Draven

History
Coming of age wasn't easy for Draven. He was a young adult now, yet his childhood- or lack thereof- and his adolescent years plagued him. He remembered little of the slaughter, but he remembered how he felt, the terror, the scent of blood and steel. Of magic crackling, singeing the very air. He remembers his nightmare from last night, and the night before...

He remembers when he was old enough to prove himself. He had never killed before, never witnessed the madness that went on in his new 'home'. It was like death followed him wherever he went, even here, its presence was suffocating and all too corporeal. God of death, huh? Perhaps the only believable one, as no other deity had ever proven to be so prominent in his life.

Was he bitter? Oh yes. He resented himself, his guards, though tolerated them because they were familiar, and he would surely die of loneliness without them because they tolerated him back.

But his true heart came out within his quarters, where he tended to his numerous pets, coddling them and admiring their adorable faces. They reminded him that not all was bad. They were as real as he was. Never did they ruthlessly slaughter innocents, nor did they jeer and mock him. They simply looked to him for affection, for care... something he was not good at giving other dragons, but he was generous with towards them. Not everything was sharp, armed to hurt him, to take away the things he loved.

Never again. And so he killed for his place. He did so with no mercy, no cowardice. He boasted his inherited power, his magic, put on a show so brutal that he prayed nothing would bother him after it was done. The cheers had filled the Pit, the Speaker smiling that chillingly pleased smile of hers, welcoming him officially, like the hellhole they lived in was anything to be proud of.

But he was left alone for the most part. He made his appearance, his mark, and then he did his best to be left alone.

No. Nothing would ever threaten him again.