Rosvirein
(#66157407)
I went and died in your arms that night
Familiar
Medusa Leon
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 47/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Pearlcatcher
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.26 m
Wingspan
7.23 m
Weight
392.81 kg
Genetics
Forest
Leopard
Leopard
Silver
Butterfly
Butterfly
Brick
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 9 Pearlcatcher
EXP: 191 / 21526
STR
6
AGI
10
DEF
7
QCK
25
INT
40
VIT
10
MND
7
Biography
| __._ |
 Leave the game of politics and diplomacy for those that are interested in it!, he’d always cry when forced into another lesson. His tutor surely hated him by now. If it weren’t lessons about the art of the arcane, about how to twist and turn mana into shapes of one’s own desire, he wasn’t interested. Nothing could tie him down to his desk when that was the case, far too often he could be found strolling the city instead of learning, driving his guard and tutor up the walls with his refusal to partake in things a prince should know. But I am not even a prince., he’d say when they confronted him, pleaded with him, discussed this over and over again. My mother is the Empress, but my Father holds no power. There was no way to make him yield, to make him cower and return to his lessons neglected and as time went on, they gave up. There were newer generations to teach, others who were more willing, literally anyone but him and he liked it that way. Sure, he dabbled in the Archmage’s teachings, tried to listen to her monotone voice as she lectured a hand selected class but even she failed to capture his interest for a lasting while. So he turned towards his own studies. On his own, only himself as company. True, he was charismatic enough to invite help should he need it, yet at the same time he spoke his mind and this was not something that set well with other people, before long, he had a following of hatred that rivaled his father’s. Azazael was hysterical, was unpredictable. His son was like a worm eating his way into one’s heart. Nice until he was not anymore, until bluntness broke the atmosphere of amicable joy. It was fine, he had no desire to stay at court anyways, he much preferred to travel anyways. Any guard sent to follow him was left behind in the dust, none could keep up, no one could bear him longer than a week. Turned away by his lack of morality or tact, he said what he meant when he thought of it. Who cared about politeness anyways, when there was so much to see, to learn? You are rude. That’s why people don’t like you., the man that had saved him from Steppe’s twisted beasts had said. And Rosvirein had just shrugged, smiled. And agreed. If his directness was rude then he would have to live with this. The bigger man didn’t like his nonchalance too much, but it didn’t matter either as he still accompanied Rosvirein when he wanted to leave again, never one to stay in one place for too long. You will need a guide, otherwise the witchtree will strangle you again. It’s going to be fine, I always get out of sticky situations., he had just said, laughing while kicking stones and dust from the road up into the air, watching their lazy movements. Also true. He had always survived, sometimes by the mere skin of his teeth, but he had survived, so why busy oneself with thoughts about what-if’s that never came true? Just learning from the experience was enough. Now I have a strong man that knows his stuff to protect me. You can protect yourself, I am just your guide., and Rosvirein laughed. Because things never quite were as they seemed. The borders of Steppe came and went by, yet miles and hours later, Riviel was still there, walking by his side, shouldering his bundle like it was the most natural thing in the world. Any teasing and playful ribbing from Rosvirein’s side was met with stoic silence or a stony glare, his hand patting the other was swatted aside with enough care to not break his bones. You can admit it now, Riviel, you do like me. I certainly like you!, he said. Rosvirein was still laughing when the arrow came flying. The smile never went away, even as his gaze broke. The answer never reached his ears. People had always shared their visions of the afterlife, it had grown something akin to an obsession with them. That their way of thinking had to be the right one. He would never understand it, he couldn’t even remember as the veil of death slowly melted from his eyes. He tasted earth, dust on the tip of his tongue and blood. The blood was everywhere, it ran down his chest, pooling around him until the stranger finally put her hand over the wound, leaving nothing behind but a faint scar. “See, lad? All you needed was a kiss and some old magic.”, she spoke, not to Rosvirein, her words were aimed at a shaking, bloodsoaked Riviel, his hands, his arms, even his hair, it was everywhere. Hollow eyed, terrified and guilt ridden Riviel. The stranger patted his shoulder, like he was a mere dog, didn’t even bother to explain. Ros barely noticed her leaving, footprints in soft soil and the fading clinking of jewelry, until they were alone again. His body felt strange, he had slept the eternal sleep for quite a time, his wounds forced to heal by magic because a dead organism could not ment itself, even now, he felt breathless and stiff, joints creaking and popping as he slowly edged to get off the altair they had placed him upon. And yet, as he was embraced in familiar arms, tight and safe, he could almost believe this had never happened. “You’re alive”, Riviel had muttered and his guilt was heavy enough for Ros to taste it, ashen and bitter alongside the earth on the tip of his tongue. A hand, calloused from hard work and warmer than he used to be, placed itself upon the scar, over his beating heart. Like he needed the feeling of life underneath his fingertips. “The ritual worked.” It took far too long until it dawned on him, that he had truly died that day. That Riviel had carried his body back to Steppe, that he had gone far and beyond to lessen the feeling of guilt. He blamed himself and Ros was the stand in, the personification of guilt in the flesh. How often had he teased the other for being too loyal and now this loyalty was cause and reason for his life, even after an arrow had pierced his heart. The ritual had worked, yes, but the aftereffects were still lingering, his heart was not perfect. Each beat a stolen one, limited and bringing him one step closer towards the grave once more. He knew nothing about death before, yet he grew familiar with its touch over time. Each stolen heart needed to replace, for each he needed to blink out of existence. The crack of his own rib cage being torn open over and over and over again, the only company he had as he wandered down the river of lost souls, again and again. Only to be brought back by the softest, most loving of kisses, life breathed into him anew. And another spin of the clock had begun. 
| ___ |
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