Tarnish
(#56210368)
Level 1 Fae
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Female Fae
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
0.97 m
Wingspan
1.06 m
Weight
2.37 kg
Genetics
Tarnish
Slime
Slime
Tarnish
Sludge
Sludge
Tarnish
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Fae
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
5
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
6
INT
8
VIT
5
MND
8
Lineage
Biography
Time trickles with none left to hold,
Flames blaze and dance, eerily bold
Where ruins converge into behemoth of secrets,
She rots with bones failing;
only her vision saves her.
She has wished before, although she would never voice the truth she is unwilling to face, that she isn't herself. She hates the mutated eyes that pockmark her form, evidence of the uncontrolled disease driven onto her body. She resides in the solitude of her moss-draped temple, hidden in the shadows of the bayous, where no one ever ventures. Secret. Her failure is unknown, even to those who flourish in the living, breathing Wildlands.
The shadows are eerily quiet here. Crickets are silenced. The incessant hum of the insects within the Wildlands is gone. There is only silence, as if the mere memories of what had once happened here had driven life away.
Her temple lies in overgrown ruins, the once-pristine marble bronzed with the relentless passing of time. Ivy snakes around the marble pillars. Ghostly lights gleam within, dancing torchlight that shifts from blue to golden. Her fire is everlasting, eternal. She may not be a Necromancer, but she is a sorceress.
If only she could be both.
The temple is quiet; a breath will echo like a soft wind. Tapestries fade in the labyrinth of marble walls; the splendor once cherished, then abandoned, is only a dull, tarnished shine. The temple is broken.
In the depths of the temple, her shrine of the Plaguebringer still stands. The deity's effigy is in ruins, crumbling into oblivion, and yet the shifting glow of the torchlight is almost otherworldly upon the decaying marble. It is as if the era-old marble effigy lives; as if it has a soul within its dying body. Like the Plaguebringer watches from the tarnished ruby eyes.
The Priestess stands in the shadows. One would scream at the sight of the thirteen eyes pockmarking her deteriorating wings. A mask hides her dilapidated head. They do not need to see the skull where her face once was. Her wings decay; time has taken its toll. She lives still, even as her wings become useless, and preserves her prophecies in ink. They will live as she has: rotting for eras.
Before her, a hearth crackles with fire, ice-blue and golden, dancing among the embers. The visions within the ever-shifting flames are mysterious and cryptic, foretelling eras of war, eras of a quiet world. Death, life.
The Many-Eyed Priestess lives because of her visions. But now, they cannot save her from her fate.
How cruel it had been, how debilitating, to be marked a failure from birth. Her mother and father, both Ghouls, had left her with nothing but bitter memories and their curse.
How desperate she had been, to think that she could flee from her heritage. To think that her very blood did not doom her to this fate.
How foolish she had been, to think that the Plaguebringer would have mercy that she did not deserve.
How stupid, to think that she had the slightest glimmer of hope. How stupid, to think that she could tinker with fate. How stupid, to think that the curse visible upon her very wings, the wings in the hue of tarnished brass, could be broken.
"The Plague will never accept her. She's a stunted little Fae, born under the curse of two Ghouls - who abandoned her - to fail. She cannot survive. Why would she, when her tarnished wings speak the story themselves?"
On another day, the whispers would not have hurt her. She would have spitefully smiled and went on, her soul of iron. But she paused in the shadow of a crumbled ruin this time. They think I will die? The Plaguebringer would not let her perish! She had worshipped the deity with the utmost dedication for almost a decade. She had sacrificed stolen, disease-ridden corpses in her hearth, for a decade. How would She let this "stunted little Fae" die now, when she had proven her faith more than any Necromancer?
She knew that perhaps her dedication was fanatical. But that was what the Mother deserved! Fanatical worship, faith that would never yield. Have you not seen me? Have you not seen who I am? If she spoke, her voice would be a feverish shriek. Yet she was silent as she listened.
"She's cursed to fail. How would her psychopathic worship save her?" The scorn! How dare they carelessly insult her and the Mother both? "The stunted little Fae may wish differently, but she is a Ghoul, and she will be forever."
"Skies know the Plaguebringer isn't so stupid as to accept Tarnish."
You will not insult Her like that!
"You slander the Mother and think there will be no punishment. You ridicule, insult, defile, and cannot predict that there will be worse repercussions than the wrath of a 'stunted little Fae'." Shock twisted the carelessly scornful faces of the whisperers as she emerged; they had not seen her, then? "But if you cannot silence yourselves - if you cannot do it yourself, I will do it for you." She whispered a spell and tilted her head in satisfaction as the Faes staggered back, shrieking.
They stared at her, terrified, for they could not speak. Their tongues were no more. Then, they turned around and fled.
I promised to silence you myself, if you could not. No one defiles the Mother and escapes unharmed.
Even in the Hewn City, she had lived by herself. Her home was a small, crumbled husk of an edifice, in a small, ominously silent forum that no one ever came close to. Perhaps even the whisperers, who had spoken of her with such scorn - before she had silenced them - were scared of the "stunted little Fae". The Fae they had named Tarnish, because of her curse, the tarnished-brass hue of her wings. She liked it silent; the only presence within this edifice would be her own. No witnesses.
Her hearth danced to life as she walked inside this time. If one were to witness this scene, it would not be the Fae, nor even the bones in the hearth, that would shock them. It would be the dead Mirror that wafted in behind her. His eyes, glowing eerily in the dancing firelight, stared into the unknown. Who was he? She did not know, nor was she here to disentomb his dark history. The past is in the past. What this Mirror did to be murdered is of no relevance to the purpose he will serve in death.
Tarnish turned to stand before the hearth. Her dark eyes shimmered as she stared at the husk, and allowed herself to wonder whether the Plaguebringer would think her sacrifice worthy. Then, painstakingly, she lowered the Mirror into the hearth.
The flames rose at once, like a demon from hibernation. They entertwined as they snaked into the shadows above, a column of flames that roared and crackled with red-hot embers.
Tarnish withdrew with a hiss of pain as one of the red-hot embers darted from the depths of the heart and smoldered into the flesh beneath her eye. The agony was gone as fast as it had come, and she stared back into the column of flames, deafened by the roar and blinded by the relentless glow, while the fire raced down the dead Mirror's carcass and scalded his bones.
She crept forward, emboldened now; stared into the flames. There it was! A vision shimmered like an illusion in the hearth: the Wyrmwound. Jaws gaped from the edge of the boiling cauldron of disease, white fangs rising into the putrid air. There is my destiny. Her heartbeat drummed in excitement with every twist of fire, as the flames climbed into the darkness of the dome overhead. Now is the time, the time to prove myself!
With a whisper from the Fae, the fire dissolved into embers, and as she left the edifice without a glance back at her old home, even those flickered into the hells to which evil was condemned.
She flew with whispered prayers as the land of Ruins intermingled with the shadows that lurked in the world beyond. Mother, I will welcome the blessing of your contamination. I will channel it in my very veins. Mother, let me serve you with more dedication than any Necromancer. Let me embody your voice and soul. My physique is that of a Ghoul, but such delicate labels can be overcome. Please, Mother, let me.
The Scarred Wasteland, the heart of Sornieth, loomed in the distance. It was pockmarked with land that lived, breathed, pulsated; air that churned with disease; the bones of those who had been weak, who had not survived, surrounded by murky waters that lurked with the most hideously beautiful creations of the Mother herself. Tarnish stared down at the Homeland in wonder, and reveled in the unrivaled beauty of it: life, death, survival. There is the Wyrmwound, from which we were birthed. From which the Mother had said, "Take. Take. This world shall be yours." And the Fae knew it was hers, her destiny clutched in her hand.
This world shall be mine. She realized this not with excitement nor greed, but purpose.
The scarred land shifted beneath her as she descended upon the Wyrmwound - as if, she knew with excitement, as if the Mother had witnessed her arrival and responded to her touch! Emboldened by this, she crept forward to stand between two of the white teeth that loomed over her, taller than any Imperial.
It is my time, it is my time, it is time. She waited and prayed.
Tarnish knew when the contamination crept in. There was indifference, a numbness to the world, before the disease sliced like knives, cut into her veins, fire in her very blood and soul. It was as if every breath was agony, and as if every breath rattled her bones. "Mother," she prayed, or shrieked, she did not know which. "Mother, bestow me with your power; I must serve you, I must do it, I must -"
She screamed, the pain was like a knife in her skull, she could only stand helplessly, let the sickness take hold. "Have you not seen my dedication? My sacrifices?" she shrieked.
No, no, no.
The pain receded. She drew in a shaky breath that shuddered inside her chest, and then the disease was back, worse than before, and she fell. I will not lose! She wanted to scream, yet her lips could not move but for the torture, the agony.
The demons cannot win. Please, please - she hissed in desperation as pain clawed at every limb. The Plaguebringer would not have mercy, even for the most dedicated of servants? I should have known that the Mother was fair, that only those who are worthy will survive. Am I not worthy? Has my devotion condemned me? Perhaps her destiny was truly beyond reach. "Her tarnished wings speak the story themselves." Was that the truth, that her very blood was cursed?
She screamed in desperation but I am dying.
Had her pores swollen over her body? In her pain, she was under the illusion that there were spaces in her flesh.
They were not illusions. The tears in her eyes could not hide her punishment, and there were eyes, eyes were flesh had once been, thirteen of them on her wings - tarnished brass, as they said; once a Ghoul, always a Ghoul. The sickness had become a hideous mutation. Grotesque. Deformed. She wailed. "Mother, I have failed! But I want you to know that I still am devoted to you only, your cause is mine to uphold! I will be faithful forever!"
"Forever?"
"Yes!" she shrieked, in desperation. Was this burning agony acid?
"My trust is fickle, foolish one."
I don't want to die, I don't want to die. "I promise, I promise," she choked. "I will serve you as you wish, for eternity. I will be your eyes and your vision!"
And then the sickness left her.
"We do not know whether the story of the Many-Eyed Priestess is myth or history. But they say she lives where she once did still. They say she will bow down in her temple until the end of time; immortal, timeless, forever with her visions and her hearth. Cursed, doomed, to serve forever."
Flames blaze and dance, eerily bold
Where ruins converge into behemoth of secrets,
She rots with bones failing;
only her vision saves her.
servitude
She has wished before, although she would never voice the truth she is unwilling to face, that she isn't herself. She hates the mutated eyes that pockmark her form, evidence of the uncontrolled disease driven onto her body. She resides in the solitude of her moss-draped temple, hidden in the shadows of the bayous, where no one ever ventures. Secret. Her failure is unknown, even to those who flourish in the living, breathing Wildlands.
The shadows are eerily quiet here. Crickets are silenced. The incessant hum of the insects within the Wildlands is gone. There is only silence, as if the mere memories of what had once happened here had driven life away.
Her temple lies in overgrown ruins, the once-pristine marble bronzed with the relentless passing of time. Ivy snakes around the marble pillars. Ghostly lights gleam within, dancing torchlight that shifts from blue to golden. Her fire is everlasting, eternal. She may not be a Necromancer, but she is a sorceress.
If only she could be both.
The temple is quiet; a breath will echo like a soft wind. Tapestries fade in the labyrinth of marble walls; the splendor once cherished, then abandoned, is only a dull, tarnished shine. The temple is broken.
In the depths of the temple, her shrine of the Plaguebringer still stands. The deity's effigy is in ruins, crumbling into oblivion, and yet the shifting glow of the torchlight is almost otherworldly upon the decaying marble. It is as if the era-old marble effigy lives; as if it has a soul within its dying body. Like the Plaguebringer watches from the tarnished ruby eyes.
The Priestess stands in the shadows. One would scream at the sight of the thirteen eyes pockmarking her deteriorating wings. A mask hides her dilapidated head. They do not need to see the skull where her face once was. Her wings decay; time has taken its toll. She lives still, even as her wings become useless, and preserves her prophecies in ink. They will live as she has: rotting for eras.
Before her, a hearth crackles with fire, ice-blue and golden, dancing among the embers. The visions within the ever-shifting flames are mysterious and cryptic, foretelling eras of war, eras of a quiet world. Death, life.
The Many-Eyed Priestess lives because of her visions. But now, they cannot save her from her fate.
How cruel it had been, how debilitating, to be marked a failure from birth. Her mother and father, both Ghouls, had left her with nothing but bitter memories and their curse.
How desperate she had been, to think that she could flee from her heritage. To think that her very blood did not doom her to this fate.
How foolish she had been, to think that the Plaguebringer would have mercy that she did not deserve.
How stupid, to think that she had the slightest glimmer of hope. How stupid, to think that she could tinker with fate. How stupid, to think that the curse visible upon her very wings, the wings in the hue of tarnished brass, could be broken.
"The Plague will never accept her. She's a stunted little Fae, born under the curse of two Ghouls - who abandoned her - to fail. She cannot survive. Why would she, when her tarnished wings speak the story themselves?"
On another day, the whispers would not have hurt her. She would have spitefully smiled and went on, her soul of iron. But she paused in the shadow of a crumbled ruin this time. They think I will die? The Plaguebringer would not let her perish! She had worshipped the deity with the utmost dedication for almost a decade. She had sacrificed stolen, disease-ridden corpses in her hearth, for a decade. How would She let this "stunted little Fae" die now, when she had proven her faith more than any Necromancer?
She knew that perhaps her dedication was fanatical. But that was what the Mother deserved! Fanatical worship, faith that would never yield. Have you not seen me? Have you not seen who I am? If she spoke, her voice would be a feverish shriek. Yet she was silent as she listened.
"She's cursed to fail. How would her psychopathic worship save her?" The scorn! How dare they carelessly insult her and the Mother both? "The stunted little Fae may wish differently, but she is a Ghoul, and she will be forever."
"Skies know the Plaguebringer isn't so stupid as to accept Tarnish."
You will not insult Her like that!
"You slander the Mother and think there will be no punishment. You ridicule, insult, defile, and cannot predict that there will be worse repercussions than the wrath of a 'stunted little Fae'." Shock twisted the carelessly scornful faces of the whisperers as she emerged; they had not seen her, then? "But if you cannot silence yourselves - if you cannot do it yourself, I will do it for you." She whispered a spell and tilted her head in satisfaction as the Faes staggered back, shrieking.
They stared at her, terrified, for they could not speak. Their tongues were no more. Then, they turned around and fled.
I promised to silence you myself, if you could not. No one defiles the Mother and escapes unharmed.
Even in the Hewn City, she had lived by herself. Her home was a small, crumbled husk of an edifice, in a small, ominously silent forum that no one ever came close to. Perhaps even the whisperers, who had spoken of her with such scorn - before she had silenced them - were scared of the "stunted little Fae". The Fae they had named Tarnish, because of her curse, the tarnished-brass hue of her wings. She liked it silent; the only presence within this edifice would be her own. No witnesses.
Her hearth danced to life as she walked inside this time. If one were to witness this scene, it would not be the Fae, nor even the bones in the hearth, that would shock them. It would be the dead Mirror that wafted in behind her. His eyes, glowing eerily in the dancing firelight, stared into the unknown. Who was he? She did not know, nor was she here to disentomb his dark history. The past is in the past. What this Mirror did to be murdered is of no relevance to the purpose he will serve in death.
Tarnish turned to stand before the hearth. Her dark eyes shimmered as she stared at the husk, and allowed herself to wonder whether the Plaguebringer would think her sacrifice worthy. Then, painstakingly, she lowered the Mirror into the hearth.
The flames rose at once, like a demon from hibernation. They entertwined as they snaked into the shadows above, a column of flames that roared and crackled with red-hot embers.
Tarnish withdrew with a hiss of pain as one of the red-hot embers darted from the depths of the heart and smoldered into the flesh beneath her eye. The agony was gone as fast as it had come, and she stared back into the column of flames, deafened by the roar and blinded by the relentless glow, while the fire raced down the dead Mirror's carcass and scalded his bones.
She crept forward, emboldened now; stared into the flames. There it was! A vision shimmered like an illusion in the hearth: the Wyrmwound. Jaws gaped from the edge of the boiling cauldron of disease, white fangs rising into the putrid air. There is my destiny. Her heartbeat drummed in excitement with every twist of fire, as the flames climbed into the darkness of the dome overhead. Now is the time, the time to prove myself!
With a whisper from the Fae, the fire dissolved into embers, and as she left the edifice without a glance back at her old home, even those flickered into the hells to which evil was condemned.
She flew with whispered prayers as the land of Ruins intermingled with the shadows that lurked in the world beyond. Mother, I will welcome the blessing of your contamination. I will channel it in my very veins. Mother, let me serve you with more dedication than any Necromancer. Let me embody your voice and soul. My physique is that of a Ghoul, but such delicate labels can be overcome. Please, Mother, let me.
The Scarred Wasteland, the heart of Sornieth, loomed in the distance. It was pockmarked with land that lived, breathed, pulsated; air that churned with disease; the bones of those who had been weak, who had not survived, surrounded by murky waters that lurked with the most hideously beautiful creations of the Mother herself. Tarnish stared down at the Homeland in wonder, and reveled in the unrivaled beauty of it: life, death, survival. There is the Wyrmwound, from which we were birthed. From which the Mother had said, "Take. Take. This world shall be yours." And the Fae knew it was hers, her destiny clutched in her hand.
This world shall be mine. She realized this not with excitement nor greed, but purpose.
The scarred land shifted beneath her as she descended upon the Wyrmwound - as if, she knew with excitement, as if the Mother had witnessed her arrival and responded to her touch! Emboldened by this, she crept forward to stand between two of the white teeth that loomed over her, taller than any Imperial.
It is my time, it is my time, it is time. She waited and prayed.
Tarnish knew when the contamination crept in. There was indifference, a numbness to the world, before the disease sliced like knives, cut into her veins, fire in her very blood and soul. It was as if every breath was agony, and as if every breath rattled her bones. "Mother," she prayed, or shrieked, she did not know which. "Mother, bestow me with your power; I must serve you, I must do it, I must -"
She screamed, the pain was like a knife in her skull, she could only stand helplessly, let the sickness take hold. "Have you not seen my dedication? My sacrifices?" she shrieked.
No, no, no.
The pain receded. She drew in a shaky breath that shuddered inside her chest, and then the disease was back, worse than before, and she fell. I will not lose! She wanted to scream, yet her lips could not move but for the torture, the agony.
The demons cannot win. Please, please - she hissed in desperation as pain clawed at every limb. The Plaguebringer would not have mercy, even for the most dedicated of servants? I should have known that the Mother was fair, that only those who are worthy will survive. Am I not worthy? Has my devotion condemned me? Perhaps her destiny was truly beyond reach. "Her tarnished wings speak the story themselves." Was that the truth, that her very blood was cursed?
She screamed in desperation but I am dying.
Had her pores swollen over her body? In her pain, she was under the illusion that there were spaces in her flesh.
They were not illusions. The tears in her eyes could not hide her punishment, and there were eyes, eyes were flesh had once been, thirteen of them on her wings - tarnished brass, as they said; once a Ghoul, always a Ghoul. The sickness had become a hideous mutation. Grotesque. Deformed. She wailed. "Mother, I have failed! But I want you to know that I still am devoted to you only, your cause is mine to uphold! I will be faithful forever!"
"Forever?"
"Yes!" she shrieked, in desperation. Was this burning agony acid?
"My trust is fickle, foolish one."
I don't want to die, I don't want to die. "I promise, I promise," she choked. "I will serve you as you wish, for eternity. I will be your eyes and your vision!"
And then the sickness left her.
"We do not know whether the story of the Many-Eyed Priestess is myth or history. But they say she lives where she once did still. They say she will bow down in her temple until the end of time; immortal, timeless, forever with her visions and her hearth. Cursed, doomed, to serve forever."
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