Atarangi
(#68701825)
Level 1 Mirror
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Fire.
Female Mirror
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.89 m
Wingspan
6.35 m
Weight
699.44 kg
Genetics
Blood
Iridescent
Iridescent
Blood
Saturn
Saturn
Blood
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Mirror
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
8
DEF
6
QCK
8
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
5
Biography
And in the fields, the asphodel flourishes,
feeding the dead through their unlife
feeding the dead through their unlife
PROFILE
Gender: Female
Pronouns: She/They Profession: Infectious jewellery Interests: Spite Loyalty: The Lord of the Legion TOOLS 
FAMILIAR 
Familiar: Vigorous Goblet
Name: ... Personality: Lively, humorous. Loves to cause quiet trouble alongside Arngrim. |
PERSONALITY
Arngrim is determined before she is anything else, flatly refusing to let others dictate to her the nature of her own existence. It is this drive that led her to leave the clan of her birth and go her own way, and it is this too which led her making such a first impression on the Lord of the Legion that he took her in. Some might call Arngrim's determination arrogance, but that is not about to stop her: she knows her worth and she will make others respect it! ABOUT Her very existence is denied. Arngrim is not entirely sure how this can be: she does exist, fire-eyes vibrant and skin scarlet with disease, wings gone metallic with the curse that makes her an adornment more than a living thing. But others of her kind - the things which rule her kind - argue otherwise, that she should not exist and so she does not exist and she stares at their edict in confusion. She knows not what wrong was committed by her making, she knows not what about her so offends. She exists, as any dragon has a right to exist and she is herself offended that others seek to deny her even that. Well, she supposes. If she is not wanted by even her own kind, it would behoove her then to wander and find a place where she is. Her parents bid her goodbye. Those few which do care about her. And then... she sets off. She is of plague at her heart and so it is to Plague she goes, across the sea to the Scarred Wasteland, hoping that in perhaps there she might find something to call home. But no. Fleshwinds buffet her and miasmas feed her but no place is stable enough for her to set down roots. No clan is kind enough or clever enough to give her a home or company she enjoys. Some even chase her out, biting teeth and sharp claws at her wing-edges when they learn what she is and they hate her for stories they're told and not the truth. On she goes. On she goes until she is caught in great claws, hears great wingbeats, and is raised to the sightline of great, flaming eyes. "Hello there," says a great, rumbling voice. "What have we here?" He smells familiar. His plague tastes like something she knows - but there's something else at the edges, something new. Something interesting. "I've never seen one of your kind so active," the voice says. "How strange." "Some say I don't exist," she says, arching her neck so she can meet this stranger's gaze better. "I have set out to prove that I do." The great dragon laughs, tossing back their huge head, the flames that lick out from their eyes darting and wisping with the movement. "So determined!" they cry, approval in their tone, and Arngrim preens, lets her wings shimmer in the spotty light of the wasteland. "So determined. Why, I think you'd fit in quite well with all of us. Would you like a place to stay, little strange one?" "Arngrim," she replies. "And yes please. My wings are quite tired." RELATIONSHIPS
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Coded by EssayOfThoughts. Lore by EssayOfThoughts for PocketSawyer. Graphics are hyperlinked.
And in the fields, the asphodel flourishes,
feeding the dead through their unlife
feeding the dead through their unlife
PROFILE
Gender: Female
Pronouns: She/Her Profession: Sorceress Lich Interests: .... TOOLS 
FAMILIAR 
Familiar: Roundhorn Rager
Name: ... Personality: Stubborn, volatile. ... sometimes... helpful? |
PERSONALITY
Cunning, clever and quite, quite fearless, Asphodel is a curious dragon, one who took the Trials not for sake of the Plaguebringer and who pacted to the Shade not for power. Rather, she is a scholar in the end, with a deep love of the magic she's always been capable of. While she uses disease in her spells she is just as likely - if not more so - to imbue Shade into her enchantments and charmed trinkets, spending her time learning how to tame it to her will. Asphodel has one ultimate desire, in the end. She wishes to master the Shade, rather than be consumed by it. ABOUT She doesn't remember all of her younger years - but then, why would she, when she's lived as long as she has? A long life means a long memory, and to make space for what is important, some which is less so must be discarded. She misses it sometimes, those lost memories of childhood, but she has so much of the present to enjoy she cannot really grieve it as she otherwise might. She has her magic and her experiments with the capabilities of Shade and she has Gerhart, so she is not ever alone. She just wishes she remembers what had led her to take the Trials. She gets snippets of memory sometimes - a whisper of wool over her scales reminds her of being a hatchling, bundled up warm; a certain birdsong reminds her of chasing through her birth clan's territory with her siblings; fragments of scripture reminds her of being taught. She knows she was hatched and raised in Plague. She knows, with all her studies into magic, she was encouraged to consider the Trials as a possible path, to further her innately Plague magic and all she used it for. She knows - she thinks she remembers her mother's face, sometimes, when she stares into the pieces of shining onyx that serve as her mirror, stares at her wavering reflection and sees someone alike to her, but not quite. Similar colours but- Well. It's all lost to her besides, after this long. And there's not much use dwelling on a past she cannot recall when she has a present to live in and a future to work towards. The Shade has stripped most of the Plaguebringer's power from her by this point - all that really lasts is the magic she was born with - but that's quite all right: she'd only really sought the Trials to further her own magic after all, not for the goddess or the diseases other Necromancers wield so readily. She still could of course, with the Shade's help, but she's endeavouring to avoid being so consumed. Gerhart would never forgive her if she was hollowed out of her very soul, and nor would she. Her deal had not been perhaps the most advisable decision she'd ever made, but she has always sought to further her magic and understanding the Shade is a part of that. And, to do that, she must remain herself and not some Shade-corrupted thing. Shade-touched, perhaps - plenty of dragons and creatures are Shade-touched, to one degree or another - but she cannot become corrupted. She is bone-pale beneath the darkness of the Shade's touch on her skin. A paleness that is terribly bright in the light, a paleness she knows the Shade does not much like. She smiles as she pulls ingredients and spell-components down from her shelves. It shall have to learn to survive with what little she is willing to give it. She sought not the Shade for power, after all. She sought it for study. She has studies to get on with now. RELATIONSHIPS
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Coded by EssayOfThoughts. Lore by EssayOfThoughts for Carna. Graphics are hyperlinked.
MEDICINE CABINET
FAVOURITE FOODS
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 Ignifer || Clan Healer || Guardian of the Hearth || Hearth is Home, Home is Healing 
The hearthfire crackles. Zaltys is coiled contentedly before it, comfortable in the cosy warmth. The light spills across the floor of the room; on Ignifer's side the warmth of it licks up against the ever-flickering emberlight of his runes, the forever marker of his Fireborn nature. But fire is not only destruction. Fire is not only burns and scalding heat and danger. Wrapped in soft blankets, one of the clan's hatchlings is curled, sleeping comfortably. With the incenses he burns in here, infection has a hard time taking root; with the bandages and salve he wrapped the young spiral's hand in, the burns will heal soon. A hearthfire is home, after all. A home is healing. Ignifer and Zaltys tend the fire, keep it going overnight - it has never once gone out, not since he has settled here. "Uncl' Ig?" It's one of the other young hatchlings at the door - one of Boronaia's brood, he thinks, based on the blue swirl of this one's wings. "Come on in, Florabelle," he calls. "Maxim is resting now." The pearlcatcher makes her way over, rolling her pearl beside her. It's getting knocks and nicks and scratches but as soon as she's beside him she curls her tail around it as she reaches her hands up so he can lift her onto his lap. The pearl follows and, as he watches, she polishes it back up to a pristine shine. "Want to know," she says, each word almost mockingly childish in exactitude. "How heal burns?" "Flo-" he says warningly. "I know you-" "Fine," she says with a scowl, and crosses her arms. "How do you heal burns? Because you're Fireborn and Nanna-Ella says fire is what causes burns, even burns like what Ferresh has from the demon he escaped, but you heal them but if you can cause them how do you heal them?" Ignifer lets his tail stretch out, lets it flicker side to side, the brightness of his Flame-blessing warming in amusement at Flo's curiosity. "All things can be bad," he says eventually. "But that doesn't mean they are. And very few things are only bad. Fire can make seeds germinate and want to grow - and growing up in the Wastes, I learned how to avoid burns and how to treat them and how to heal them." Flo looks up at him expectantly. "A salve, usually," he says. "You want something soft and damp to help moisturise the skin if it's a mild burn. Certain herbs made into a poultice can also help. If it's worse than that then you need other options - honey can be used to hold herbs softly against melted flesh, if necessary. Ice can be dangerous - it can scald burned skin even worse if one doesn't know what one's doing." He glances down to Flo who's watching him with a slight frown but no less curiosity. "But demon fire-" "Is a Shadetouched flame," he says. "And that is harder to treat. You need magic like Zaltys'-" he nods to the snake, dozing by the fire "-to be able to pry that out, magic of hearth and home that can root out the corruption and heal the damage it leaves behind. Only then can you heal it." "But you can heal it," Flo says. "Drusillus said you couldn't!" "Drusillus likes the horror stories without the happy ending," Ignifer points out. "Of course he'd say that. No, it's possible. It's just tricky." "Oh," Flo says, kicking her heels against his knees. When she looks up at him it's with earnestness more than curiosity. "Will you teach me?" |
PERSONAL TRINKETS
MOST BELOVED GIFTS
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Zaltys | Companion Generally, green snakes of any kind - let alone grass snakes - are rarely seen in the fiery lands of the Ashfall Wastes and yet, when Ignifer was young, there Zaltys was. Of course, Ignifer - with his name and his innate calling towards fire and hearth and healing magic - recognised the snake for what it was, and named him appropriately. Zaltys has travelled with him, caring for the hearths Ignifer sets him at, ever since. A protective spirit, a creature that is itself kindling, guardian, helper and friend, Zaltys has a power beyond what Ignifer is personally capable of. Ignifer is forever glad he won the snake's friendship those many years ago. |
Lore & Code by EssayOfThoughts for Perry321. Graphics are hyperlinked. Colour codes from Mikann's Font Color Picker.
H A N D L E R  KERES Every trained dog needs a handler - and Keres is Infernal's. He waits and hopes for her most perfect command - SEEK. 
I N V E N T O RY 
F A M I L I A R 
RAVANA Perhaps it is the wolf in him, but Infernal likes to have a companion. A raging, demon-touched foo beast suits him very well. 
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I N F E R N A L
It does not do to break a deal with a demon. Infernal would know - he's what happens to those who do. No one knows what he is, not completely. They call him "hellhound" because that's simply, but "wolf" is only one small part of what he is - he is bird too, carrion crow and bearded vulture, their scaled legs and dangerous claws. He is the twinned writhing tails of a rat king; the straining veins of an exerted horse; the horns of goat and cattle and antelope; and of course, lest anyone forget, the great tattered wings of a dragon. He is so much more than a hellhound, even when half-feral on the hunt. He is everything he has ever hunted too. It serves him well, when the time comes - and the time always comes. Only Keres can let him off the chain, but he revels in the freedom of it every time, the freedom of a single command. SEEK. How he seeks - that is up to him. The scent - brimstone and magic and smoke - draws him across the material plane but it hardly matters to him. He is invisible as he needs to be - only those he's likely to hunt are able to see him and... well. That can serve his purposes. The form he hunts in is not the only form he can wear, after all. He can trick. He can tease. Illusions are easy when you are mostly made of thought and rage and purpose, after all, but illusions are tricky too - voices are so hard for him to get right. "Control yourself, Infern," Keres tells him, over and over again. "Control is key." "You say that," he replies. "But try that when you're me." She can't. But she doesn't stop guiding him. She is his handler, after all, there to be sense when he is full-feral, to remind him of his task, to haul back his prey to whomever they betrayed. That is the best part of it after all, is it not? The final success, of luring the prey in, being all they want when only they can see him, of getting them closer and closer and close enough to shackle and they never quite believe it at first. It takes a while, travelling through the hellish spaces they traverse, for their prey to finally realise their truth. Infernal is always happy to meet their screams with his own. Between their terror and the glorious screech-sound of metal on stone- they make a lovely music. |
Infernal wrote:
"Hush now dear one: there is no need to hide as your hide is marked by the Symbol. You cannot outrun your fate. For I have smelled your fear, and you will not escape me!"
Lore & Code by EssayOfThoughts for Perry321. Graphics are hyperlinked. Colour codes from Mikann's Font Color Picker. Avatar icons from Starrlight's Icon BBCoder.
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D A M A C L E S
be not afraid
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song / song / song / song / song
  
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s t o r y He was sent out with a duty, long ago. He could not tell you how long ago. After all, to a creature like him, time is almost meaningless - not completely, but almost. Some things must happen at the prescribed time - otherwise, they might never come to pass. That is his duty. The threads of fate are visible to him, fine golden links between this and that, shimmering against the hides of dragons and beastclan alike, invisible to all but a few. Some seers, he knows, may glimpse the threads - but few understand what they mean. He knows. He has always known. Once - once, so long ago - his maker had commented that he was made of them. Perhaps that is why he is driven to steer their path, to ensure they weave as intended. If he is made of them, if he is part of the reel of fate - of course he would want there to be no snarls, no gaping holes in the weave of time and life and order. He is the shuttle on the loom, dodging between warp to create the weft, and he goes at his own pattern - chaotic as sometimes it may be - to create the truth his maker meant for him. Carefully, he does his duty - he can't do otherwise, even if, as he sits on a bench, watching others go by, he sees the suffering his weaving has caused. He can't regret it - he was not made to - but weaving as he does, adjusting the paths of living things, with their own wills to pull at the warp and weft intended by fate... well. That requires skill. That requires talent. That requires that he be able to think, and wonder, and question, and to decide his own path. "Well done," his maker says, a whisper from a shaft of sunlight to his side. "That was well done." Was it? To steer someone into suffering? Well managed, perhaps, to have succeeded, and perhaps well for his maker's weaving, but was it good, in the end? Was it good for the dragon? Does it matter, if it his maker's will? Beside him the dust motes swirl, drifting forwards. Damacles knows what this means: he follows the flow of suntouched dust motes to a dragon descending into the square. "They are special," the sunlight says. "Mind them for me, won't you, Damacles?" Sometimes, watching a dragon limp on by, scarred by a conflict that he himself sent it to, he wonders if this is the path he is meant to walk, utter and entire. Sometimes, watching a family pass down the street, the parents carrying their offspring in woven slings, he knows he could not give this up, these pieces of happiness he weaves into the world. Sometimes, staring at a new tangle in the weave that it is his duty to untangle, he knows he cannot leave his duty incomplete. The tangles must be mastered, cleared, directed. Even, perhaps, the ones within himself. |
code Erratumby 84463. Lore by EssayOfThoughts.
A G I O S
weaver of the threads of reality
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song / song / song / song / song
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s t o r y Everything is pulled by threads. Agios has seen them from his first days - it was how he knew his purpose. After all, every deity knows what they Became to Be - they are pulled out of nothingness to fulfil a desire of the world, or of it's people - his is just... complicated. He's sure others like him would call their jobs complicated too, but he can't really bring himself to agree. Perhaps he has an advantage, able to see the very threads of fate as he does, but still - to manage Fire as the Flamecaller does, to imprison evil darkness as the Shadowbinder does, to make life grow or to challenge it as Gladekeeper and Plaguebringer do- So what that they are the Eleven most of dragonkind acknowledge - he cannot see that their tasks are so complicated, not when he must wrestle with the free will granted to their creations and thus, in some part to them. But he is fate, and the weaving of fate. He is the wool of life spun out into a thread, and the loom of time, onto which a life is woven, and he is the shears of death, at the very end, to make sure that life has a purpose - something to push it onwards. And from the moment each thread is spun, it fights him. The problem of life: it wishes to go its own way. And thus: his combs, there to brush out the knots and tangles which should not be there, to set each thread back on it's path, or at least a path that will cause the same results. They are good combs, made with purpose, driven by purpose, unable to break from that purpose by their own nature. Not life - not the stuff he weaves into threads, no, for they are rigid where the thread can flex, and they are unchanging where the threads do nothing but change - but they are something close. They cannot feel, not as the living can, and they cannot break their patterns or their own nature - but they can think, and can alter path when directed, and they are the things he has made, of his own self, and is the proudest of. Perhaps that is why, for them, he might sometimes allow the loom to weave something a little different to what was intended. |
code Erratumby 84463. Lore by EssayOfThoughts.
B L E D D I A N
guardian of the angels of fate
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song / song / song / song / song
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s t o r y He is meant to be a guard. That is all he is meant to be. He is strength, solid and certain, guarding the gates of the angel's domain, guarding Agios' realm, protecting the guardians of the threads of fate. After all, guarding and directing the threads of fate requires different skills to guarding so vast a realm and the people of it. There is a logic to all of this. Bleddian knows it - it was imbued into him when he was first animated, first tasked with this duty. Guard the guardians, for someone must. The angels like him. He is not sure why. He understands that he guards them, and that the appreciate the protection, and that he guards Agios whom they admire and respect, and that he guards the realm they call home and for that they are grateful, but he does not understand entirely why that means they might like him. He does not oppose them liking him. He thinks, if he did that, it would hurt their feelings and his whole duty is to guard them. He cannot do that if he hurts them. Agios has commented, smilingly, that so many of the world spread raw and open below them, seem to think that raw logic is callous and cruel - that it is the Plaguebringer's push for survival or Flamecaller's rough push to work. Bleddian thinks that is very short-sighted. He is a different matter, of course, but living things require a reason to want to survive surely, and emotion to give them cause to work. Making them do something because they must... well then, they are just like him, he supposes - or worse, they are less than, for he at least knows that he brings others happiness with what he does. He thinks, later, that this is his first divergence from Agios' intent. He knows he makes others happy with what he does. There is... there is something he recognises as satisfaction in that thought, that his actions make others happy. He was not meant to feel. He does not know if, truly, this is him feeling. He knows that this could just be Agios' further purpose, giving him reason to stay within the bounds established for him. Yet he cannot help but wonder if this is intended. Is he meant to feel? And, worse, what will happen if he is not meant to? It is a good thing, he supposes, that he barely recognises these things he might feel, that he knows even less of how to express them to others. If he expressed them, that might be his undoing, and if he is undone he cannot do his duty, can he? He cannot protect if he is not at all. He thinks... he thinks he likes existing. He would not like no longer being at all. |
code Erratumby 84463. Lore by EssayOfThoughts.
S I N G E R
wandering, wary immortal
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f a v o u r i t e__f o o d s
t r i n k e t s
Familiar: Anomalous Skink Name: Charlie About: A peculiar thing about the anomalous - they don't operate by normal means. Charlie has lived some six decades, by Singer's count, far beyond the lifespan of most skinks - even magical ones. Singer hopes Charlie will live longer still. |
s t o r y He should have died long ago. He hasn't died yet. He heard tales as he grew up, of dragons which simply... persisted. Dragons which lived and lived and did not die, no matter what they faced. They were of all kinds, he was told - guardians so very strong, and pearlcatchers with pearls bigger even than they were, and spirals which continued to find joy in all things. Never imperials. He never heard a tale of immortal imperials. Of course not - everyone knew what happened to imperials. They fell, and if they were not razed to ashes, they were raised as something else. Everyone knew that. Singer still went to fight, went to do what he felt was his duty, and out there, on the fields, he fell. He did not expect to rise. 
He rose, and he remembered, and he did not rot. He did not rot. He knew that that was odd. There was still colour to his flesh, scarred even as it was, a painted patchwork that had always had him called a jigsaw or a stitchdragon or a sewnbeast, but he had hardly cared. The colour was no less vibrant. When he pressed his hand to his chest, he felt his heartbeat. He was no emperor yet. No, he thought, half giddy with with relief and laughter threatening to spill out. No, an emperor must have an empire, must he not? And he was not inclined to conquer one. At the edge of the battlefield, a figure watched him rise, and watched him laugh in joy at his life, and watched him leave. 
The figures watched. He did not always notice them. And then, one day, he could not help but notice them. They were not always dragons, the things he glimpsed out of the corners of his eyes, the things that stepped in sometimes, and guided things this way or that. Many wore that form, some golden and some scarlet and some pitch as black and yet shining with light from their eyes and claws. They were not beasts of Shade, of that he was sure. But he was not sure what they were, not fully. One, one he saw often, one he did not know had watched him rise from the battlefield, took the form of a stag. It's antlers spread wide, and wide, and wider, and in the forest one might think it's antlers were the canopy. Nonsense, Singer knew. If that were the case it could not sprint so easily fleet-of-foot through the forest. One looked like a serthis, except it's coils were infinite. One was a wildclaw, cream and gold, and if he looked at it through half-closed eyes he could see the ring of eyes that orbited the space where it's head should be. And where-ever they went, strange things happened. 
A path forks. Singer knows, already, that a creature draws near to direct the walker. He had tried to fight the strange things that no one else saw. First, people thought him mad. Then, when he was proven right, they thought that he was the bad omen, and not those he pointed out. And then, after he had lived far longer than any dragon should ever expect to live, they called him old, and senile, and knocked around in the head after all his battles. Better that you rest, they told him. I think grandfather's seeing things. For a while, they'd made him wonder if what they said was true. Perhaps he had lived too long. Perhaps he was imagining things- Except he saw that cream creature again, with a ring of orbiting eyes in place of a head. He saw that stag, with antlers that became the canopy. He saw the serthis, with it's infinite coils. He saw, sometimes, a beam of light which lit up threads that tangled around every dragon, and then one of those creatures he saw would intervene and the threads would... Like a comb on a snarl on a loom. Neatening things out. He often wondered if, had those dragons directed by those strange creatures known what would come of those directions, they would have taken those directions nonetheless. Looking at the scars they bore afterwards, scars so similar to the ones which littered his own hide, he suspected they would not. 
After long enough, merely being around the young and lively hurts too much to be near. He lives in the woods now. He lives far away from most dragons, and only ventures to them when he is asked, or when he is needful. He has seen too many die or pass on to exaltation, seen too many become lost, or steered by those strange spirits - he will not call them angels when he is so certain they do not deserve the title. He stays in the forest and he makes tea. Sometimes, those scant few other immortals he has encountered over the centuries visit. Some of them still have a zest for life, still enjoy the freedom they have to face death and bounce back, to explore without fear. Some are shaken and scarred, halfway ruined by the trauma of what they've faced, what they have no choice but to face, with what they are. How many they have lost. How many injuries they have borne. How many scars they bear. So they sit, and they have tea. Sometimes, rarely, one will mention the strange spirits. It seems, Singer thinks, that the longer one lives, the more one will see them. They haven't stopped their meddling. He wishes they would. |
code Erratumby 84463. Lore by EssayOfThoughts.
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Zaerin
|| word || word || word || leadership is a duty, not a right to power. |
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Every dragon has their priorities. Zaerin Vinde's are simple: protect the clan, ensure the clan stays safe and secret, ensure no members of the clan are hurt, and ensure no innocents are hurt. He's seen innocents hurt. No one deserves that. Some dragons would claim he has low ambitions. Some dragons seek to grow their clans - to expand their territory and grow their businesses, to add more and more dragons until they're more than their land can deal with. Zaerin takes a longer view. Anyone can join the clan as long as they abide by the rules - but there's no need to push growth. Taking things slowly and steadily is more than enough, and in the lands of Light they always have what they need to thrive. They are not so challenged, after all, as dragons of the Scarred Wasteland, and hatched in the Labyrinth as he was, he knows how to make life thrive. And so, under his careful tending, the clan thrives. It hardly requires forceful effort - no brutal conquest or colonial conflict, no hurt wrought on others and the world. Calm and caring and steady, that is his way, and it serves the clan quite well. |
     
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Born of Nature, thriving in Light and touched by Moonlight, Zaerin Vinde is an unusual dragon to say the least. Most clans are led by their progenitors, founding dragons who found the land and started the first nests - but not all. Sometimes newer, younger dragons claim that mantle, be that by conquest or by the retirement of the original founders. Zaerin's mantle was passed to him, and it is one he wears well. Never a strict dragon, but always clear on the rules, Zaerin tends the clan's wellbeing, keeping them safely hidden from those who might do them and their more peaceable ways harm. At the least, in the Sunbeam Ruins, most dragons are too stuck on Light and Truth to go out of their way after a hidden clan - but Zaerin knows better than to assume safety. Nature's thriving strength has been forced to flee into earned survival by Plague's attacks and he knows how long the reach of other Flights can be. Generally, when not tending the clan's needs, Zaerin is friendly and relaxed, for all he's more than strong enough to join the clan's defenders when needs be. Usually he spends time helping - building new structures, weaving new cloth, making new jewellery - and he enjoys creating new items that match his remarkable, moonlit colouration. |
 Dearest Friend  Clan Logistician  Key Advisor  Earned Ally |
Art done by Modell
Code modelled on Simple & Sweet by retroRoyalty. Lore by EssayOfThoughts. Graphics are hyperlinked. Colour codes from Mikann's Font Color Picker. Avatar icons from Starrlight's Icon BBCoder.
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Atarangi to the service of the Flamecaller 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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- 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.