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Personal Style





3.61 m
6.38 m
678 kg


Primary Gene
Secondary Gene
Tertiary Gene


Apr 21, 2021
(2 years)



Eye Type

Special Eye Type
Level 25 Wildclaw
Max Level



  • none


  • none


One temptation sparked this
Now I can feel the darkness
It's my own fault but you had this planned
All of me you take now, like criminals and shakedowns
Yeah, you make me forget who I am

- Jon Bellion, The Good In Me


Lore Keynotes:
- he / him

- The Forest Prince
- entire clan was wiped out by Luminax, and their stretch of the forest (a sacred place for his particular group) was utterly demolished. adrift and seeking purpose in the aftermath.
- still struggling to reconcile his own feelings on what happened, because this dissolved an arranged mateship that he had dreaded and gave him back his life but cost him everything else.
- really likes cats

by dieselhound
by meese

"I - The Magus" wrote:
There was stillness, but for the grasses gently blowing in the breeze on the slope and the slow rustle of the beast's shaggy fur--a pelt the color of dead leaves, rank and damp from where it had crawled from its earthen burrow in the Hewn City to hunt. That it had drifted so far into their range before being spotted was itself an egregious oversight, and one that Diogo would take up with his father later. He was getting on in years, certainly, but this was the first time something so dangerous as a pronghorn had been given leave to breach their sacred grounds in over a decade.

The predator hefted its head, sniffing the air in great, wet snorts. It stood easily as tall as a guardian, and with an appetite to match it couldn't be left free to roam where it might choose to take one of their own as prey.

Diogo's feather-crest rose. From low in his throat, a keen brought half-a-dozen more heads peeking up from their hiding places in the brush. He arched his tail lightly, extended one wing at a time backward to stretch muscles gone stiff from sitting his statuesque vigil. He could feel his brethren's eyes on his back, waiting. As Alexio's son and a warrior-captain, they were trusting him with their lives against such a creature. But they had felled greater beasts than this, and as he settled onto his haunches with a slow shifting of his weight talon-to-talon, he felt the familiar rush of excitement settle over him.

Even a civilized wildclaw knew well the thrill of staring down such a powerful foe, after all.

Slitted pupils bloated to golden discs, and in one swift movement he broke free of the foliage, shrieking his challenge to the towering monstrosity. It startled, whirled on all fours and then rose quickly to its full, terrifying height, but Diogo only flared his wings wide as he tore forward across the wheat-colored grass. Behind him, the chorus of his fellows' battlecries echoed in his ears. The pronghorn bellowed, hoisting an oversized paw to swing as the distance between them closed--and the wildclaw, despite himself, grinned ferociously.

Come, then, beast!

"XII - The Sacrifice" wrote:
"Look at you!" Soraya chided. And Diogo opened his mouth and nattered displeasure as his mother buried her nose in his feathers and began to groom him like a mussed-up hatchling, her teeth parting the tangles at the back of his skull and smoothing them into something more presentable.

"You can't let Eufemia see you like that!"

Right. Eufemia. Diogo shifted his feet awkwardly, fiddled with the embroidered sash in his claws and let his eyes' focus drift into the middle distance. There was nothing wrong with Eufemia. She was a lovely dragoness, the eldest daughter of the clan's prophet besides--and in another cycle of the moon would be his mate. A 'pooling of the blood,' the rare combining of lines that had drifted far apart over the generations. Something to be celebrated. He should have been elated; despite being the chieftain's firstborn son, he would never have been considered for such a prestigious position if he hadn't sweat and bled for the clan every day of his life. And he did love his home with every fiber of his being--would have laid down his life in a heartbeat for any of his neighbors. He needed no reward to devote himself wholly to the Wood and all the dragons in it. Perhaps that was why he had never spoken up. Made his hesitancy known. Begged this single freedom. Instead, Eufemia would become his mate, and they would replace his own mother and father as the heads of the clan, and their hatchlings would be born into the lineages of warrior and seer, both, completing the Blood Wreath and ensuring the Word of the Wood carried on for generations more to come.

It was an honor he bested a dozen other dragons to have earned--so why did it feel like a noose tightening around his neck?

His mother settled the last of his feathers with a stroke of her talons and let out a satisfactory chirp at the state of her son's crest, jarring him out of his own head. He turned to face her sidelong, bit the end of his tongue and chewed. He was running out of time to say something. Maybe if he were to air his uncertainty they would either reconsider, or at least give him a few seasons more to decide if this was something he felt ready for. Maybe they wouldn't be ashamed their fearless young warrior-captain and eldest child, who had stared down wraith hound and tengu and nightmare alike, unflinching, locked up like a deer at the mere idea of being wed.

"Ah, mother, I actually--"

From outside, a bell rang, making his crest flatten back down meekly. Soraya's attention was drawn immediately away, and she looked out over her shoulder, out the window of the house, and flared her wings with excitement.

"You look fine, dear, don't you worry. Get that sash around you--I need to go and help prepare the catch now they're home!"

And she turned and trotted merrily for the door, leaving him wringing his claws until the fabric twisted within them began to pop and fray.

"XVI - The Beheaded Tower" wrote:
It had happened so quickly there was nothing a one of them could have done. The prey-trails had begun running bare, but migration patterns had changed before and would change again, and so the hunters had simply widened their range to feed the tribe and all had been well.

And then, one day, the Emperor had appeared, three gargantuan heads held high enough to look over the treetops at the little village of wildclaws. They had conquered many a threat to their sacred home before, but they had never faced a thing like this. Alexio led the charge with Diogo at his right hand, father and son and all the dragons of the Wood prepared to defend their home to the last breath--and for all but one, that breath was drawn that day.

The massacre lasted a day and a night before the beast's bloodthirst was quenched. Or maybe it simply grew bored when the last tree had broken, the last home collapsed. Who could know what terrible whimsy governed such an abomination? As quickly as it came, it departed.


Diogo groaned, panting in shallow gasps that ached behind the cracked and bruised cage of his ribs. He couldn't move at first, pinned beneath a section of brick and mortar and broken wood that had collapsed atop him. One wing lay half-beneath him, numb, and wouldn't move when he tried to pull it up--thoroughly broken. He hissed as shards of glass snagged in his belly feathers, lighting up in a dozen sharp little pinpricks across his stomach and chest.


He was alive.

His last memory was of his father, snatched out of the air by a mouth full of teeth as long as his own horns, and then a tail whipping around, cuffing him, smashing him into and through a wall that groaned and gave--

He coughed and felt tears flood his eyes from the pain. With his arms shaking, he tugged himself forward a careful inch. A cascade of crumbled mortar and stone chips fell in a trickle, the dust dancing in the orange-tinged morning light, but nothing more. He turned his head as much as he could and sighed the softest little hiss of relief through his nose. A table, overturned in the chaos, had caught the worst of the wall and left him battered-but-alive in a narrow triangular gap against the floor. He gritted his back teeth and began to drag his beaten body forward, and forward, stalwartly ignoring the way splinters of wood and more thorns of shattered glass jabbed into his skin as he went, and after minutes of effort so exhausting he could feel froth built up in the corners of his mouth he had pulled himself free of the fallen wall, and collapsed on his side in the dirt. Unable to move any further, he lay still and gasped for air until the sky stopped spinning above him and he could lift his head again--and when he did the world fell through his stomach into nothingness.

Gone. All of it. Every building, flattened to rubble. Every tree, uprooted or snapped at the trunk. Great gouges had been carved into the ground, into the barren paths. Worst of all, though, was the silence. No voices calling out for survivors. No cries for rescue. Not even the crowing of scavenger-beasts there to glory in the aftermath. Only ruin.

Only Diogo.

"XIII - The Scythe" wrote:
He looked up the hill at the winding, cobbled path that cut through the grass, overgrown in spots from disuse. Then back over his shoulder across the long field, to the copse of trees that marked the outer edge of his broken home. From here, no one could see the savaged patch of forest beyond the meadow. They had kept themselves so far apart from the rest of the Flight that their life and death would make no impact on any other dragon. Affect nothing. A bitter thought, pushed aside.

Even here, remnants of Luminax could be seen. Felt. It had headed west after the massacre, leaving behind the indentations of its claws in the earth and sour swirls of corrupted Light magic twisting in the wind even four days passed.

Diogo swallowed down a lump that had risen in his throat. He had spent his time scraping by while his strength had returned, eating slowly-rotting leftover foodstuffs dug from beneath the rubble. Bandaging himself with shredded scraps of curtains, clothing, nest material, whatever he could find that was moderately clean. He knew he looked a fright. Knew that for now he was little more than bait for anything lurking the roads. Knew, too, that in this he had no choice: eventually nature would come to reclaim the settlement, and he was far too frail to stop it. The wheel of life would turn, and eventually the ruins would crumble atop the shallowly-buried bones of his former world, the Wood they held so dear poetically encroaching and swallowing up their memory until nothing else remained.

There were worse things, he supposed. He had seen one up close.

Sore and already homesick, Diogo closed his eyes and set his jaw. Funny how, when he had been tethered, all he wanted was an ounce more freedom. Now here he was pining for his binds. He felt tears cut tracks down his face, and again asked himself if he was making the right decision in leaving. What else was there to do, though? Die among the ghosts? No. Not him. Not now.

He raised his head, raised his crest, dusty and sweat-matted as it was, and stepped onto the path.
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