Welkin
(#69612875)
I've lost wars inside my head, but hallelujah, I'm not dead
Familiar
Libra
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Energy: 47/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Earth.
Male Wildclaw
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.55 m
Wingspan
8.72 m
Weight
614.93 kg
Genetics
Phthalo
Iridescent
Iridescent
Copper
Butterfly
Butterfly
Copper
Capsule
Capsule
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 14 Wildclaw
EXP: 386 / 54161
STR
49
AGI
25
DEF
8
QCK
40
INT
5
VIT
21
MND
7
Biography
| __._ |
 How can a heart hold mercy in it, if its foreign to the motion in itself? Third son in a realm where being a boy meant nothing. Third son, youngest, useless, worthless. The Empress and her wives looked at him and deemed him wanting. Not even a kiss from his mother, instead he was given to the concubine to be raised by him among the rest of the golden shackled, silk wearing males. The wives sneered, one even picked at his skin, at the black copper of his hair, a five year old, snot nosed boy wanting his mother’s embrace. Look at him, he would have been so pretty, had he just been a girl. The empress didn’t even look at him, face painted white, he only remembered her mouth, her cruel, cruel lips - narrow and painted black - speaking without looking. She told her wives to ignore it, it would go away soon enough. Any unworthy leech would eventually fall off, wither and die because without a host it could not survive. He reached up, any of them would have been, searching hands reaching nothing but empty air, cold from abandonment. Calling out for them, any of them to react, it ended with him getting picked up by those donning armor. Between cracks of metal, he found fleeting warmth of skin, but even those women were cold and hard, they brought him back into the only place where one could find males. A room pillowed and plush, soft and barred by the shadows of the cage. They warned the concubine responsible for him, keep him away from the Empress, from the wives, teach him the values of a boy and keep him silent. You need to learn before you can teach. Was it really such a wonder for the unloved boy to grow into a loveless man? He was a wild one, wilder than the rest of the boys in the golden cage. A wounded heart that only found soothing in the pain of others, in satisfying a reckless, brazen desire as selfish as it was pure. Not one to be let out much, he was only one of the many, a face in the crowd of crownless princes and failures to their mothers. He grew vicious out of pain and sadistic out of plain boredom, in an environment meant to subdue and soften the mind, he was a restless sore that needed to be lanced and cut out. Before he infected the rest of the body and caused sepsis to spread. A wandering monk arrived just in time. The man was asking for gifts, not of the coin but food and work, yet he walked away with a sullen prince. Anger served you well in your old life. Now you will let it go. Enraged, furious, he raged and pushed against the older man, but every insult, every attack bounced off the impeccable smile, every hit of his fists dodged deftly. Even when he chased after, it felt like trying to wrestle nothing but empty air, always a step ahead, one push and he was in the dirt, sweaty, angry, hurting and tired. Like a wild stallion, he was tamed day by day a bit more. Taken from him were his shoes, because he needed to learn gratitude. His gems, his silks and his fancy sword were given away, turned into coin and meals for those that had nothing. He was taught to scavenge, not to hunt - never hunt - which root to eat, which to apply to his blistering feet. How to wear the loose linen of his new, old clothes best. Which way to wrap his feet, how to stand and to breathe when rage boiled hot and wild under his skin. No tears could sway the relentless teaching, always soft underneath the iron of discipline. Laziness and failure were not acceptable, redo it, retry. Watch and learn. It is the teaching that has served our order well for centuries. They had been walking for months and were not there yet. In the abby, the fortress without weapons, walls with gates open to all, crafted into the icy peaks of a snow covered mountain chain. This was the goal, the end of their journey and the start for him to actually learn. More than the teaching between the road’s dust and howling winds at night. And the angry boy with no mercy in his heart had grown. Outgrown his old shell, already showing the buddings of a heart opening itself to the world. He was not yet content but on his way. To accept this change of his life. With no more bleeding feet and comfortable in the robes of old linen given to him, he had grown used to this, found a solace he had been missing back then, in his golden, past life. So why did he throw it all away again? Based on a petty argument, one whose root he couldn’t even remember anymore, he crushed all hopes for a new beginning. On steep, slippery stairs up the mountain’s side, he yelled and cursed and when the monk’s placid smile remained, he pushed a turned back. Because the monk trusted him, the tamed wild child. Impulse won over better judgement and one moment to the next, it was all gone. The monk, his only friend, his new life. I’m sorry! I am so sorry...please, please… Underneath a grave of stones, his lives disappeared. His old, his new, gone. All of it. There was nothing left anymore. He could not part from his robes, could not from the prayer beads around his neck, but he could drown himself in the flood of alcohol. Cheap booze was always available and the bite of it soothed the edges of sorrow like nothing else could. On the run, drunk and alone, he thought this was it now. This was the end of him. You look like you need some company. The woman with her armor and the brand on her cheek sat next to him, poured him cup after cup after cup, while others joined her. Red patted his back in between each cup of booze, Ashworth took his bruised and swollen hands. He could still smell the balm rubbed all over his cracked skin, still to this day. Minty, fresh, comforting in its sharpness. Mishka wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and somewhere along the lines, Bolt had not only found his way on his lap, but he himself became a part of them. Them. The Suns. They were family, rag tag and barely a dozen of them, but they accepted. Open like Bolt, like him or withdrawn like Song, they had ups and downs, they had each other in more ways than one. This was too much of a good thing, bliss where he thought only despair would reside. And still, even then he could not abandon the cups he was named after. At their bottoms he drowned the last lingering of guilt, in between pranks and caresses and scoldings, he thought of a forever. He took it bad when Red decided to leave, a wife and a daughter at his home, he could understand but he still missed him. They were a group, they were incomplete without Red. No one could take his space. Red wrote. Something’s wrong with his little daughter. This wasn’t how he had imagined their reunion. He cried, like always. But this time, there was no teasing, no joking about him crying a river. They patted his back, Mishka, Ashworth, Berry, Lily and Bolt, they didn’t mind his tears blurring their signs on the response letter. If Red noticed it, he never said anything either, because he knew, they all did, his bleeding heart. Helpless to do anything? So he cried. Overwhelmed by emotions too much for him to handle? Tears were falling. One last job and Red’s little daughter would be fine, then the money would be enough. He was so happy to have Red back, he refused to let go of the man for the rest of the evening. Older, grey, worn down but still their Red. Just as he was their Cups. Tis simple. We get hired, we fight. We get paid, we leave. Nothing ever was so simple. And as the horns of war blew in earliest morning, he knew they were set up. He struggled, a whirlwind of fists and kicks and evasiveness but it didn’t help, he couldn’t warn them of the conversation he had overheard. And with one brutal hit, he was to the ground, light fading. The Suns were lost. Gimme another one! White City was too bright for his reddened, itching eyes and even the shadow of his hat’s rim could not blot out the eternal sun. Day, always day, even the so called nights where white, filled with glittering, swirling fog that did nothing to dampen the brightness. But maybe that's good, because sleep always ended the same for him. To wake up, crying and screaming because he dreamt he was back there. In that swamp of blood, waking between corpses long cold and stiffer than a slab of marble. He could still feel the crunch of his skull’s splintered parts, rubbing against each other, broken from the hit that knocked him down and out, taste on his tongue something he never would forget. Running over the field, despite the hurt, despite the blood gushing from his nose and his wounds, he found her. Lily. She had been made an example of, her body put on display because they had no respect for her. Because they knew not of the divinity she held within her. It took him days to take her down, to bury her between wild flowers. Days of hiding, hurting, crying. And when he arrived at the makeshift camp for the wounded, finally, it was overrun by the law already. Hey, monk! C’mere and give em dogs their last rites. He got picked out of too many pubs, his tab ran high and higher even, one day they would deem it not worth anymore and just slit his throat. He hoped that day would come soon. He really did. But no, instead a ghost of the past stepped on his slumped over form, even through two masks, he would recognize that voice, that eye everywhere. Bolt had changed but even then, he still was the same and he wasn’t alone either. There had been losses, deep cutting ones, but beside the grief there also was joy. The Suns were deemed a lost cause and yet, in the whole of the Undying Empire, a rumor spread, a rumor that had lured him here to begin with. The Emperor’s Suns, they were called. Not with mockery or anger, it was a mere statement of the truth. The Emperor himself encouraged this, on his wrist a golden bracelet dangled, suns in ruby and quartz, emerald and sapphire, topas too. You survived! Mishka and Bolt and Red and Song. And the sun rose once more, a new day. A new life. He hopes, he prays, this is the final one. 
| ___ |
code & assets by archaic #19153
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Exalting Welkin 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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