Aziza
(#75506436)
"What would you do, to reach rubedo?"
Familiar
Silverstring Harp
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Skydancer
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.46 m
Wingspan
3.63 m
Weight
476.52 kg
Genetics
Coal
Ripple
Ripple
Coal
Seraph
Seraph
Antique
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
principia aurea
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Alchemy is a mysterious process, one that not everyone can truly understand. The biggest mystery must certainly be the elixir of life. What substance could possibly exist with the power to make one immortal? Whatever it was, Aziza’s father discovered it. She sees him now, in her mind’s eye, pressing a vial into her hand, urging her to drink. She does, without question. Her father trusts her, as she trusts him. She dutifully logs the side effects in an objective manner, writing it all down in a leather-bound journal, just as she was taught. Father wants reliable data on his newest experiment, and as always, she will deliver. They showed up without warning. Mysterious disappearances in the village nearby have turned these men to desperation. The people cry for blood, and they will harvest from the nearest source. Her father is first, he faces his death with dignity. He does not fight back, he does not cry out. He hopes that his blood will be enough, but it is not enough, it is never enough, they all must die. She wails and struggles but the men’s grip is like iron and she is half their size. Next is her mother, who stroked her hair and told her stories when sleep eluded her. The blade is swift, and she prays it did not hurt. Her screams grow louder and more desperate still as her younger brother loses his head. He was too small, too young to die. And now it is her turn. She pleads and squirms, desperate to avoid the blade. The men argue above her head. The blade has grown too dull to cut her head off cleanly, and now they bicker about how best to kill her. She fights desperately, kicking and scratching but the men do not falter. She feels the cold sting of the sword on her neck, and then everything is dark. |
She’s lying on the cold stone floor of her home. She struggles to her feet, confused and only half-awake. Where is her mother? Where is her father? She just experienced a horrible nightmare, and seeks their comfort, even if she is far too old for such coddling. She examines her surroundings a bit more. Why is everything so dusty? Father hates dust. She sees a spill on the floor. How strange. Her parents always pick up a spill immediately. She makes her way over to the stain. It’s a dark, muddy reddish-brown, and there’s a similar stain on her shirt. What happened?
Wait. No. No no no no no. She remembers now, the cold steel, the pain as it split her skin. But she should be dead. Her hand brushes the back of her neck. Nothing. No wound, no mark. She recalls the concoction her father gave her before. Was he really successful this time? Oh, what a cruel twist of fate! She lives still, and yet her family is gone. She cannot die, or at least that is how it seems.
For hundreds of years she hides. The rest of humanity shunned her before, and now she doesn’t even know if she can still call herself human. Mortality is a fundamental aspect of humanity, is it not? She has lost this, and so much more. And so she keeps to herself, learning, experimenting, and training. She practices with her father’s old polearm, and becomes so proficient, she can defeat a horde of monsters in the blink of an eye. But what good is protection when you live eternal?
Wait. No. No no no no no. She remembers now, the cold steel, the pain as it split her skin. But she should be dead. Her hand brushes the back of her neck. Nothing. No wound, no mark. She recalls the concoction her father gave her before. Was he really successful this time? Oh, what a cruel twist of fate! She lives still, and yet her family is gone. She cannot die, or at least that is how it seems.
For hundreds of years she hides. The rest of humanity shunned her before, and now she doesn’t even know if she can still call herself human. Mortality is a fundamental aspect of humanity, is it not? She has lost this, and so much more. And so she keeps to herself, learning, experimenting, and training. She practices with her father’s old polearm, and becomes so proficient, she can defeat a horde of monsters in the blink of an eye. But what good is protection when you live eternal?
|
It has been too long. She throws herself into danger without a second thought now. A few days ago, she had her ribs caved in by a devastating blow. She pays it no mind. She still feels pain, but it is nothing compared to what she has done; the sins she has committed in vain. She has come to terms with her perpetuity, or at least she has adjusted to it.
And yet, something draws her out. A force pulling her very soul, an unreasonable desire to see people again. The urge scares her, as does the very nature of what she must do to satisfy it. She refuses to even approach the village, so the harbor seems to be her only choice. She does not want to go, and yet she desperately needs to. The sight of so many people fills her with trepidation, and yet her heart sings. She has lived a dozen lives, and now she wishes to touch a dozen others. |
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The alchemical cycle is neverending, a constant rotation through the four stages. The first stage is nigredo, the blackening, the putrefaction. Ingredients are combined and cooked down to a uniform black. The next is albedo, the whitening, the purification, the coagulation. All impurities are washed away, and something new is born. Lesser works end here, but the cycle continues. Third is citrinitas, the xanthosis, the dawning of solar light. The final step is rubedo, the reddening, the completion. Aziza believes she too cycled through these stages, as all works do; as all people do. And yet she feels that she has not yet reached rubedo. The all-important destination still has yet to be reached; her soul has yet to be born anew. Perhaps the isolation finally drove her to seek out her kin. Perhaps it was her hunger for knowledge. Whatever it was, she now sits in the harbor, sipping tea and reading alchemical texts. She is surrounded by people, by their sounds and the heat of so many bodies in one space. She feels them there, a constant presence, and yet, she is utterly alone. |
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"The all is one."
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Exalting Aziza to the service of the Stormcatcher 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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