Psittacidae » Hibernal Den » Derelict

Derelict

(#55583938)

Derelict Red; "Our Arms, Our Rule"

ThunderOfHooves

Nightmare

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

7.38 m

Wingspan

5.38 m

Weight

647.36 kg

Genetics

Brick
Lionfish

Strawberry
Noxtide

Honeydew
Glimmer

Hatchday

Sep 27, 2019
(4 years)

Breed

Adult
Mirror

Eye Type

Plague
Rare

Level 1 Mirror

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

none

Biography

DERELICT
The Sword of the Contagion

"Oh great Lady of the Lake, who churns the contagion, here we honour thy name. Grant us thy favour, and give us thy blessing. Hear us, so that we may praise you. Test us, so that we may grow."

Olid says:
"When Derelict spoke, the world seemed to pause at his words. As if it had been following one path and now branched off in another direction. In a hundred years, a thousand, this moment will still be etched in my mind. I would tell my children, my grandchildren. That right then and there was when it all changed."

Covin says:
“He gave himself to the burning, the exhaustion and the pain. He did not let them consume him, but allowed them to wash over him. Through him. Did not permit them to bend or deter him. He was the rock against which such things crashed. He was something old becoming something new, a lord amongst commoners. It was not a title born, but earned.”

My Domain

Derelict Red

The travellers were bone-tired by the time they reached the roots of the Rotrock Rim. Their travels had led them though many leagues of the Rainless Wastes. The weak and the frail had fallen along the way, with only the cruel sun to bear witness. Those that remain in the haggard band were hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of rest.

Here, at the Rotrock Rim, life thrived amongst the tangle of roots and thorns. Their destination was finally within sight.

So they began their slow climb. They passed by the territories of Clans young and old, instinctively being drawn higher, and deeper. Drawn towards the epicentre of plague power: The Wyrmwound.

As they crossed over the ridge of the Rotrock Rim, they took a moment to gaze in awe at that great pit. It cast its bright orange glow far out into its surroundings, dulling and tainting even the sun's light.

There, at the edge of the Wyrmwound, in the hard earth, they found a large red stone. Embedded within it was a sword. Along its blade they read its name. Excalibur.

The band eyed it warily, for they had come far, and seen much. There was danger hidden in every crevice, in every shadow of every stone.

But night was fast approaching, and even their strongest could travel no longer. They decided to rest until the next orange Wyrmwound sunrise, and send a smaller group to travel ahead and scout. To make sure no danger lurks in the shadows of the night.

Amongst this band was Derelict, a devoted infection mage who had long dreamt of this journey. He and his companions travelled in the waning light, until they arrived at Wyrmwound's edge.

This was the heart of Plague dominion on earth, the heart of their faith and power. Fervour gripped his being. He took out his ceremonial goblet and dipped it into the crater, scooping up a sample of the disease-filled liquid. The substance hissed in the cup as the festering contagion within writhed like a living thing.

When he returned to his travelling band, he stood before them and before the sword in the stone. He clasped the goblet in his flayed hands, which had become marked with pox and boils after touching the spillover of the Wyrmwound's contents.

"Oh great Lady of the Lake, who churns the contagion, here we honour thy name. Grant us thy favour, and give us thy blessing. Hear us, so that we may praise you. Test us, so that we may grow."

And he dipped his head and tilted his cup, and from that sacred water he quenched his thirst.

His throat burned as the thick, gelatinous liquid travelled down to his gut. The pain was immediate and overwhelming. The acid ate at his flesh from the inside out, expanding and rising up to the skin until the flesh of his body bubbled with liquid agony. The goblet fell from his claws.

The earth around him blackened into tar, and tendrils exploded outwards in a spiral that wrapped all within its grasping hands. They rose and rose until they formed rings, all around the site where Derelict had done the unthinkable.

The contagion wrapped around him, enveloping him in its burning embrace.

Some dragons scattered, but the most devoted stood and bore witness. Twelve dragons remained where they stood, and were swallowed within the encasing growths.

When the dust settled and the explosion of unknown things finished their rampant growth, great walls of thorns and tendrils had formed. Twelve giant, twisted trees now stand where the other dragons had stood. They formed a circle around Derelict, and around the stone that held the sword.

The thorns that sprouted from Derelict's form stretched three hundred and three metres to either side of him. Six-hundred-and-six by six-hundred-and-six meters of land.

Derelict, his flesh now a mass of writhing things, grasped the sword by its hilt, and drew it forth from the stone.

"The Plaguebringer has spoken to me. Our Lady of the Lake. Her blessing she has given us, her land she has carved for us. At journey has come to its end. Here, is where we will make our home."

And then he raised his sword high.

"The blessing of the Lady now rests in me! She will guide me, as I guide you. By the blade of the lady, we will carve a place for ourselves!"

So came Twelvetrees, six-hundred-and-six by six-hundred-and-six meters, centred around Excalibur's stone.

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Exalting Derelict 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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