Azrael
(#68633479)
Has Lore
Familiar
Wallowing Willow
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Male Wildclaw
Expand the dragon details section.
Collapse the dragon details section.
Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.2 m
Wingspan
7.59 m
Weight
507.49 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Metallic
Metallic
Obsidian
Alloy
Alloy
Obsidian
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Wildclaw
Max Level
STR
7
AGI
5
DEF
9
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
5
Biography
Azrael
Corrupted Heretic
 |
The first Azrael heard of the Shade was when he was a child. Born in Shadow, hatched deep within the gloom of the Tangled Wood, from his earliest days, his ears were filled with warnings. His clan was a small and not particularly prosperous one, and the threats against them were many. A pestilence could wipe them out; a hurricane could erase their homes. Azrael was also warned away from smaller dangers, such as the toridaes that cruised the waterways, always hungry for fresh meat, or the quicksand bogs that devoured careless dragons with equal rapacity. But the greatest danger, the clan elders held, was the Shade. One evening, as the shadows broadened and crickets sang in the trees, Azrael and the other hatchlings were gathered. They sat before the clan matriarch, silent and solemn, as she lectured them on the Shade and its perils. It could be anywhere, she told them, lurking just beyond the horizon or gliding across the sky. Sealed into forgotten artifacts, waiting to be released... “The Shade is at its most dangerous, perhaps, when it has clung to you,” the old Nocturne murmured. “Here, inside your heart.” She reached out, gently poked Azrael’s chest with a blunt talon. The other hatchlings let out slow, horrified gasps. “How do I know it’s in there?” Azrael whispered. He couldn’t help rubbing his chest; his heart fluttered beneath his claws. The old Nocturne’s smile was faint, and perhaps just a bit sad. “It’s difficult to know once it’s already rooted inside you. The best defense is to recognize its touch upon others, and to stay away.” She noticed that the hatchlings were looking apprehensively around themselves. By then, night had completely fallen, and the only visible light beyond the clan’s territory belonged to the blue mushrooms and the occasional passing firefly. The stars overhead were hidden behind a sheet of clouds. So she said to her audience, “We should not fear the night. We are the Shadowbinder’s children, and the night is our domain.” “But the Shade is—” one of the hatchlings protested. “No, darkness does not always mean the Shade is near. Look!” The Nocturne picked up a nearby lantern with her tail. As she raised it above her head, it illuminated the brambles behind her, the tree trunks spearing up towards the clouds. “Darkness just means you can’t see anything. But even when it’s completely dark, even when you close your eyes, the rest of the world is still there.” Her worn face creased into a smile. She directed the children to close their eyes, which they did. Azrael soon felt something pressed into his paws; he laughed in delight as he recognized the velvety softness of a mushroom. It wasn’t meat, but it still smelled good, and he sank his teeth into it. He almost missed the elder’s parting words— “But the Shade...Inside the Shade, there is nothing.” . . . . . . . There was blackness all around him, and it was impossible to tell whether it was just simple, mundane darkness or the vile wings of the Shade. To him, there had never really been a difference. Or perhaps there had...but he didn’t want to remember that now. Buried somewhere within those memories was a face, so very like his, the pale eyes shining as brightly and hopefully as stars. “Of course I’ll protect you. You’re my brother! It’ll be all right. We’ll make it, even though it’s just the two of us now. Don’t worry!” The face was lit by a smile, honest and warm and true. “I’ll protect you. Don’t worry. Don’t worry...” —the other said to him, the words slurring into gurgles, as redness gushed out beneath that sad and frozen smile. . . . . . . . The seasons turned, the years crept past. In the sad ways of adulthood, Azrael grew, and learned that many of the warnings his clan had given him were real and devastating. Playmates died, clanmates died. The clan convulsed in confusion as elders passed on and others took their places. He remembered the Nocturne matriarch, the teacher of his youth, laid to rest atop a driftwood raft. Her gray body was weighed down with stones and she was set upon a quicksand bog in a silent, solemn ceremony. Azrael watched as the murkiness closed gently over her aged face, and he couldn’t help wondering what those ancient eyes saw now. “Even when you close your eyes, the rest of the world is...” More years passed, and more. The clan was struggling: Should they disband, or should they leave their territory? There was nothing worthwhile left in this part of the Tangled Wood. The world beyond promised more hardship and perils—but also prosperity. More hope. They decided they had to move on. The clan splintered apart. Azrael left together with his family: himself, his aged father, and his two older sisters. The four Wildclaws had lived in the Tangled Wood all their lives, and even after they left familiar lands, they did fairly well. They relied on each other, they could live off the land, and they were strong. They traveled in the daytime, hunting as they went. At night, they huddled together, talking dreamily of the new lives they’d live, before drifting off to sleep. Those dreams, however, never saw fruition. They were making their way to Thorndark Altar. Hundreds of clans lived in the vicinity; Azrael and his family hoped that they could find better opportunities there. “We’ll reach it tomorrow,” his father guessed. He smiled encouragingly back at his children. “But it’s late now. We’d best find a place to sleep.” They’d been traveling all day. Night was falling, and they were tired, so tired.... So tired that, when the black-clothed dragons stepped out from among the trees, it took them a moment to realize they were there. That lost moment proved to be fatal. Azrael’s father looked back again. This time, his face was twisted in fear. “Ru—” One of the strangers struck; Azrael saw the glint of steel before her claws plunged, dagger-like, into the base of his father’s neck. The old Wildclaw collapsed, groaning in agony. Azrael and his sisters quickly rallied. But they weren’t warriors, and the black-garbed dragons quickly overcame them. The captives’ wings were bound against their backs, and their legs were hobbled. The black-garbed dragons drew closer, heedless of—or perhaps relishing—the discomfort they caused in their victims. They wore masks of cloth and wood and bone, tarred black, completely obscuring their faces. The masks could not, however, hide the glint in their eyes—or the vileness, the hate, that surrounded them like a miasma. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?!” Azrael and his sisters wanted to ask. They all thought of the questions...but they couldn’t bring themselves to ask them. They already knew the answers, all of which chilled them to the bone. Cultists serving the hunger, the nothingness that yearned to devour all. The Shade. . . . . . . . The cultists dragged Azrael and his family through the woods. They covered plenty of ground, heading beyond what was familiar, what was wholesome and safe. Once or twice the young Wildclaw glanced back, but he could see no landmarks; whatever magic the cultists used also helped obscure all traces of their passing. He stuck close to his sisters, tried to ignore the piteous groaning of their father as he was dragged along. His heart hammered in his ears, and he recalled the old matriarch’s words, warning him against the Shade. “Stay away. Stay away...” But there was nowhere to run now. And Azrael had the awful suspicion that even if he could, even if he did, the Shade would still find him. The shadows would keep closing in, and he would once again see those swordlike claws, those twisted, carven faces.... And then the trees opened up, curving unnaturally around them like a fishbowl. In the fetid darkness, Azrael glimpsed pale torches, the furtive forms of more cultists. Thick, tarry pools bubbled along the sides of the path. “This one’s worthless,” he heard one of his captors mutter. He turned, and before he and his sisters could cry out, their father’s inert body was lifted up and flung into a pool. The tar swallowed him whole; Azrael didn’t even know if he was still alive or not when the blackness closed in, greedily pulling him down. The cultists closed in again. They endeavored to separate the three siblings; the Wildclaws struggled to fight back. Azrael lashed out with his tail, bit and scratched as best as he could. A Snapper retaliated with a headbutt, sending him sprawling. “No! Not our brother!” his eldest sister screamed. The world spun around him; he struggled to stand up, but his head was throbbing. He called out to his sisters....Did they hear him? His voice sounded strange and watery, even to himself. Nevertheless, even as darkness closed in, he reached for them. His claws brushed only tattered robes and mirthless, grinning masks, but still he tried.... And then the voice came. It cut through the chaos like a sword through cloth, and was just as cold and sharp. What it said was— “The brother. That one. Bring him to me.” . . . . . . . He remembered the body, dark upon the ground like a bruise, the redness spreading slowly around it. When he dared touch it again, it was cold, so cold. It seemed nigh-unbelievable, how only a few minutes before, it had been so full of warmth. Of life. Of love... Wisps of that voice remained, twisted into cacophony by the Shade. They thrummed together in his mind, along with memories of that final loving smile. “Of course I’ll protect you. You’re my brother. My...brother...” . . . . . . . Azrael fell into unconsciousness, chased by the echoes of that voice. Even fragmented, they seemed dreadfully loud—they resounded deep within his bones, heavy with a power he dreaded but could not ignore. “The brother. Bring...the brother. To me. To me...” He awoke in darkness. The silence that surrounded him, heavy as iron, reminded him that it wasn’t his sisters who’d said those words. He would never hear them say anything again. Their voices had been utterly silenced. They had been fed to the Shade. Their agony and terror would have been like fine wine to it. He was too frightened to be enraged; he groaned in despair instead. He was so tired, so weak. He knew that when the cultists came, even his most frantic struggles would be futile. He would be cast into the Shade’s hungry maw...perhaps after receiving unspeakable torment at his captors’ claws. He waited in dread—but no torment came. The threat of it was always present, of course. Through a panel in his cell door, he sometimes glimpsed the cultists’ masks. Occasionally, another panel at the bottom opened, and a tray was slid through. He spurned the decaying meat and fetid water at first, but eventually his body grew too weak, and he ate and drank what he was offered. Azrael regained a bit of strength, and he started exploring his cell. The slimy rock was too hard to burrow through, the door similarly reinforced. He felt grooves along its length, scratches left by other desperate captives, and shrank away from them. He made some effort to talk to his captors. It was deeply, terribly difficult: Azrael was not a combative dragon by nature, and the oppressive darkness of the place pressed down heavily on him. He knew he should have been enraged over his family’s deaths...knew he should have demanded justice for them. But he also knew it was futile, and so he cowered in the darkness, even as faces and voices, just on the edge of perception, mocked him about how weak he was. “You couldn’t save them. Or maybe you didn’t want to...” Azrael squirmed in his sleep. He mumbled, “Not...true...” “You always were so naive. So weak.” The voice softened, becoming almost velvety. It pressed closer, murmuring, “But you can become stronger, more than they ever could.” “Don’t want to. You’re evil. I...” “The strong have nothing to fear. No more loss. No more pain—for you...and those you love.” “Yes, I...” The captive tossed restlessly in his sleep. Shade whispers and memories all twined together in his dreams, confusing, confounding. He focused on what he was most certain of: “No more pain. My...family...” He sank down into even deeper sleep, but the Shade continued whispering. Just beyond the door, a black-clad figure waited. Fangs gleamed in a satisfied smile. . . . . . . . In the absolute darkness, there was no way to tell how much time passed. Days, weeks...months? One day, the door opened, and a figure came through. Azrael’s eyes and mind slowly cleared. He’d been drifting in a haze for...it felt like a long time. Just him and the darkness— —and the constant whispering, whispering in his ears. “Brother...” The voice seemed unusually loud. Azrael struggled to focus. “You are the brother, correct?” The figure, like all the other cultists, was garbed in black: a sleek mantle that obscured much of his body. His clothing seemed finer, though, the fabric so rich and dark that it absorbed what little light there was. His face was... Azrael wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Those pale patches—were they luminous face paint? Or had the skin been cut away... “And how are you, traveler? Have my fellows been treating you well?” Azrael hadn’t even answered the first question. He blinked blearily up at the figure. “The cultist leader?” he thought. “Yes.” The figure’s teeth shone in a sharp, bright smile. A chill overtook Azrael. He shrank against the wall. “You killed my family,” he croaked. His violet eyes widened. “Why?” The leader stepped closer. His clothes swirled—and with horror, Azrael realized they were vapors, Shade vapors, moving around him in an ever-shifting mass. Whispering, whispering...Strange things gleamed within them. He thought he glimpsed talons, eyes. “Your family isn’t dead. They’re just...a little different now, that’s all. Your sisters are strong, so strong....My clan’s always in need of strong dragons.” “And me?” It came out as a whisper, but Azrael had to know. The leader chuckled quietly. “Not yet. But you’ll become stronger than they ever could. All you need to do is...” Azrael didn’t remember the end of that conversation. Somewhere during that time, the figure left him, and he was alone in the cell once more. But the whispering continued. And this time, there was no respite from it. . . . . . . . Other dragons came to the cell sometimes, standing just outside the door. As Azrael’s mind frayed under the Shade’s influence, it became harder to distinguish who was friend and who was foe. The Shade was everything down here. The Shade ruled all. He thought that at times, he had enough strength to argue against them, to demand to see his sisters or to be set free. It took tremendous effort to resist the oppressive influence, but still he tried—were his sisters among the cultists’ ranks now, or had the leader lied about that? But really, what did it matter? All were one, together with the Shade. The cultist leader was the only one who actually entered the cell. Azrael cringed away from him at first, repulsed by his malevolent appearance. That low, oily voice, those sinister words... Whispering, whispering... “But he hasn’t done anything bad to me. We’ve just talked. “Maybe...Maybe it really is all right...” They talked of many things, though if asked, Azrael would’ve been hard pressed to remember what exactly they were. He did learn that the leader’s name was Azazel, remembered the brief surge of confusion that welled through him at that revelation. “The same name as me? No...almost the same...” But it seemed right somehow, that this other Wildclaw looked so much like him, even had a very similar name to his. Yes, it was right. Everything was all right. A childhood memory fluttered briefly at the edge of his mind: He was a hatchling again, young and innocent and starry-eyed, and an old Nocturne was talking to him, urgently warning him to stay away from something. He strained to hear her words, but time had garbled them into an incomprehensible mess. She lifted a lantern overhead with her tail— —and it winked out, taking the last vestiges of resistance with it. He now felt nothing but relief, even joy, every time Azazel approached him for a chat. The leader, otherwise so monstrous, was lighthearted and even jocular with his captive— —at least, as far as Azrael could remember. “Our clan’s growing bigger. Stronger. We’ll become more prosperous, in time.” Prosperity! Azrael’s heart swelled. He’d been chasing it for so long, but he’d never found it in the meager backwoods territory of his clan; it had never been there for the finding. Here, though, at last... “Will you help us, Azrael?” “Of course.” He didn’t even hesitate. Captive he was no longer—and there was nothing left in him to consider that perhaps he’d just agreed to become something far worse. The ceremony was held that night, in the darkness even the gods’ eyes couldn’t pierce. Amidst a sea of black-clad cultists, Azrael was given the office of second-in-command: the brother-in-arms of Azazel, Scion of the Shade. His face was hidden beneath a mask of carved bone; the jewels that graced him showed his exalted status as a leader of the cult. Azazel looked on with satisfaction. It wasn’t the same smile, but it would do.... And as for Azrael himself, he thought he could dimly recall the Nocturne hag’s warnings. Something about the Shade being completely empty, unutterably nothing— He chuckled to himself, for the first time in many months, as the cultists bowed in reverence. He didn’t know what he had been so worried about. After all, why should he be afraid of nothing? |
Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
Feed this dragon Meat.
This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
You can share this dragon on the forums by either copying the browser URL manually, or using bbcode!
Exalting Azrael to the service of the Shadowbinder will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
Do you wish to continue?
- Names must be longer than 2 characters.
- Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
- Names can only contain letters.
- Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
- Names can only contain letters.