Ward
(#66992781)
Why can't I hold all of these antiques?!
Marshmallow
Glittering Jeweler
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 48
out of
50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Imperial
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
29.21 m
Wingspan
16.93 m
Weight
9094.3 kg
Genetics
Black
Metallic
Metallic
Charcoal
Noxtide
Noxtide
Cream
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Imperial
Max Level
STR
6
AGI
9
DEF
6
QCK
94
INT
100
VIT
15
MND
7
Biography
NOT FOR SALE, TRADE, OR LENDING
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 W A R D 
WITCHKIN LINEAGE GENERATION V (GRETEEL'S LINE)
THE HERMIT
"I'm a werewolf who hits things with a shovel. HEEEEEEEEYYYY"
L ore summary. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, vix dicant consulatu patrioque at. Ea ius vidit paulo, usu iusto mandamus eu, mea cetero inermis urbanitas ex. Laudem mucius intellegat mel an, ut usu populo propriae probatus. Autem accusam legendos ex quo, duo id efficiantur neglegentur. Delectus platonem ut vis, vidisse impedit voluptua an sed. At eos quis laoreet omittam, sumo elit aliquando *** te. Per mundi alterum at. |
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A pale moon hung heavily in the sky as it cast its light upon a swirl of fog that obscured the lands below. The forms of great beasts shifted within these mists, their thick winter coats laden with dew as they wandered. It was dangerous leaving their territory and even more-so wandering into the lands claimed by those who swore to hunt them. . . but the fate of the three eggs they carried drove them onwards. The beasts had waited in anticipation, watching the full moon rise as they guarded their latest nest in the bowels of the palace called Moondore. The eggs gleamed ominously under the moonlight, but the dark fissures that typically marked the birth of their kind never appeared upon the shells. Indeed, the moon of the wolves had already come and gone in their land, and their children had failed to hatch. Their last hope was in the second rising of the moon in another land. . . one that was claimed and inhabited by Witchborne. The call of a sacred altar drew the beasts close, the last remnants of moonlight illuminating the pale stone. It was a place perched high atop a craggy outcrop that overlooked the sea, braziers on either side of a great stone slab lit with fire that cast long shadows upon the ground. The scent of herbs filled the air as the Barghests paced closer and the faint static of witch’s magic made the creatures’ hackles rise in agitation. It was no place for beasts. . . for child-eaters. Still, the pair of Barghests approached and laid their eggs upon the pale stone. They watched over the nest anxiously, waiting to see if the children would hatch. . . and finally the first dark fissures appeared and splintered across the luminous shells. They allowed themselves a moment of relief, but it was foolish to think that the presence of beasts in these lands would go undetected. The first child broke free of his shell with a faint cry and Beowulf was quick to nuzzle him in reassurance. The moonlight in this strange land washed over the firstborn child and his dark coat began to bleach under its influence, his underside assuming a pale coloration akin to the milk and honey used in Witchborne baptism. Before the remaining eggs could hatch, a powerful flicker of magic crackled through the air and the beasts knew they were no longer alone. Everything happened quickly after that. The Barghests knew they were in no position to fight - not in a strange land and after using much of their own strength to conceal themselves while traveling. Beowulf grabbed their firstborn by the scruff as the pair fled. A figure approached the altar, powerful magic crackling around their form. The Witchborne inspected the remaining two eggs, whispering over them as they continued to hatch. It was clear that the witch recognized her own magic reflected within these children. It was dark and twisted. . . yet it flickered faintly and she had hope that such creatures could still walk a noble path. The fire roared around them and water crashed upon the rocks far below as the two newborn children stared up at the witch with gleaming eyes. As was custom for all children of their kind, she drew their cards and left a third behind on the table as a blessing for the child that had already been whisked away. The queen of cups. . . the six of pentacles. . . and finally, left behind on the alter; the hermit.
Layout, lore, and artwork by awaicu
Banners by PoisonedPaper
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ii.
His name was Ward, because that was what he was. One of his childhood memories was of flipping through a dictionary, and there his name was, at the head of a battalion of definitions. He struggled to sort them out, until Aunt Brea explained that his name in particular meant “one who is under the protection or in the custody of another”.
“That’s you!” he gasped in excitement. The old Guardian’s face relaxed in a smile. “Absolutely correct, little Ward.”
The explanation satisfied him—after all, he wanted to know who and what he was, and the dictionary had answered that question, hadn’t it?
Except...it actually hadn’t.
The question often nagged at him as the years passed, for many different reasons. He wasn’t sure when exactly he became aware that he hadn’t always belonged here, in the House of Talbot. Perhaps one clue was that there were no other children to play with. The household staff always treated him kindly, but they had their duties to attend to. And Aunt Brea, while warm and solicitous, was already too old, too tired to roughhouse with a rambunctious hatchling. More often than not, Ward’s companions were the books in the small, dusty library, and the equally old and dusty antiques that graced the house’s halls.
Then there was the fact that there were no other Imperials like him. The few who were on Brea’s household staff were clearly from different families. Their manes weren’t as bushy, their scales not so dark, and most of them had the violet eyes of the Tangled Wood.
“Where did I come from?” the little Imperial asked one day.
“You were hatched, dear. From an egg.”
Ward squinted at Brea. She sprawled behind her desk, going over some accounting ledgers. She seemed quite engrossed in her work, but something about her statement hadn’t quite rung true.
He waddled over and peered up into her face. “Really? I was borned here?”
“Born,” Brea corrected. “Dear boy, we’ve been over this before. You were adopted by my house. My clan.”
“From where?”
The Guardian looked tiredly at him. How old was he? It was difficult to tell with Imperials sometimes; they grew so large so quickly. After a moment’s deliberation, she sighed.
“It was not I who found you. It was Zhivago.”
Zhivago was the clan’s groundskeeper: an Obelisk almost as old as Brea was, craggy-faced and reticent. Ward’s scales, however, prickled when he considered that other word: “Found?”
“Aye.” Brea looked outside. Darkness always fell early in the Tangled Wood. Once the groundskeeper returned from his rounds, there would be time to talk. It would be best, she decided, if Zhivago told the tale in his own words.
And so he did—some hours later, in the Guardian’s library.
“It was the end of winter...though still very cold. You couldn’t have been more than a few days old then.”
Ward thought he could almost see it: The dark trees looming overhead, snow thickly covering the ground. And Zhivago, lumbering closer and closer, nostrils flaring as he caught an unfamiliar scent.
“You were half-buried under some fallen trees. Someone had dug out the ground beneath and put you there.”
“My parents?”
“Possibly.” Zhivago averted his gaze. But Ward knew, instinctively, that it was out of awkwardness, not deception. He was telling the truth, as best as he could remember it.
“Why did they put me there?”
“To hide you? I don’t know. I’ve seen deer do similar things sometimes. I suppose I could have left you there, just in case...But the snow around...There were no footprints. Perhaps they could’ve flown down, but I wasn’t sure...”
Ward understood what the Obelisk couldn’t say: He didn’t think the hatchling’s parents had intended to come back.
“And you weren’t moving much. You were still breathing, but you were so cold, almost like steel. So I decided to bring you back. Then, well, you know the rest.”
The hatchling tried to remember that day: Zhivago’s paws crunching deeply into the snow, and then the door opening, admitting light and warmth. What time would it have been then? Aunt Brea would have been in the library, or perhaps in her den....
He didn’t realize he’d shut his eyes until he felt her nuzzling his brow. “Zhivago went back the next day,” she told him. “He was searching for...a sign...”
Of the ones who had left him there. His parents?
But Zhivago remained downcast. “As I said, there were no tracks. But I was able to search the hollow beneath the trees, where you had lain. And I found...something there.”
Brea had evidently been waiting for this moment. She opened a drawer and produced a small, flat wooden box, which she now passed to Ward.
The Imperial opened it. There, on a bed of velvet, was an illustrated card. Most of the paint had already faded, but he could still faintly discern a shining lantern, though it was the words at the bottom that caught his gaze.
The Hermit.
It took him a long moment to realize Brea was speaking. Her words seemed to come from a long way off: “...some traveling circus, maybe. We did try to find them; we asked around. We turned up no clues, but perhaps, now that you’re older, we could try again...”
She broke off, surprised, as Ward curled against her forelegs. He looked up at his guardian’s face, and he managed to smile. “No...I’m OK here, thank you. You don’t need to look for my parents...”
“They didn’t want me, anyway,” he concluded silently.
Life went on in the House of Talbot, though the clan continued to decline. It was not the result of some great tragedy, nor was it due to mismanagement: The House had already lost much of its wealth years ago, leading to its progenitors abdicating to Brea, one of their subordinates.
She had concluded that rebuilding the clan would not be beneficial. Better, instead, to ensure that the dragons who were left went to new homes, where they could live well and happily. Brea herself would search for a new clan, perhaps in the Scarred Wasteland, from whence she’d originally come.
The dilemma of finding a new clan didn’t bother Ward much as a child, but as the years passed and he approached adulthood, it seemed to fill his whole world. Brea and Zhivago had their connections in the Scarred Wasteland; the household staff similarly had friends and family elsewhere. But Ward had always been alone.
Perhaps this was why he started reconsidering finding his birth clan. He was Light-born, and the Sunbeam Ruins was right across the border—Brea’s words drifted back into his mind: a traveling circus. Either of his parents could have been a fortune-teller, and dropped the card the night they’d...abandoned him.
“Focus, Ward. Try to approach this...logically.” He squinted at the card. Could he perhaps find the artist who’d painted it, get a list of clients from them? He imagined himself finding his parents’ names, and then figuring out where they lived. Tracking them down to tell them...
What?
It was like running into a brick wall; his mind simply refused to continue thinking about it. Ward shook himself from his reverie. It had been another long day; he’d spent much of his time helping Aunt Brea pack some antiques into crates. With the clan in the process of disbanding, these would be sold off, the profits divided among the household staff. Ward got a share, too, which was why he took a keen interest in the selling process—well, that and there were so many stories, so much history tied to those objects. Symbols of vanished grandeur and glory...
But appraising and packaging them always made him feel dusty-headed, and today was no exception. He decided it was time for bed. “Maybe I should just sell the card, too,” he thought before his mind slipped into slumber—
—and into a web of dreams.
Darkness. And cold, so cold...He could almost feel it, even in wakefulness. He twitched uneasily in his sleep as his mind soared.
“Where should we go?” The voice, deep and husky, rumbled through the air—or was it resounding in his mind? His voice, perhaps?
Ahead of him, something gleamed. “Eyes,” he thought, a thrill of horror racing through him...and then his hackles settled when he realized it was two braziers, one on each side of a stone altar.
“There,” hissed the voice again. “There, we can...”
Ward awoke with a start. His paws scrabbled for a moment before he recalled where he was: in his room, moonlight still pouring through the windows. Tendrils of mist coiled lazily against the glass.
He half-expected to see the eyes—no, the braziers—blazing right outside. But of course, there was nothing there save for the barren grounds of the House of Talbot, with its gnarled trees and overgrown topiaries.
“Weird dream,” he grumbled, his voice uncomfortably loud in the stillness. He breathed out a sigh of relief—
—but he still couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
“Go back to sleep, Ward. There’s more work to do tomorrow,” he told himself. He curled up more tightly and dropped off to sleep again...and all too quickly the dreams crowded close, dragging him deeper into unease and confusion.
Work proceeded at the House of Talbot, though Ward, normally so alert and enthusiastic, became listless and withdrawn. The household looked upon him with concern; and one day, Brea, with a puzzled frown, placed a forepaw lightly against his brow.
He managed a sheepish smile. “I’m fine, Auntie.”
“Don’t be daft, my boy. Anyone can see that you aren’t well. Right, what’s wrong? Would you like to talk about it?”
Ward’s wings slumped. “Well, I was looking at the card last night...” His description of the dreams that followed were vague, disjointed...and probably unnecessary. Brea had focused on his first few words, and her face softened.
“My dear boy,” she began gently, “if you wish to find your family, just say the word. I don’t think that card ever had a signature, but if we could find the artist...”
Ward found himself laughing in surprise. In response to his guardian’s puzzled look, he admitted, “I thought about doing the exact same thing. Weird, isn’t it? Our thoughts are...so alike...”
And then he smiled and shook his head. “No, Auntie, I’m fine. I don’t need to...I mean, I can find a different clan, can’t I? Just like you...”
He trailed off, hoping he hadn’t touched a nerve. But Brea just smiled back and fondly rubbed her head against his.
“You’ll be all right, dearest. Now, then—” Her frills spread in anticipation. “Let’s get back to work. All this silverware is not going to sort itself!”
Later that night, as Ward began settling down for sleep, he realized he felt lighter than he had in a long time. Being able to talk to his aunt had been a huge relief. He thought back to her offer; she probably knew people she could ask, especially now that she had more free time...
“No,” he thought—and this time, it was with relief. “I don’t need to look for them. I have a home...even a family. Just a different family, that’s all. And I’ll be finding a new one soon...”
As he had done almost every night, he looked at the tarot card. “Do I really need to keep this? Maybe I should just throw it away.” He shut it into its box and settled down to sleep....
The dreams this time were different.
There was darkness, yes—but also light. Firelight from the braziers, washing over the cold stone of the altar. Luminous shapes, blurring. One sphere...or two...or three?
A crack in the radiance, something moving beyond. Shadows giving way to glimmering cream. A surge of elation quickly smothered in fear when he heard a faint noise from behind: Somebody approaching...
“What is this?”
It was himself asking the question this time. He felt as though he were soaring over a tossing sea, strange images and impressions leaping out at him like waves.
“What am I seeing?”
The sun passing overhead, scorching its trail through the sky. The waning moon, myriad stars. Ahead, the altar stood once more—but this time, instead of a sense of anticipation, there was loss, like a punch to the gut. The braziers on either side were dim now. On the stone, a small shape gleamed.
And Ward’s mind clutched at that shape, as firmly as his paws often clutched it—the card. But where had it come from?
“Have to go back,” a voice rasped behind him. “Too dangerous. They might catch us...”
“No,” Ward objected silently, as the altar started to recede. “What does it mean? Who was...?!”
And then in an eye-blink, the tarot card and the altar were gone. Instead, there was a face. His heart slammed against his chest as the dream shifted completely.
He thought for a moment that he was looking into a mirror. But the face was leaner, darker. The eyes that looked at him were shadowed; he couldn’t tell what color they were. But he heard the voice—a piercing whisper—driving into his heart.
As sharp and clear as a lightning bolt. Only two words: “Help...me...”
And this time, Ward awoke with a shout. He tumbled out of the nest, crashing onto the floor.
Dawn sunlight flooded the room, painting it in mellow shades of gold. But Ward, still wide-eyed, remained focused on the dark dream. That face, so much like his, staring imploringly through the shadows. The plea for help echoed in his mind.
“I have to go,” he thought—with absolute certainty this time, a knowing that settled deep into his bones and drove him to begin packing supplies. He had a large satchel he often used when carrying things to the market; now he filled it up with various objects from his room, candles and cookie tins and...
That was when Aunt Brea came knocking on his door. “I have to go,” he told her—and though her face furrowed in puzzlement and distress, she didn’t try to stop him. She spoke quietly to a passing servant and then bent towards Ward again.
“Umm, I’ve decided...” He swallowed hard. “I’m going to find my family. In...In the Sunbeam Ruins. I’ll try asking...”
“Let’s make sure you’re properly set up, then,” Brea replied. She shot a critical look at Ward’s haphazardly-packed bag and then motioned for him to follow her.
In the storeroom, she calmly ambled around, pulling open boxes and crates. “You won’t get far without money, my dear, and some of our old artifacts will probably be more useful to you. Have you got a hat? I don’t want you catching cold out there.”
“Umm...”
“A scarf, then? Why not both?” She chuckled as she tossed a hat onto his head, then began winding a scarf around his neck. Ward stood still, letting the old Guardian fuss over him—one last time.
“What changed your mind, dear boy?”
“I had a dream,” he mumbled. It all seemed very stupid now. Suddenly he wondered if he was making a huge mistake.... “A different dream. Someone was asking for help.”
“Some long-lost relative, perhaps?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? She looked like me.” And then he paused, stunned. He’d been unable to identify that before, but now he was certain—that other dragon, calling for help through dreams, through darkness, was female.
“A sister, maybe? I have...a sister?”
A servant came in with a bundle that, judging by the aroma, was filled with several foodstuffs. Brea lifted her head. “Right on time, as always. Thank you, Frederick.”
“I...I’m sorry,” Ward stammered as she tied the bundle to his bag. It was beginning to sink in now how awful it was, how he was just suddenly taking off because of some benighted dream. He was abandoning his clan, his family, just as he’d been abandoned...
“No,” Brea snapped, and he straightened up, surprised. The Guardian fixed him with a fierce glare for a moment, and then her stern face softened.
She pressed a paw against his shoulder. “Family or not, if you believe this person needs your help, then you should go to them. Help them, if you can.”
And then she cocked her head. “I could come with you, perhaps? It would take me a few days to arrange things so that they run smoothly in my absence, but if—”
“I’m all right. I...I’ll be all right,” Ward said, and now he broke into a smile. “Thank you, Auntie. Thank you so, so much.”
They embraced each other with a great rustle of wings, and Brea chuckled warmly. “Dear child, you’ve grown so tall. This House will remain standing for a few more moons...as it has remained standing for you all these years. Come back and see us, when you’ve completed your quest.”
Outside, Ward turned east, towards the Sunbeam Ruins, the land of Light. The land of his birth...and, perhaps, the land of his truth as well.
As he adjusted his satchel, there was a soft thunk. He turned and saw a familiar wooden box on the ground: The Hermit.
“I must’ve chucked it in there with the rest of my things. I guess I could leave it. I don’t really need...”
But even as his mind formed those words, he was picking the box up and sliding it back into a pocket. Perhaps there would be enough time for that mystery someday. But right now, somebody else out there needed aid.
Ward turned to the east again, and at last, he spread his wings.
Lore by Disillusionist
originally written for the Barghest lore contest
Killing is wrong...and bad. There should be a new, stronger word for killing...like "badwrong".
(Notes to self)
Another NTS: You're running out of Elims, train Healers and Mages instead :'D
originally written for the Barghest lore contest
KatWD wrote:
Oml, Curwen and Ward's little quotes killed me. I vibe hard with mr. "HEYO whack things with my shovel" werewolf man, please tell me more about him. Major himbo energy tbh
is curwen okay is his head good who threw the brick i have so many questions
is curwen okay is his head good who threw the brick i have so many questions
Disillusionist wrote:
Ward is the big dumb one, and Curwen is the sly and sinister, actually much dumber one. Ward's battle strategies are, in order of preference: whack thing with shovel, hit thing with rock, whack thing with Water Tome, throw magic at thing, tell Curwen to talk at thing.
I should probably note at this point that Curwen doesn't talk to things, he talks at them. Also, in answer to your last question, wow, so many brick-chucking candidates. xDD Ward, for a start, or maybe Curwen's nephew. Heck, his sister might even get in on the brick-chucking action, if he annoyed her enough. Curwen will be OK; his hat takes most of the damage. It is a good hat.
I should probably note at this point that Curwen doesn't talk to things, he talks at them. Also, in answer to your last question, wow, so many brick-chucking candidates. xDD Ward, for a start, or maybe Curwen's nephew. Heck, his sister might even get in on the brick-chucking action, if he annoyed her enough. Curwen will be OK; his hat takes most of the damage. It is a good hat.
KatWD wrote:
Ah, a dynamic duo of stupid! Loving that trope
Ward, patting Curwen on the back: He got a thick skull, he'll walk it off. Gets bricks thrown at him every other day.
Ward, patting Curwen on the back: He got a thick skull, he'll walk it off. Gets bricks thrown at him every other day.
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"Guys, we won a medal for not dying!!" :D *gets dogpiled* |
(Notes to self)
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Level 25s For leveling: Divinity Henry Legrasse Lucrecia Rose Simon |
Relatives: Greteel's Line
Zelievna's Line
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