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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
28.18 m
Wingspan
20.76 m
Weight
8932.5 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Pinstripe
Pinstripe
Eldritch
Trail
Trail
Stonewash
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Imperial
Max Level
STR
129
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
52
INT
5
VIT
5
MND
5
Biography
|
NEPENTHUS "What is dead may never die." |
|
|
Memento Mori
Generation 5 Solemn | Confident | Single-Minded 
|
Memento mori (Latin: "remember that you have to die") is the medieval Latin Christian theory and practice of reflection on mortality, especially as a means of considering the vanity of earthly life and the transient nature of all earthly goods and pursuits. Memento mori has been an important part of ascetic disciplines as a means of perfecting the character by cultivating detachment and other virtues, and by turning the attention towards the immortality of the soul and the afterlife. 
This curse would be traced down his lineage. All Moros' children were destined to die, like any dragon. But they would be given a second chance.
It was up to the children if they would accept the bargain. |
_____________________________________________________________________________
Claws scraped against stone, searching for purchase but finding none.
Choking for air, he breathed in only the the rich coppery thickness of blood tinged with the raw scent of wet earth and his own torn flesh.
Blinking rain out of his eyes, skin turned chill and cold in the rainy darkness of the Tangled Wood, he thought he saw flickering light out of the corner of his eye. But such thoughts faded quickly as darkness closed over him and he breathed his last.
"Child."
In the cold, endless darkness, he frowned, seeking out the strange thin voice. Was that a light, in the distance?
"Child of three bloodlines, what is your choice?"
Quietly, he snarled.
"I have chosen my path already. I am Nightcall, Night Warrior. I fight, claw and tooth, until I can fight no more." No matter that vast generations separated him from both strains of his warrior antecedents; lineages still ran true, and he proved it every day in battle. He flexed his claws to emphasize the point, or tried to, unsure if he even had claws or a body within this endless blackness.
A tiny green-blue light bobbed in the distance, flickering.
"You mistake my meaning. All that is over, now. It is the curse of your third bloodline that gives you this choice. Child of Memento Mori, do you wish to live?"
The memory of his claws scraping against unyielding stone, his own blood flooding his lungs, the chill of the rain barely easing the agony of approaching...no. No.
"Yes," he hissed. "Yes. I want to live. I am not finished yet."
The light bobbled closer, weaving and dipping out of the murky dimness; a tiny will o' the wisp, ethereal and barely bright enough to be seen, danced around him, illuminating nothing in the blackness but its own flickering, shifting shape.
"What would you give? Would you let me guide you? Show you a new path?"
Without hesitation, he answered. "Yes. Anything."
The little wisp danced with glee, then darted straight towards him. Instinctively he lunged back, for all the tales said not to touch Wisps for fear of losing oneself to madness, but it impacted him right between the eyes.
Cold swept through him, a chill wind and yet not a wind at all, the light winking out until nothing remained but the dark.
Sucking in a breath, he opened his eyes to the storm-brushed treetops of the Tangled Wood. He lay curled on his side, the ruined stone of an old ruin hard under his side, rain sluicing from his wings and body. Struggling upright, he felt clean air sing through his lungs, his body whole and strong. Alive.
But when he looked down at himself, fine lines of faint, glowing light traced paths along his body and wings. Raising a wing, he stared at it, then at the tiny ball of wispy flame that detached itself from the pale vein to float weightless in the air.
"Not all come back unchanged. Now, come," the wisp told him, and something in its flickering spoke of laughter. "In this second life, I will show you how to see; I will show you the paths and the doors. Find them. Defend them. Lead them home."
Growling he flexed his claws and swept back his light-traced wings, lifting his face to the rain. "You speak of ghosts? I am no exorcist or librarian. I know how to fight and I know how to kill."
The light danced in an ellipse around his head. "No. You are what you are. But you have the will to do what must be done, and the eyes to see, now. Come. Follow me."
The wisp danced off through the shadowy murk of the trees, and he followed, forgetting completely the old tales that said never to follow will o' the wisps, creatures who loved to lead fools in circuitous paths until they died in the depths of the forests.
Claws scraped against stone, searching for purchase but finding none.
Choking for air, he breathed in only the the rich coppery thickness of blood tinged with the raw scent of wet earth and his own torn flesh.
Blinking rain out of his eyes, skin turned chill and cold in the rainy darkness of the Tangled Wood, he thought he saw flickering light out of the corner of his eye. But such thoughts faded quickly as darkness closed over him and he breathed his last.
"Child."
In the cold, endless darkness, he frowned, seeking out the strange thin voice. Was that a light, in the distance?
"Child of three bloodlines, what is your choice?"
Quietly, he snarled.
"I have chosen my path already. I am Nightcall, Night Warrior. I fight, claw and tooth, until I can fight no more." No matter that vast generations separated him from both strains of his warrior antecedents; lineages still ran true, and he proved it every day in battle. He flexed his claws to emphasize the point, or tried to, unsure if he even had claws or a body within this endless blackness.
A tiny green-blue light bobbed in the distance, flickering.
"You mistake my meaning. All that is over, now. It is the curse of your third bloodline that gives you this choice. Child of Memento Mori, do you wish to live?"
The memory of his claws scraping against unyielding stone, his own blood flooding his lungs, the chill of the rain barely easing the agony of approaching...no. No.
"Yes," he hissed. "Yes. I want to live. I am not finished yet."
The light bobbled closer, weaving and dipping out of the murky dimness; a tiny will o' the wisp, ethereal and barely bright enough to be seen, danced around him, illuminating nothing in the blackness but its own flickering, shifting shape.
"What would you give? Would you let me guide you? Show you a new path?"
Without hesitation, he answered. "Yes. Anything."
The little wisp danced with glee, then darted straight towards him. Instinctively he lunged back, for all the tales said not to touch Wisps for fear of losing oneself to madness, but it impacted him right between the eyes.
Cold swept through him, a chill wind and yet not a wind at all, the light winking out until nothing remained but the dark.
Sucking in a breath, he opened his eyes to the storm-brushed treetops of the Tangled Wood. He lay curled on his side, the ruined stone of an old ruin hard under his side, rain sluicing from his wings and body. Struggling upright, he felt clean air sing through his lungs, his body whole and strong. Alive.
But when he looked down at himself, fine lines of faint, glowing light traced paths along his body and wings. Raising a wing, he stared at it, then at the tiny ball of wispy flame that detached itself from the pale vein to float weightless in the air.
"Not all come back unchanged. Now, come," the wisp told him, and something in its flickering spoke of laughter. "In this second life, I will show you how to see; I will show you the paths and the doors. Find them. Defend them. Lead them home."
Growling he flexed his claws and swept back his light-traced wings, lifting his face to the rain. "You speak of ghosts? I am no exorcist or librarian. I know how to fight and I know how to kill."
The light danced in an ellipse around his head. "No. You are what you are. But you have the will to do what must be done, and the eyes to see, now. Come. Follow me."
The wisp danced off through the shadowy murk of the trees, and he followed, forgetting completely the old tales that said never to follow will o' the wisps, creatures who loved to lead fools in circuitous paths until they died in the depths of the forests.
 Night Warrior Generation 9 |
Memento Mori Generation 5 Fortuna caeca est |
 Nightcall Generation 4 |
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