Verquent
(#57190916)
Level 9 Wildclaw
Familiar
Bouncy Broiler
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50
out of
50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Wind.
Male Wildclaw
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.2 m
Wingspan
4.55 m
Weight
399.73 kg
Genetics
Berry
Pinstripe
Pinstripe
Garnet
Bee
Bee
Sunshine
Firefly
Firefly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 9 Wildclaw
EXP: 880 / 21526
STR
35
AGI
10
DEF
8
QCK
25
INT
5
VIT
21
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
| __._ |
 Moving with the grain, never against it, he was a creature of habit. Growing up between chippings of wood, always a vaguely sweet scent in his nose, he stood in the shadow of his father. Grandfather. Great Grandfather. A family business built on dynasties of simple but essential work. He moved at the same pace, never too light, never pressing down too hard on softened wood. Pull the saw, push the chisel deeper. From unshapely blocks of bark and rings telling age and time, he created boards and tables, chairs, houses even. There was always something to do, never a still, boring moment. His workshop was dark, with windows caked by flaky, brown dust, filled to the brim with the smell of sap and oil, cut wood and sweat. Day, night, nothing changed but the shape of his hands. The reach of his arm and the strength of his muscles. When his father grew tired, grey and weak, it was left to him, the stoic son and the low rumble of a content but joyless heart. Who needed grand fairytales and heroes of old if life itself was providing for more than enough? He was more than prepared to spend the rest of his life like this. A man of average size, look and character, one of many, many faces in the crowd. Praised for his diligence, for the precision of his work, he was called away. A letter arrived, neatly written, signed in the name of an unknown person, inviting him to erect a village he thought destroyed, eaten by war. Closing his workshop in the generation-old city, he packed his tools and mounted his father’s old horse. The little coin he gained for his old home, gravestones in the back, dust caked windows, lasted long enough to cross the plains of eternal day, past fields half unkept, half golden with ripe harvest. There was nothing but a grand oak tree in midst a sea of tents, chaos spread in cheerful ways and the one that summoned him appeared to drown in it fully. For this pipedream of an old fable he had given up a business, a home, a life founded by his father and ancestors? Waiting for failure and disaster to strike, he started to bury his saw and chisel in wood, nail after nail and roof after roof, he replaced tents for houses. Small ones at first, to shelter, provide warmth in winter and safety in rain, yet, before he knew it, New Kummerthal had grown. No longer a sea of tents, dwarfed by a red-leaved oak tree, instead he found himself amidst a thriving village. Harmony ran strong in this place, blessed with rich harvest and an aura of peace, it never quite managed to fill in the numbness within his chest. Simple and content, but something appeared to be missing. He never thought to find something akin to the missing peace in a bumbling fool of a noble. Dimitri acted too spoiled, soft palmed hands that had never seen anything worse than holding a pen. Trying to dig with the workers, Dimitri failed at even the simplest tasks, not a worker of a single day in his life. He should not laugh at this, but what else was there he could do? The boy was an enigma, unknown in how misplaced he was among dust and simple folk, when he for some reason piqued the interest of this runaway noble. Dimitri was eager, even if he was clumsy in his feeble, untrained movements, hair falling over his shoulder and obstructing the view. This would not do, rough hands in silken locks, pulling back and wrapping strands around strands until Dimitri could see, braided tight. Long limbed, pale skinned Dimitri with a curious gaze and nervous smile, he would be shaped and molded into a different form underneath his touch. Acting out what had been taught to him, by his father, his grandfather and all those before him. He watched Dimitri learn, soak everything up like a sponge, thriving, thirsting for more. The boy’s heart sounded like a trapped songbird, beating rapidly whenever they were skin-close. Hands on hands, fingers interlaced in an indirect caress, do it like this, use your wrists, not the shoulder. It became less and less about the mere creation of something, of shaping a being out of wood and sap, the longer Dimitri stayed, the more he seemed to realize the shape of what was missing. Like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, he had mistaken apathy for contentness, a realization that came when Dimitri left the village, moving towards the gleaming shadow of white at the horizon. Words came only after Dimitri had vanished between rolling hills and dancing crops. Words akin to pleas, to stay, to share. The irony, to love as a titleless, common folk man. To want one of the crown. 
| ___ |
code & assets by archaic #19153
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This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
Feed this dragon Meat.
This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Verquent to the service of the Flamecaller 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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