Geras
(#68804896)
Level 1 Imperial
Corruptrix
Blight Nymph
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Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Imperial
This dragon is benefiting from the effects of eternal youth.
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Hatchling dragons cannot wear apparel.
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.10 m
Wingspan
1.65 m
Weight
93.59 kg
Genetics
Caramel
Iridescent
Iridescent
Sanguine
Safari
Safari
Blood
Runes
Runes
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
PROFILE
Name: Geras "Gerry" Everyoung
Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Profession: Independent Researcher of Magic and Disease. Interests: Magical diseases, their effects and utility. Maintaining his own independence. Maintaining his youth and not being picked at for his lack of interest in growing up, having nests or experiencing romance. TREASURES 
The very reason Geras sought eternal youth, Geras enjoys speaking to his ancestors and wishes they had not passed so soon. 
Geras does love a good cup of tea. Most often he can be found at his desk, a teapot and steaming cup at his side. 
Most would not expect Geras, of all dragons, to collect pressed flowers - but he likes the challenge of preserving something's beauty. 
Geras loves his research more than just about anything else, both his completed scrolls - and his projects still in the works. 
TRINKETS 
APOTHECARY 
MAGICAL TOOLS 
APPAREL 
FAVOURITE FOODS 
NECRO GERAS 
Necro Geras
#2524412
FAMILIAR 
Familiar: Blight Nymph
Name: Corruptrix Personality: Lively, friendly and a notorious flirt, Trix is one of few beings that can get away with teasing Geras. Corruptrix found Geras, not the other way around, namely when he was searching for a solution to Carmilla's feral attacks. She'd drifted off again by the time Geras had a solution - but she always returns. Geras wouldn't know what to think of her if she wasn't so helpful in his research. At times he finds her frustrating, with all her jokes and teasing, but she's far from stupid, knowing Plague better than most. |
Not everything is about you.
It's not about me, either. PERSONALITY For someone so perpetually young, Geras can be extraordinarily stubborn and set in his ways. A scholar of all things he possibly can be, he took first the Trials and, on deciding that Necromancers were too corrupt to be worthwhile, transitioned instead to the ranks of the Pathogenecytes where he maintains his youth and changed his Tertiary to indicate his preferential interest in magical disease. A firm follower of Likhoradka's philosophy, Geras can often be found studying, as he prefers to understand the mechanics wholly before he enacts a new technique. ABOUT It's not about you. Geras has had to say that far too many times in his life. It's not about you, I didn't do this for you or because of you. Not everything in this world comes back to you. But some dragons just don't seem to get it. Carmilla does and that's a blessing. Carmilla understands that he hadn't sought to re-ensoul her for her benefit - or at least, not solely her benefit, and there are those who'd argue it's to a Wights detriment besides - but to save the dragons she had been preying on, to prove his might for all his size and seeming youth, and, lastly, to give her a chance to make amends and a chance to find peace, one way or another. "Were you trying to trick me?" one Councillor asks, aghast as he looks down at where Geras perches on Carmilla's shoulder. "You- you wraith-looking child-dragon, trying to convince me that this-" Geras watches as the dragon bites back whatever they had been about to say about Carmilla. "That she is the Necromancer here?" "If you think that," Geras says, "you're more stupid than I thought you were for believing that idea in the first place. Not everything's about you Eomagnus." They pace on through the council chambers and Geras sighs. He understands why they're like this, that's the terrible thing. They are Necromancers, their pride comes from standing on their own feet against terrible things, they have spent years, sometimes decades - in Ague's or Alden's case years - proving themselves, one way or another. It is already hard enough for any dragon to see outside of their own perspective - they see the world first through their own eyes, after all, and it takes time and learning and maturity and skill to see it through another's even a little - even more so when a dragon is told or becomes convinced that their perspective is the only one that matters. "I almost didn't see you there!" goes Epiphysea, when he scurries along the floor to reach Camilla again - as though Geras would believe that when the guardian managed to step around a Fae not a few minutes earlier. "I thought you were a prodigy," Malus says, sneering, "Not that you chose to stay like that." - as though it was an affront for Geras to choose to counter ageing of his own will. "Won't you ever grow and have hatchlings?" asks Histola, hopefully - as though she was owed new addition to her massive genealogy charts, Necromancer lineage after Necromancer lineage. "I have my reasons," he tells each of them after each of them. "They are not yours. Frankly, they have nothing to do with you." Some of them take more offence at that, at the reminder that they are not the centre of the universe, let alone his, but there is only so much he can do, only so much patience he has. Besides, his interests lay elsewhere. The clan of Tethys is an interesting one. Geras would not call himself a failure as so many of the clan's dragons proudly brand themselves, but he knows that he is seen as one. That dragons think he should have matured instead of kept himself so youthful, that dragons think he is unskilled for how he keeps ageing at bay rather than skilled for managing it, that dragons think him a child for his appearance and never think to speak of his mind, or his magic. "They are fools," Carmilla says with a laugh, butting her nose against his tiny antlers. "They judge based on what they see, rather than what you can prove. They judge because it fits their own opinion, rather than because it is true." So it is, Geras thinks, except at the clan of Tethys. Oh, there are other clans he knows, less traditional and more heretical - and this clan toes that line sometimes too - but few which mark what they are considered as and what they might see themselves as so openly. The pride of most Necromancers forbids them from considering their own capability for failure or mistakes - there is a reason why, after duels, a Necromancer might hide their face until such a time they can prove themself in a duel again. There's a reason why he's considering leaving them. No one likes failure, Geras can agree that much with certainty, but he rather thinks too many take it as a personal failing, rather than a chance for growth. "An interesting theory, little one," says Haema as he explains himself to her. He had to pass muster for Tethys before he was allowed in, but it is Haema now who judges his request to join the clan's research division - not her mate Aerugosanguis, and not his second-in-command, Pleurisy. He understands why, he thinks. He does not truly mean to join either's Cells - he'd rather become a third faction within the clan and for that... For that they ask the grandmother of the clan her judgement, for how long she has spent keeping them all in checks and balances against each other. If he would upset the delicate weight of things he does not doubt he will be sent on his way, Carmilla in tow. "Only little in form," he points out. "I am no more a child than-" he points carefully to the small Fae watching the conversation. "Bottfly," Haema says. "I suppose that is true. I am just used to thinking of you all as little ones." He can see how that might affect things but- "Still," he says. "My name is Geras. If you must call me something else, Gerry is acceptable." "Gerry," Haema says. "You are an interesting one." She looks above him, to where Carmilla looms. "And you are not the only unusual or interesting ones we have encountered. I think you would do well here, as long as you do not seek too much chaos." "The most chaos I cause," Geras says perhaps a little stiffly, "Is when people judge me based on opinion, rather than fact. That is on them." "Perhaps," Haema says, and she is hiding a smile now, Geras knows it. "But perhaps sometimes you feed it, intentionally or not, hm, Gerry?" Well... perhaps a little. "I'll endeavour not to," he says and Plaguebringer knows he paints an odd picture like this, a small dragon more a hatchling than grown, cradled in the arms of a huge and ominous and cold-to-the-touch Wight, speaking as stiffly and formally as any old scholar, Ague included. Ague who is here. Perhaps he is not so immune to the pride of their caste as he sometimes likes to think. "Take some time with Pleurisy before you settle," Haema suggests. "Or perhaps Ondine, I think her heresy may intrigue you. Chambers will be made for you before week's end." "You know my granddaughter," the Lord of the Legion says, when Geras encounters him next council meeting. "Viria." Geras blinks. "The Runeblight?" he asks. "The very same." ConTam has always been intimidating, mad as a bag of cats and brilliant as the very fever-fire that fills him, but Geras doesn't think he's ever been observed by the Fever King like this, with wariness and careful caution. "We stay with Tethys," he says. "But I hardly profess to know her." In truth, he thinks, they have spoken perhaps twice. She smells alike to Aerugosanguis and Haema and Intestinum and Ondine - and Bottfly and Perseus too, now he thinks about it - but he had hardly marked it. Aerugosanguis' family is known and that one more of his entourage might smell of his blood is hardly unlikely. He hadn't know she was related to ConTam. "She fled us," ConTam says. "Until she arrived with Pleurisy we thought her dead." At his side his 'servus mate twists her hands to mark both nervousness and sign language. Geras really must get around to learning it properly at some point; scattered phrases are not adequate with how much time he spends at the council chambers. Then again, the way things are going, he might well be leaving soon. "I did not know," Geras says simply. "Why-?" ConTam's face is suddenly very much closer, fever-fire breath right against Geras'. "You are a strange one, forever-child. You know far more than most think." The unspoken threat is clear. Why should I believe you now? Ah. Geras has heard of the Legion-Lord's madness, heard of how he seeks to gather his family close, heard too of the curse on him and his mate, that keeps so many of his children from him. It seems the Legion-Lord thinks him some part of it. "I did not know that," he clarifies. "Genealogy hardly matters to me-" and he gestures to his forever childlike form. "And I did not think to ask." He pauses, considers what he does know of all of those who smell alike to Aerugosanguis - and ConTam does too, now he thinks to look for it, a peaty earthiness beneath the flames, beneath the plague, a trace of Aerugosanguis' own birth element carried along. Not for nothing, he thinks, does Bottfly so assiduously avoid the council chambers. Not for nothing do Aerugosanguis and Intestinum look so sadly across the grand chamber at ConTam. Now he knows they are all blood- "You dare dismiss my own line to me-" "It's not about you," he says. "I don't see why so many expect me to act in their favour when I hardly know most of them. You included." And ConTam... ConTam laughs. "You are a strange one," ConTam says, withdrawing and a smile almost genuine spreading across his face. Fever-fire and fever-fickle as ever. "Perhaps we shall talk again forever-child. Perhaps, should we duel, I might undo that forever-childness." "You're welcome to try," Geras replies. "But I hardly think any dragon has realised how except for me." After all - he is the only one to consider ageing as much a disease as any infection. Even Ague would rather show age than try to counter it. The only Necromantic example he can think of - well Hecate is a strange case, as unalike to his as could be expected even given her Ghoulhood. Freak mutations from the Trials can do that to a dragon. "One day," ConTam promises - and Geras knows better than to think it anything but. "For now... I must see to my family." The massive imperial stalks off, his tiny fae mate fluttering along in his wake and Geras feels Carmilla let out a long breath. "Strong you may be, Geras," his companion says, worry lacing her words. "But I think he might challenge that." He could say It's not about you, but Carmilla knows that and he doesn't think it's fair to say that to someone who has been so long a trusted companion. When he meets her eyes he can see the message there without her even saying a word. He knows the shape of her soul too well not to. It's not about you, either, her gaze says and he knows she is not wrong. She knows it even better than he does. Wights are hardly raised by their own choice, are they? Their actions feral and wild and uncontrolled as any far-gone Ghoul. The world does not care, most other dragons do not care. The world does what it wants, heedless of the wills of those who live in it; those who live in it do as they will, more often than not unaware of those they affect. The truth she knows is a simple and old one, one even he has not yet fully grasped. It's not about any of us, Geras thinks. Even what others do. Geras joins Aerugosanguis and Pleurisy, when the clan's Necromancers decide to go their own way. The blatant corruption, the obvious favouritism, the way in which the crimes of some of so blatantly ignored while others are constantly lambasted for doing the least thing, for rumours started about their supposed crimes, rumours with no evidence to back them- No, he is not inclined to stay in an organisation so utterly rotten to it's very core. So utterly certain that it is all about them, that what they do is ultimate and right. He wants to spit at whatever phantom spirit of hubris, whatever eidola of pride - it is that they truly follow, because he does not think they follow the Plaguebringer anymore. He wonders, as he joins the others in searching for new opportunities, if they ever did. He knows his path. He knows Sparagmos, crazed Sparagmos, wishes to venture to the new kind that the Lord of the Legion found and joined himself too, for if now-Reginn has gained sanity and stability from it, perhaps he might too. He knows too that Viria has her own worries, hounding her away from the clan, and Bottfly simply does not trust the Council not to come down on their heads for leaving so utterly. But Geras thinks he knows where he wishes to go. Ague's stories of the Pathogenecytes are fascinating. RELATIONSHIPS
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