Yoruseibaa » Hibernal Den » Yoru

Yoru

(#61968429)

Level 1 Coatl

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

8.04 m

Wingspan

7.46 m

Weight

881.04 kg

Genetics

Cherry
Cherub

Blush
Rosette

Garnet
Filigree

Hatchday

Jun 12, 2020
(3 years)

Breed

Adult
Coatl

Eye Type

Water
Common

Level 1 Coatl

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Aztec
Penny

Offspring

Biography

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S A M P L E
[thanks for buying me!]

[sample]

Water dragons are known for their prophecies. This is as much of a fact as the blue color of both their domain and their eyes; it is inarguable. Why, then, is it so unnerving to consult this one for augury?

His altar is little else than a cluttered table in the corner of some unclaimed enclave, scattered with countless objects of unknown origin; animal skulls, crudely shaped metals, torn leaves, and a number of indiscernible materials that possess some sort of glow. The scent in the air drags the atmosphere down into a muddled weight, somehow reeking with both the carefully cultured spice of incense and the sickly smell of mildew and dust. Yet somehow, you found yourself stepping past the beaded curtain at the threshold to greet the smiling dragon before you.

At least, he appears to be smiling. The coatl wears a mask that obscures most of his muzzle, but the creases in the fabric and those around his eyes suggest some manner of grin. He's genial enough anyway, speaking emphatically with broad gestures of his claws as he gracefully treads through the refuse on the floor—fantastic choice, treasure well spent, and all that. He speaks Draconic well for his breed, though his accent tones all of his words with the characteristic lilt. It's oddly...rhythmic, though, for Coatli hum; its pitches, rises, falls, are strangely even, approaching, but not yet touching melody.

The feathered crests adorning his head seem to vibrate slightly, as if the muscles supporting them are wound to full tension. The feathers themselves seem remarkably well groomed as well, as his coat dully gleams from head to toe, catching the light from the motley selection of candles he's lit. The gems that peek through his coat refract and scatter the flames in all directions, throwing that light more than catching it. Whether they're sapphire, azurite, lapis, you don't know, only that they're the same color as his eyes; eerily so, even, when the shadows dance through them, and a thousand pupils slip out from the facets. That effect is only amplified by the swirling metallic streaks that surround the stones, tracing indelible red paths like swollen veins before vanishing back into his feathers. Not that it's worth dwelling on; it's so difficult to find a decent seer these days.

"A fool closes their eyes, and believes the world is no longer there," the coatl says, slipping behind his table as you take your seat in front of it. He props himself up against the edge, pushing away several vials and paper scraps as he sets his claws on the rough surface. "They believe things begin and end with their perception. But we are no such fools, are we?" A pause. You realize he was expecting a response, and you quickly nod, prompting his smile to deepen such that you can barely see the glint of his eyes. "Go ahead then. Close your eyes."

You hesitate for a moment, leery if this is simply the process of the reading, or some sort of test. The coatl simply keeps smiling and staring at you—or actually, perhaps a bit over your shoulder—until you comply, so you do after a moment, screwing your eyes firmly shut. Even then, he stays silent for a while. Perhaps this is some sort of exercise in truly listening, or on the use of senses besides vision. A fool would believe the world is gone without sight, ignoring that they can still touch and hear it—he would probably say something to that effect, then he could get on with the prognostic. To that end, obediently, blindly, you remain in the pervasive silence for another minute or two.

The rap of his claw against the table breaks both the quiet and your impromptu meditation, and your eyes snap open to his still-smiling visage. You hadn't noticed before, but his tail appears to have a twitch. It flicks, tenses, lashes, every muscle in the very tip in a state of constant flux. "What did you see?" he asks.

Too off kilter to even think it out, you respond immediately: "Nothing." Given the general pattern of exchange in this conversation, you half expect the coatl to grin wider at you again, but his expression doesn't change at all. The same grin, the same stare, fixed even deeper into space than last you noticed. His claw continues to tap against the table irregularly, and the longer you listen, the more it seems to be some sort of sequence.

"Wrong," the coatl announces simply. "You saw your eyelids. But you always do, so you deemed it unworthy of note. Of course, I didn't expect you to say that you saw them; to say such an obvious thing would be considered quite impolite, I imagine." You'd thought the breathiness in his voice was due to some physical exertion, but he's been sitting for quite a bit now. When he rolls words off his tongue, some pitches and syllables catch in the fork, blending puffs and whistles into his already cacophonous vocal repertoire. "I aim not to disparage you. Only to put the problem plaguing my kin in simpler terms."

Steepling his claws and leaning forward slightly, he continues, the gleam from his eyes flowing down through the filigree patterns along his body. "The Tidelord's voice has gone quiet. A truly regrettable loss, yes. But we of the Water inclination have never been limited to hearing the voice of the Father. The eyes of my flight have been closed." His gaze rights itself from the continual drift, but now it appears to be fixed behind you instead of on you. "And we have failed to take note of our eyelids. What is obvious, yet nebulous in our grasp."

At this, he pushes a small nacre dish towards the center of the table. There are innumerable cracks on it, to the point that its a small wonder it remains together. The basin appears to have been recently cleared of something, which somehow left the interior smeared with both grease and dust. "I have been so fortunate as to receive a blessing from the Flamecaller as well." He lifts one claw to the right side of his head, tracing the downy swirls of feathers that cover his tympanum. "Perceiving and interpreting other voices is a gift that I would be remiss to take for granted. It is nothing less than true benediction, and sharing it with others is the only correct path."

He reaches between the countless objects on the table, without so much as glancing at his claw. His tail spasms and curls, then quickly returns to its heartbeat of twitches. The gems fixed to his body bend the light to follow his grasp, while his eyes calmly trace arcs behind you, as though following the flight path of some insect that isn't there.

When he finally locates something in his grip—what he was looking for, or something that simply happened to be within reach, you can't tell—he holds it up for a moment, but in a direction decisively away from you. It seems to be an entire desiccated isopod, and without any further blazonry, he crushes it between his nails. Some parches to practical dust, but many limbs crunch off separately, falling into the dish with dozens of tiny taps. The coatl mimics each one with a rap of his claw.

"Countless voices speak to us, constantly. Unlike the Tidelord, they are not limited to this world." He uncorks a vial of translucent orange fluid, and taps several drops into the dish. "And we, of course, are as well. To even perceive a world beyond ours is, a nigh insoluble task. And to say it is not beyond ours, but within it, another layer of the whole, tries the patience and mental capability of any reasonable diviner. Who is to say that our perception is incomplete? We are seers, very much defined by our vision where others are so ignorantly blind. Who would suggest that our visions were incomplete, that the very world we know ourselves to stand upon is incomplete to our eyes, and has been since antiquity?" The coatl nods to something to your left, then to your right shoulder. "Who indeed."

A number of other reagents are produced and added to the mixture with measured and practiced skill, despite the coatl's eyes never flitting back to the bowl. "Some accept this. Accept that they may never see or understand the full world, but they may practice expertise in what they can see. The most they can do." He rakes his claws through the now dark and slimy mixture, dragging a pattern through it as if tilling a garden. "But they are ignorant of their potential. No—beyond ignorant. The screeching rings in their ears, but they do not listen. That which is obvious, but not worth listening to; unremarkable, unnoticeable merely for the fact that it is always there, always speaking. Is that truly worth interpretation?

"I listen, as few else will. Some, granted, are incomprehensible. And some say things that would never be of use to any but a very select few; rarely do I take note of such mundane prognistics, but I listen. The least I can do, if they want to talk." You've almost stopped paying attention to the ritual at this point. Your eyes, like his, are everywhere else; on the light coruscating from his eyes to his gems, on the shadows stretching and slinking on the walls, on the air that he speaks or gestures to. "And they've been restless lately. Always muttering about this or that. They haven't told me something is coming, but in their voices, I can hear it. I can tell."

From the flourish in his gesture, you assume that he holds the final ingredient: a single flower. The question of species or locale numbly floats through your mind, but it dissolves once you get a better look at the specimen. The blossoms are oily black, sag and curl with moisture, but are untouched by light. It's like looking at the silhouette of a flower instead of a flower itself. The stem is lit, blight of blackness twining only to portions of it. Shadow writhes around the plant like countless hungry serpents, and what greenery—what color, what anything is left is sickly and pale.

You tense and recoil, every self-preservation instinct firing off at once, while the coatl continues to regard you with a breezy grin. "Shade-touched," he says simply, as though it isn't a curse, but an impassive, inane fact of taxonomy. "No one here is in danger. It isn't even a conversation. Just listening."

The Shade?! Terror, anger, and futility each fight for control of your muscles, leaving you a limp and hapless audience to the augur's lecture. "The Shade is such a very...close-minded name, but...A different conversation. They are not one thing, not from one world, not only from several worlds, and we are speaking not only to them. The Shade are simply given to prophecy, and have been quite talkative. They exist, they speak, and to deny it is folly. To close your eyes to the world does not make it disappear."

He rests his head in one claw, and presses the flower into the dish, driving the edge of his nail into the stem. Deliberately, he slides it up the length in a manner all too similar to gutting a fish; like entrails, a glob of tarlike mucus oozes out, swallowing what color remained. The air buzzes and tremors, and hundreds of hums fade into your consciousness, a backdrop of white noise that makes your body slack.

"We have quite a few guests with us, all so gracious as to let us listen to what they have to say. Neither of us are so rude or foolish as to ignore what they would tell us, are we?"

symbol by drytil #33073 || divider by mibella #47497 || banner by osiem #30450 || template by kaixin #226415

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Exalting Yoru to the service of the Shadowbinder 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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