Allister

Allister's Data Storage

¤Necromancer, been using magic since she was a little hatchling
¤Married to Kiierz, currently a 'widow'
¤Once her husband met his untimely end, she brought him back and refuses to leave his side
¤She is a noble dragon, rather high class and well mannered
¤She isn't too fond of Damien, but can't step out of place for fear of losing her husband a second time
¤Stats
-Magic: ×××××
-Strength: ×
-Speed: ×××
-Intelligence: ××××
-Compassion: ×

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Lore written by DireDragonar

A dark female Skydancer clad in bright blue hums as she traipses up the stone stairs that are carved into a scarred hill in the Wastelands. Very Roman bas-relief-esque. She’s humming “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”, her voice echoing in the otherwise silent air. Her name is Allister. Others know her as the Widower Witch or the Blue Lady. Some go as far as to call her a killer. Allister knows she is not. In fact, she brings the dead back to life.

The Skydancer makes it to the top of the hill, exhaling softly. There is a humble shack there, made of branches and molding wood. It is her home. At night, she can see the sunset from atop the hill. She can see the stars. Allister steps inside her house, claws as delicate and silent as a mouse’s whiskers. The shack itself is rather plain. A bookshelf clings to a thin wall; a well-worn table is shoved against the opposite wall. A straw bed sits without legs, next to a dresser holding a pot full of week-old tea. A cracked mirror hangs crookedly over the drawer, a thin line going through the middle of the sheet of old glass.

Allister goes to the fireplace, setting the wood ablaze with a flick of her trimmed claws. The shack is just a front. She is a noble dragon and would never actually live in this dump. Everyone knows her as a widow and Allister never corrects them. They already think her a witch. The Skydancer goes to the straw bed, flipping it up and against the weary walls of the shack. A large panel is underneath the space that the bed once occupied. With another flick of her claws, Allister opens the panel. A rush of cold, damp air greets her as she floats gently down into the tunnel.

The hill where Allister’s shack rests is hollow inside. A stone castle is carved from the underground rock, surrounded by a thin stream of stony water, coming out from a mysterious tunnel. The necromancer continues floating, descending steadily. With a near-silent thump, she lands on the stone bridge to her castle. All at once, torches flare, illuminating the castle grounds with blue fire. It is an ominous scene and Allister loves it. The rock was sculpted by her magic, the water summoned because of her call. This castle is all her own, and her husband’s of course.

With an air of grace, she steps through the gates to her stony castle. Easily, with practiced ease, she manuevers through the dark corridors into the grand hall. Her husband’s favorite spot. As soon as she steps in, two sharp, cunning eyes from above meet hers.

It’s her husband, the ex-leader Skydancer Kiierz. He lounges on a hammock high above the ground. A dish of impeccably grilled salmon sits in his claws as he lies on his back idly. “Ah. You’re back. Where have you been?”

Allister floats up towards her husband, taking a piece of salmon off the plate daintily. “Out. Damien is getting suspicious. We’re spending too much time here. It is getting far more difficult to mask all our secrets. He is turning dragons against us. I had to make an appearance somewhere.”

Niierz scoffed, head lolliing back languidly. “Oh, who cares what that old rat thinks about us? Who cares what any of them think? We can hide out in this castle you kindly built for us forever! They’ll never find it. Darling, you don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

The necromancer isn’t satisfied. “You’ve already died once, Kiierz. What if you die again?”

Kiierz, the revived husband grins wickedly. “That’s what I have you for, isn’t it, my dear?”

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Poem written by yeezy13

Shattered hearts and broken tears
Wailing cries in hopeless vain
The dark awaits the dead

Grief to rage, anger to calm
Skillful hands practice well
Reading by midnight, a candle there
And by daylight, a perfect facade

A loved one gone and cold
Her husband quietly awaits
The day he once controlled
The night he broods, silent and grim

Raising the dead, no easy task
But she accomplishes it all
Hiding, pretending, waiting
For the day they'd rise again

An innocent killer, born to defy
Hidden in tunnels of stone
A deep castle made of fury
Her fate is forever etched there[\center]

Art by Taswell