Eulogy » Lair » Scorched

Scorched

(#63759638)
Level 1 Tundra
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Familiar

Vermillion Epiptite
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Fire.
Female Tundra
This dragon is benefiting from the effects of eternal youth.
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Personal Style

Hatchling dragons cannot wear apparel.

Scene

Scene: Pillow Palace

Measurements

Length
1.10 m
Wingspan
0.98 m
Weight
6.66 kg

Genetics

Primary Gene
Sunshine
Poison
Sunshine
Poison
Secondary Gene
Maroon
Trail
Maroon
Trail
Tertiary Gene
Swamp
Basic
Swamp
Basic

Hatchday

Hatchday
Sep 08, 2020
(3 years)

Breed

Breed
Hatchling
Tundra

Eye Type

Special Eye Type
Fire
Dark Sclera
Level 1 Tundra
EXP: 0 / 245
Scratch
Shred
STR
7
AGI
8
DEF
6
QCK
8
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
5

Lineage

Parents

  • none

Offspring

  • none

Biography

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Scorched
"If they weren't weak, they wouldn't have died."

  • What you remember most about your parents is their paws. Strong paws, flexing with sharp-tipped talons, and always grinding something underfoot. No matter how much it squirmed, or how frantic the noises got, they didn’t stop—not until all was quiet, and everything else was still.
    “Do you see?” they asked you, very softly. They didn’t shout, they never did—so you always had to lean in closer, within the range of those terrible paws, and you didn’t dare show any unease, because— “If they had wanted to live, they should have struggled harder. The weak deserve no pity.”
    The words rang hollow, but you tamped the wrongness down, for to entertain it would have been to invite weakness. You didn’t want to become the next pitiful thing, struggling futilely for air beneath a weight that would never yield.
  • The palace is quiet now, while they are gone. Everybody breathes a little easier, and though a part of you scorns it, you welcome the peace that silence brings. And the peace and the silence disappear one day, in a shattering blow that cracks the palace windows and shakes all the walls.
    In the wake of that great tremor, aftershocks erupt: the kind that shake the earth as well as the kind that shake the soul. News of lairs destroyed. Clans vanished. Thousands injured or maimed or worse. Thousands more dead.
    Your own aftershock arrives one day, in an envelope sealed with a black ribbon. Dawn. A fiery light still blazes in the east. Mourning, at last, has come.
  • Sorrow is not yours, however. It will never find you. Sorrow is another face of weakness, and you scorn it too. Your parents taught you well. And now, everything they had is yours.
    Your advisors, your servants, and your court—all stare at you. And you stare back, realizing they are really and truly yours now, and you start to smile.
    “But what of her parents?” you hear some of them whisper. A stab of irritation lances through you. What of them, indeed? If they had wanted to live, they should have struggled harder.
  • The head guard’s dazzling colors are an asset in battle, and this was the only reason you tolerated them. The last you see of them, he is striding out the door. A rainbow, the last remnant of sunlight, flickering through the doorway; and then he is gone.
    You ponder the wisdom of letting him leave. The words he spoke about you, the accusations—brutal, monstrous, merciless—echo in your mind. But you feel no indignation at them, only pride. The words are a testament to how strong you are becoming. He leaves the palace, and so much the better: You will not abide further weakness in your halls.
  • Perhaps others will leave. “Let them,” a familiar voice whispers in your mind. It belongs to the you that your parents have been raising, forged from bone and scale and spirit. A monster? “What does it matter, if only I am strong?”
    There is no more dawn. The sky is an impenetrable expanse of choking, blackened smoke. You tear your gaze from it, and look down at one paw, flexing each toe, marveling at the gleam of your talons. Every day, they grow sharper. Every day, they grow stronger. They have not yet tasted blood, but they don’t need to—the gleam of the fires outside dyes them crimson and orange and gold. Strength will be yours, glory will be yours. The blood of a thousand bygone days has indelibly stained your paws.
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~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
all edits by other users
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