Jersey
(#64806708)
Level 1 Imperial
Familiar
Spidered Seat
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Male Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
28.62 m
Wingspan
23.85 m
Weight
8072.07 kg
Genetics
Sanguine
Savannah
Savannah
Beige
Hex
Hex
Berry
Peacock
Peacock
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Lineage
Biography
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 Jersey
BARGHEST LORE AND LINEAGE PROJECT
GENERATION 6 BLACKMORE'S LINE 
Descendant of The Beast Gen 6
Gen 6 Descendant of Naomi
"Quote"
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The Tangled Wood wove a new story one Halloween night, as the full moon glared, bright and golden, from a murky sky. Deep within the forest, there rose a terrible scream, such that the creatures fled as if from a wildfire, and the trees trembled as though in a storm. A few dragons heard it, but it was easy enough to attribute this to one of the woodland beasts. No one really paid it any mind, though occasionally it made its way into idle stories told by the forest folk, particularly the gatherers of various clans. Daland was one such gatherer. His clan had lived deep in the Tangled Wood for many generations, and he had carved out a place for himself as a hunter. He knew the animals of the forest well, and that strange scream puzzled him, for it didn’t quite match the sounds he was used to. Or to be precise, it had...but there had been something off about it. A strange quality that disquieted him, something that prodded at his instincts.... Years passed, but he still recalled that scream from time to time. Sometimes he thought he heard it echoing deep within his dreams, just before he awakened. “Daland, we’re running low on meat stores again. Can you do something about that?” The old Wildclaw nodded gruffly. The clan he belonged to was a modest one, but it seemed they had more mouths to feed every day. He readied his supplies, and a few days later, he strode towards the forest. His familiar, a black wolf, came loping after him. Daland had had many familiars before, but he found wolves to be quite reliable. Their pack mentality was compatible with most dragons’ tendency to form clans, and they could also be formidable in a fight: fearless, obedient, and able to inflict damage when necessary. Daland’s hunting trips typically took a few days. He went deep into the Tangled Wood, where the creatures were less shy of hunters and could be captured more easily. He made camp and then went around setting up traps: a pit here, several snares there, a couple of magic spells this way and that. As he was making his way through the woods, he took note of any spoor that the wildlife had left behind. His wolf ranged ahead of him, nose low to the ground. A growl from it alerted Daland, and he came over to see what was wrong. There were tracks in the damp earth: clawed markings mixed with the round imprints of hooves. Daland had seen similar tracks before; he muttered to himself, “Some sorta hippogriff, maybe. Here, what is it, boy?” His wolf remained uneasy, its fur bristling along its back. Its eyes were fixed on a point above their heads, somewhere in the canopy. Daland looked hard, inhaled deeply, but couldn’t sense anything, and he was too tired to fly up there and investigate. “Probably someone’s familiar, with the scent of its owner still on it,” he decided—his wolf did not do too well around strangers, and it wasn’t inconceivable for another hunter and their familiar to have come by earlier. “Leave it, boy, there’s nothin’ there.” Daland tramped back to his hideout. He would stay there for a few days, periodically checking the traps he’d set up and bringing back any creatures he’d captured. He expected that by the end of the week, he’d have enough to satisfy his clan and could enjoy another couple of weeks at home. Daland was an old hunter and had spent what amounted to years in the wilderness. On this particular trip, the first two days and nights weren’t noteworthy; he slept in short periods round the clock and captured some smallish beasts, but not enough to justify breaking camp and heading back home. On the third night, however, things were different...and strange. There was a full moon, but that didn’t matter, for it had been hidden behind thick clouds. And so Daland awoke only to darkness and confusion, his wolf not so much barking as screaming, its growls rising rapidly to shrill yelps of utter panic. Something was out there, some sort of threat, and the Wildclaw picked up his heavy cleaver. He stormed out—not through the front of the tent, but out the back, slinking in among the trees. He cursed the clouds for hiding the moon; the fire had gone out, and now it was nearly impossible to see. He could vaguely discern his wolf standing in front of the tent, growling and snapping at what seemed to be only darkness. And then the darkness moved, and Daland understood. “Some sort of fiend!” he realized, just as the thing struck at his familiar. There was the thump of a vast paw connecting, and the wolf yelped as it skidded across the ground. It got to its feet, but its nerve had broken completely, and it fled into the woods, whimpering with fear. The shadowy fiend didn’t pursue it, though—it turned sharply, and Daland froze when he saw its eyes: deep red, blazing in the darkness, furious and wicked and vile. The thing closed the distance between them with frightening speed, trampling the tent on the way. “Solid!” Daland thought with relief, swinging his cleaver—and so he got a very nasty surprise when the blade passed through the creature’s reaching paws, apparently without any effect. He would have gaped in shock, but the claws raked down his forearm, and pain blasted through him. He howled in agony, flailing in the dirt as the enormous fiend loomed over him. “Magic, I need magic!” He dug up the memory of a simple fire spell, gabbled out the words. An orb of brilliant fire materialized before his face—and the creature flinched back, its high-pitched shrieks stabbing at the air. Daland cringed, wings over his ears; he dimly heard the beast crashing back into the forest. His forearm burned with pain. He was badly injured, and he couldn’t stay here. He paused only long enough to bind his wounds and scoop up some food and water, and then he half-limped, half-glided back home. ~ ~ ~ “What was it?” “Some kinda creature, a big one. Maybe a fiend.” Daland frowned down at his wounds: just thin parallel lines, deep scratches. They had hurt horribly last night, but now the pain had ebbed considerably, and the healer, Merrick, had declared that they weren’t poisoned. “Should be right as rain in a few days,” Merrick said, cheerfully patting Daland’s shoulder. The old hunter grimaced. “I left my supplies out there, and my familiar. I gotta get ’em back.” “Not alone, old boy! You ought to at least get some fighters to accompany you. Or better yet, send them to do it. You’re not as young as you used to be; you need to at least rest for a few days.” Daland stubbornly ignored the advice, though he did get two guards to accompany him. The campsite was as he’d left it, his belongings strewn around and his wolf nowhere in sight. The creature, too, had left tracks: that mix of clawed forefeet and back hooves. “A Shade-touched hippogriff, maybe?” one of the guards asked. Daland shook his head. “I dunno. It didn’t look like one. And the feeling....It wasn’t right, either.” He was still too tired and sore to search for his wolf, and he decided to break off the search and just trek home with his supplies. He could wait a few days, at least till he was feeling better.... “Nearly there,” one guard said. She nodded at a sign posted by their clan. “Just 10 miles ahead.” “What? No, we’ve got 13 miles yet—” But even as Daland spoke, his vision seemed to shimmer, the numbers swimming around. Instead of Copperhead Clan: 13 mi., it now said 10 mi. A loud cry from one of the guards startled him. He looked up, expecting another attack—but instead, the Mirror was holding up her forepaw, which now had a huge thorn lodged in it. The other guard clucked with disapproval as she plucked it out. “It went in deep; sit down and I’ll take care of it! Sorry, Daland, we’re gonna be here for a while.” They made it home without any other untoward incidents, and by nightfall, Daland was in his nest, awaiting sleep. He seemed to hear a distant, echoing screech, and a frown flitted across his face...but the sound died away and he soon drifted off into slumber. ~ ~ ~ The wounds healed, sort of: they left behind black scars. They were quiescent in the daytime, but at night, pain coursed through them, and Daland tossed and turned restlessly, tormented by them as much as by his nightmares. Hardly a night passed that he didn’t dream about being in the Tangled Wood, relentlessly stalked by that night-dark creature. He would turn around, see those glowing eyes—and then he’d awaken in agony, his scars burning like fire. He occasionally made forays into the Tangled Wood to search for his wolf, but progress was slow; he and his clanmates found themselves beset by various small mishaps. They sprained ankles, lost supplies, found themselves following false trails...The litany of incidents went on and on. These were dragons who’d lived in the Tangled Wood their whole lives, but the very forest now seemed to conspire against them. “There must be a reason for this,” they muttered to themselves. It didn’t take them long to come up with a plausible explanation— Every night, Daland’s scars burned, interrupting his sleep and leaving him groggy whenever he was awake. He began to make mistakes; his sharp senses were now blunted by fatigue, and his forestry skills, once so reliable, began to decline as well. He failed to direct his clanmates away from hazards such as quicksand and bogs; surely that was why they ran into so much trouble every time they went out with him. “Maybe that creature was Shade-touched. It must’ve infected him with dark magic!” “The healers and priests said the wounds weren’t Shade-touched, remember?” “Well, why haven’t they healed? Those black lines don’t look right. Those aren’t normal scars.” “Some kind of spell, then? Perhaps even a curse...” Daland was no fool; he noticed how his clanmates began making excuses not to accompany him into the woods. “Fine, then let me borrow your familiars. I need some to help me with my hunting, at least,” he groused. But the dragons declined again. The memory of Daland’s wolf’s disappearance was still fresh in their minds, and they weren’t about to risk their companions. Some familiars did show an interest in helping the old hunter, but the canine ones, wolves and hainu and such, flatly refused to aid him. And so Daland kept going into the forest, day after day after day... “He isn’t even bringing back any food now. Why does he keep going out there?” “I asked him if he was still searching for his wolf. I thought it was quite sad, really....But you know, he said he couldn’t even recall why he was wandering around in the first place.” “I think he’s just old. My grandpa’s like that too, sometimes. Can’t recall a darned thing...” “It’s a miracle he manages to come back. We kept getting into accidents while he was leading our search parties.” “Yet there’s barely a scratch on him every time he returns. You think he was doing it on purpose?” “Why would he do that? That’s old Daland; you’ve known him since you were a hatchling! He would never—” “Aye, he wouldn’t. But he hasn’t been quite right since that night....” “Do we even know if he was telling the truth about what happened? What did he see out there?” So many rumors and suppositions, as the days passed.... ~ ~ ~ Daland stared blearily at a signpost. He waited for the numbers to change, and when he blinked again, they read, Copperhead Clan: This Way. He fought the urge to look back at the sign, for he knew that if he did, the words would be gone, replaced by numbers. He’d never been superstitious, but those digits... 13 13 13 13 They kept popping up everywhere, replacing written text, shimmering on pools of water or in the shadows cast by trees. “I’m just tired,” he always told himself. But even when he slept, the number 13 danced on the backs of his eyelids, and it always burned bright as pain coursed through his scars. Burning bright red...and then shifting inexorably into those glaring, fiendish eyes. He returned that afternoon to find the other clan elders waiting for him. Healer Merrick told him, “We think it might be best if you went away for a while, old friend.” “Went away? Nah, I’ve been away all this time,” Daland growled, not understanding. The other elders exchanged looks of deep regret, and Merrick sighed. “Your health is declining, and we’ve noticed...other things besides. We think you might’ve been stricken with a hostile enchantment. You ought to go away for a while, get those scars looked at. I have a colleague in the Sunbeam Ruins who—” “Don’t need another healer. I’m fine, I’m fine,” Daland protested. The elders, many of whom had been his friends since childhood, grew uneasy. This wasn’t the quiet, sensible Daland they knew. Carefully, they moved towards him. Merrick wheedled, “It’s only for a short time; we only want to make sure you’re fine. If you would just—” But even as he leaned forward, Daland stared at his face in horror. The kindly Pearlcatcher’s face grew distorted, his features blurring and stretching into the number 13... “No...no!” Daland fled, crashing into the forest, heedless of the shouts behind him. He tore through branches and thorns, but barely felt the pain; all sensations were eclipsed by the agony pulsing through his scars. He ran and he ran, the number 13 confronting him every which way he turned, and it was only nightfall that hid that accursed symbol from view.... Then, at last, Daland could stop. But he could not rest. When the creature came for him, he was slumped beneath a dark pine tree. His scars burned, but he barely felt them now; exhaustion encompassed his whole world. There would be no running—he understood that now. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this; maybe there was nothing, and it was just bad luck... “I know what you are,” he whispered, as the red eyes appeared in the darkness. Clawed forelegs, deep red scales...and cloven-hooved back feet. “You’re the Devil.” ~ written by Disillusionist (254672) all edits by other users
Layout and artwork by awaicu
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