Veneror

Silver Pocketwatch Trinkets This pocketwatch is in excellent condition, but the time it keeps is always too early. 90

Veneror "What is dead may never die."

Memento Mori Generation 4 Reaper trait | trait | trait

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.

A warrior from the moment he came of age, Veneror had always been one to go down fighting. Ultimately, his death came at the hand of a raid from an especially bold group of Ice fighters, who froze him solid with one fell attack.

He died of the cold more than the ice itself. A dragon's body simply wasn't meant to handle such extreme temperatures. The moment his vision went black, he heard a voice.

"Does your heart burn hot enough to survive?" it whispered.

Yes, his soul breathed. A spike of anger, red-hot, shot through his veins.

"Have you earned your second chance?" it asked, just as ghostly but much more immediate.

Visions of battle swept through Veneror's mind. He had fought so long, so hard, in the unending war. Yes.

It felt like fire was pooling in his veins, now, growing hotter with each moment.

"Then bind yourself to me," the voice said, "and I shall keep you alive."

I will.

His mind burst with warmth, and Veneror - back in his body, barely breathing - collapsed.

---

"Hey. Hey! Wake up!"

Veneror groaned and lifted his head. "What is it."

"You have work," his familiar said, sounding awfully annoyed from inside of his portrait. "You're supposed to help Violetto train up some new devotees, remember? Do you want to waste your second chance?"

"My second chance was supposed to be spent bringing justice upon the guilty," he muttered, crawling off his personal hoard. "Not training hatchlings."

"Ever heard of execution by proxy?" the faun asked. "Trust me, these kids will all go to the Lightweaver. It's even better than you going back to fight yourself."

The faun's eyes - and tone - softened, and it shifted into a tailor's seat. "I get it, though," he said gently. "It itches for you, not being able to pick the old fight back up. Border patrols and training missions aren't the same as your war. But unless you find someone who can heal up your wings - and Brightsinger insists it won't happen - this is what you've got. Make it worth it, alright? I don't like seeing you all mopey in the mornings."

Veneror sighed and sat down, picking up his pearl and giving it a lick. "You're right," he said wearily. "My wings are useless, so I am too as far as the marshal is concerned. Best I've got is training the clan's tithes and working with those pirates." He sighed again. "I can settle for today, at least."

The faun smiled. "At least you've got today."