Parabola
(#57619091)
Level 10 Ridgeback
Menaechmus
Magma Runner
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Water.
Female Ridgeback
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
24.58 m
Wingspan
21.23 m
Weight
9679.17 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Ripple
Ripple
Maroon
Current
Current
Sanguine
Opal
Opal
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 10 Ridgeback
EXP: 3104 / 27676
STR
30
AGI
7
DEF
7
QCK
17
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
5
Lineage
Biography
PROFILE
Name: Parabola Waterseer
Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Profession: Seer & Clan Advisor Interests: Helping those around her. Enjoying being herself. TREASURES
A gift given by her parents when she first became recognised as a skilled Seer, Parabola never removes these. 
It took a lot of searching to find one of these in the Ashfall Wastes. She keeps it close. 
Always kept tucked under her tail ties, this mark of her status as a Seer is always worn. 
Parabola collects these petals and regularly makes pigment. With this, she can resemble her original colouration. TRINKETS 
FAVOURITE FOODS 
BEFORE SHE WAS CAPTURED 
Parabola
#2739229
AFTER THE TRIALS 
Ghoul Parabola
#2739238
FAMILIAR 
Familiar: Magma Runner
Name: Menaechmus About: Aechmus found Parabola in the hot springs of the clan, having gotten lost in the furnace tunnels and drawn to her similar colour. The pair have been inseparable ever since. Aechmus doesn't get on very well with many of his kind, but enjoys swimming; he and Parabola are often found by the pools as she Divines. |
PERSONALITY Forced into taking the Trials much against her will, Parabola was content with her place as a ghoul and used her Sight to find the best path. This eventually led her to the clan of Tethys which contained her plague and gave her a place and purpose, and when the chance to become a Pathogenecyte and better manage her infection arrived she took it with both claws. Parabola is far from stupid and she cares deeply about those around her. She became a skilled Seer for sake of those people, and she has always refused to let the wilful force of others change her into something she's not. ABOUT Her left-side hip eye warns her first, catching a glimpse of movement. With a flick of her tail she angles more eyes towards it, and sees them. Plague Reavers, skittering down the skin of the bank, agile, nimble mirror forms dodging and darting around and over each other, quick as cats. They've come to attack her again. She knows well why, with what she can do now and can hardly blame them. Few wish for plague to take them, after all. Still. She herself, she Parabola, she does not wish to die. With nary a thought she flicks the plague that floats around her in their direction and they fall, coughing and choking. She steps with care around them. She has a long way to go.
--
She knew she was going to fail the trials. Even with her eyes - so very many of them - she was never meant to even take the trials. She was waterborn, intended for a gentler, calmer apprenticeship, a scholarly study of seering and scrying. Riddled with plague as she now is, she laughs. Not seering after all but searing, something that burns through her veins and any she gets close to, a fire in opposition to the waters of her birth. She wonders if the Tidelord, where-ever he now is, is laughing at that. She does not know who it was, the strange dragon that found her and drugged her and dragged her to the Wyrmwound. She just knows that it's because of them that she's this.
--
She rests, that night, beneath a blasted tree. It offers little shelter, but she has little care to give. Besides, it's not the tree that she wanted. There, in the little shelter it offers, where it's roots curl around flesh-soil and create a sore in the half-living ground of the Plaguelands, is a pool of dark, clear water. Parabola can see from surface to skin-soil beneath and no flakes from the fleshwinds mark the surface. Beneath the waters' skin eels twist, gulping down any insects that land on the surface. Carefully, she reaches a claw out. Plague over her brow, water over her heart and then, clawtip gently touching, she etches an Eye onto the water's surface. She watches, she waits. In time she sees.
--
Every time she scries she sees the same thing. Every time she casts her mind out, sends all her eyes that she can to look not just at the world around them but at her future she sees the same. She has a long way to go, and she does not think her wings have the strength to carry her. She knows, too, that she has no option but. This is what fate has chosen for her - these trials, that failure, this future. If she does not make it the weave of the whole world will be off... Or will it? She supposes, too, that she is but one dragon. It is prideful - hubristic, even - to think the whole weave of the whole world might depend on her. So perhaps it will not be off. Perhaps it will simply be different. As it happens, she'd like to see what the weave of the world is like with her still in it.
--
There is an eel in the pool of water she finds that evening - just the one, and a handful of it's squirming elvers, and she scoops them up in one claw, plucking them out of her palm one by one to devour. It is little food she has eaten these past few days, though she knows with strange certainty that her appetite is changed, both less and more than once it was. At times she is furiously hungry, at others, she feels no hunger at all. She supposes that whatever else the Plaguelands' strange ritual trials have done to her, this is one she can be certain of. She suspects, when she has a chance, she ought spend some time scrying within. She has no idea what other mutations it might have gifted her and as she has always thought: her eyes alone are enough. Anything more, she does not think she'd know how to deal with it.
--
Plague Reavers again, driving her off, but there's a Necromancer with these ones, casting her plague back and lacing it with something dark and terrible, a thorny mass within her own weave of water. For a moment it claws at her veins, tears at her, burrows through her body as though to sprout from her skin but it takes a moment and a moment only for her to twist her perspective, look at it with a different eye and to see how it works. She adapts, taking on Shadow's perspective as well as Water's, as well as Plague's. She suspects, to survive, she is going to have to learn every last one of them, and Shade and Mimicry as well to boot. Well. Mimicry she already does on her own, and she grins. The plagues that twist out of her, that she laces into the spit she directs like a waterjet, are a sea-bramble, an urchin, an anemone, the stings of a million jellyfish. The Necromancer stumbles and falls, the Reaver's rushing to their ally's side and Parabola rises, twisting her shoulders. With two flaps of her wings she is gone, laughing as she goes. She has, she knows, a very long way left to go. RELATIONSHIPS
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Lore & Code by EssayOfThoughts. Graphics are hyperlinked. Colour codes from Mikann's Font Color Picker. Avatar icons from Starrlight's Icon BBCoder.
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This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Parabola 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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