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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.93 m
Wingspan
6.92 m
Weight
539.06 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Metallic
Metallic
Stonewash
Myrid
Myrid
Azure
Stained
Stained
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Wildclaw
Max Level
STR
5
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
40
INT
129
VIT
29
MND
5
Biography
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V E N E R A B L E
accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character 
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The thing is, mortals always see what they want to see. Take, for example, this thing before you. You claim to see gold that glistens, you claim to see flesh that moves, you claim to see an eye staring directly at you. You think that it is real. And to you, that is enough. The thought that it is real makes it real and the idea that it is here, staring at you, makes you feel-- disconcerted, perhaps. Confused. Satisfied. Maybe even indifferent. Either way, the reality that you have made for yourself is the reality that this thing before you is flesh and blood, like you, and if you wished to, you could reach out and touch it.
But.
See, mortals always see what they want to see. And what you want to see is often something that you can comprehend. Something you can gaze upon and nod in understanding, that won't shatter your mind because it is too weak-willed to understand what stands before it.
And what stands before you is something that has driven mortals mad over and over, their wits shattered to pieces around them when they examine the flesh closer and realize that it is not, when they stare at the glittering gold for a moment longer than a glance and realize it is not, when the eye turns upon them and stares.
Sometimes they wail in the streets, flinging themselves to the ground and writhing with wisdom that their minds cannot contain. Sometimes they claw at themselves, ripping themselves apart because what is supposed to be is not and their reality is crumbling around them.
Then there are those who are consumed with awe. With wonder. With reverence. Who walk after it until their soles are bloody, until they collapse from lack of food or drink, who will trail after it and ignore themselves in amazement at what stands before them.
And somehow, these ones are spared. Somehow, someone will find them and drag them away and they may find themselves nursed back to health.
(They may find themselves dead, too, but so do the ones who shred themselves to pieces, desperate for comprehension.)
There have been many a group who have sprung up around this thing, this thing with glistening not-flesh and shimmering not-gold. This thing that sometimes transfixes itself upon someone and tears to shred the grip they had on the reality that ensured their existence. This thing that sometimes perhaps performs what can be called a mercy, by letting those who witness it and lionize it live afterwards.
But.
Mortals always see what they want to see.
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Exalting Venerable to the service of the Lightweaver 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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