, he tried to quell the disappointment upon the other flinching back, and changed his ways instead. “I will take off my mask first, alright?” Dark red eyes, sun kissed skin, strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, a majestic nose, he was a prince through and through, his father’s son. Framed by the dark halo of his hair, he leaned closer, waiting, as if goldeneye was little more than a wild beast he tried to tame. Just a little bit more, he sensed, just an inch more. “You can push me off this roof if I break my word.”, his words seemed to melt down the last of resistance and with a final, shaking exhale, he had won. The boy’s words were sad, final as he muttered that it had been nice to have a friend while it lasted. As the mask came off, he saw that he had been right, porcelain pale, pristine skin, sharp features and even sharper fangs, too many too count. Fear morphed strange features into yet another mask and it only softened under his lips as he pressed affection and love onto those strange features, kissed away the terror threatening to rise. A monster, maybe. But this would be his beloved monster. 
| ___ |
code & assets by archaic #19153
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