Singer
(#64161879)
Come, have a seat!
Charlie
Anomalous Skink
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Male Imperial
This dragon is on a Coliseum team.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
22.81 m
Wingspan
24.62 m
Weight
5914.08 kg
Genetics
Orchid
Stitched
Stitched
Orchid
Patchwork
Patchwork
Amethyst
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 15 Imperial
EXP: 30719 / 60881
STR
26
AGI
10
DEF
6
QCK
8
INT
8
VIT
11
MND
6
Lineage
Parents
Offspring
Biography
S I N G E R
wandering, wary immortal
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f a v o u r i t e__f o o d s
t r i n k e t s
Familiar: Anomalous Skink Name: Charlie About: A peculiar thing about the anomalous - they don't operate by normal means. Charlie has lived some six decades, by Singer's count, far beyond the lifespan of most skinks - even magical ones. Singer hopes Charlie will live longer still. |
s t o r y He should have died long ago. He hasn't died yet. He heard tales as he grew up, of dragons which simply... persisted. Dragons which lived and lived and did not die, no matter what they faced. They were of all kinds, he was told - guardians so very strong, and pearlcatchers with pearls bigger even than they were, and spirals which continued to find joy in all things. Never imperials. He never heard a tale of immortal imperials. Of course not - everyone knew what happened to imperials. They fell, and if they were not razed to ashes, they were raised as something else. Everyone knew that. Singer still went to fight, went to do what he felt was his duty, and out there, on the fields, he fell. He did not expect to rise. 
He rose, and he remembered, and he did not rot. He did not rot. He knew that that was odd. There was still colour to his flesh, scarred even as it was, a painted patchwork that had always had him called a jigsaw or a stitchdragon or a sewnbeast, but he had hardly cared. The colour was no less vibrant. When he pressed his hand to his chest, he felt his heartbeat. He was no emperor yet. No, he thought, half giddy with with relief and laughter threatening to spill out. No, an emperor must have an empire, must he not? And he was not inclined to conquer one. At the edge of the battlefield, a figure watched him rise, and watched him laugh in joy at his life, and watched him leave. 
The figures watched. He did not always notice them. And then, one day, he could not help but notice them. They were not always dragons, the things he glimpsed out of the corners of his eyes, the things that stepped in sometimes, and guided things this way or that. Many wore that form, some golden and some scarlet and some pitch as black and yet shining with light from their eyes and claws. They were not beasts of Shade, of that he was sure. But he was not sure what they were, not fully. One, one he saw often, one he did not know had watched him rise from the battlefield, took the form of a stag. It's antlers spread wide, and wide, and wider, and in the forest one might think it's antlers were the canopy. Nonsense, Singer knew. If that were the case it could not sprint so easily fleet-of-foot through the forest. One looked like a serthis, except it's coils were infinite. One was a wildclaw, cream and gold, and if he looked at it through half-closed eyes he could see the ring of eyes that orbited the space where it's head should be. And where-ever they went, strange things happened. 
A path forks. Singer knows, already, that a creature draws near to direct the walker. He had tried to fight the strange things that no one else saw. First, people thought him mad. Then, when he was proven right, they thought that he was the bad omen, and not those he pointed out. And then, after he had lived far longer than any dragon should ever expect to live, they called him old, and senile, and knocked around in the head after all his battles. Better that you rest, they told him. I think grandfather's seeing things. For a while, they'd made him wonder if what they said was true. Perhaps he had lived too long. Perhaps he was imagining things- Except he saw that cream creature again, with a ring of orbiting eyes in place of a head. He saw that stag, with antlers that became the canopy. He saw the serthis, with it's infinite coils. He saw, sometimes, a beam of light which lit up threads that tangled around every dragon, and then one of those creatures he saw would intervene and the threads would... Like a comb on a snarl on a loom. Neatening things out. He often wondered if, had those dragons directed by those strange creatures known what would come of those directions, they would have taken those directions nonetheless. Looking at the scars they bore afterwards, scars so similar to the ones which littered his own hide, he suspected they would not. 
After long enough, merely being around the young and lively hurts too much to be near. He lives in the woods now. He lives far away from most dragons, and only ventures to them when he is asked, or when he is needful. He has seen too many die or pass on to exaltation, seen too many become lost, or steered by those strange spirits - he will not call them angels when he is so certain they do not deserve the title. He stays in the forest and he makes tea. Sometimes, those scant few other immortals he has encountered over the centuries visit. Some of them still have a zest for life, still enjoy the freedom they have to face death and bounce back, to explore without fear. Some are shaken and scarred, halfway ruined by the trauma of what they've faced, what they have no choice but to face, with what they are. How many they have lost. How many injuries they have borne. How many scars they bear. So they sit, and they have tea. Sometimes, rarely, one will mention the strange spirits. It seems, Singer thinks, that the longer one lives, the more one will see them. They haven't stopped their meddling. He wishes they would. |
code Erratumby 84463. Lore by EssayOfThoughts.
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