crowskullz » Lair » Morlais

Morlais

(#76857397)

bearer of bad news

Idol

Plague Sprite

Energy: 0 50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

7.31 m

Wingspan

5.05 m

Weight

548.23 kg

Genetics

Crimson
Slime

Vermilion
Sludge

Peridot
Ghost

Hatchday

Mar 27, 2022
(2 years)

Breed

Adult
Mirror

Eye Type

Plague
Uncommon

Level 25 Mirror

Max Level

STR

120

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

Biography

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Morlais

Military Accolades

Sticky flesh, wet and dewy slides just under the thin, cracked ribs of Morlais' chest, shuddering as he draws in a slow, heavy breath. He drags himself forwards, the rusted edge of his sword grating against the cool earth.

The other dragons around him draw back, slowly-Infected limbs curled weakly to seizing chests, slimy wings drawn painfully tight against the backs of their owners.

Blighted, red eyes open to stare at him, tails lashing in the air. It smells of rot, and Morlais sighs at having accidentally woken other dragons from the brood. He pushes forwards, wings raising over the rest of his sleeping ilk, and it stares up at the drowning light of the sun as he exits the burrow, heaving a breath as he steps onto the sheer cliff face. The den is nestled in the crags of a canyon, the hot air pressing down from all sides, the flesh of his wings cracking and bleeding in the oppressive, dry heat. He lets out a loud noise, letting it echo through the streets, and a matching cry travels back to him, the dragons scattered throughout the caves chittering as they wake. He swallows slowly, long tongue tasting the air, and his skull shifts against the socket of his jaw, the slimy fur lining his back raises and presses down once more to his spine.

The canyons really aren't any different from the dry, droning heat of the Scarred Wasteland, the desert air carrying the scent of carrion as well as the diseased air he once knew had.

He takes a step, wings snapping out as he drops from the ledge, and with a powerful beat he launches himself into the air. There's the scent of fresh blood in the wind, and he hungers for fresh prey to wet his dry claws.

Messiah of Rot...

Morlais' life is best defined by inner conflict. The constant gnawing of the disease at his mind, the shifting of his bones in the sockets of his flesh. Unlike the rest of his ilk, Morlais' life was not ended and remade in the cauldron of the Wyrmwound, but rather, born of its magic. Perhaps he is a construct-Perhaps he is a zombie, perhaps he was once a corpse. But none of these things can properly describe him now, and he claws and fights its way through its pitiful existence, slime and corroding flesh caught between yellowed, rotten bones, hair pushing through diseased gore, armor covering the painful prodding of muscle and rot.

Caught between this lie of existence and the finality of death, Morlais shambles his way through life, lofted along by the misshapen dragons that took him in, training those unlucky enough to join them with a one-minded finality until they are deemed worthy of service to the Plaguebringer.

Other dragons avoid his very presence, onerous and foreboding, but to the most devout, to the zealous of the clan, he is the perfect dragon. He is one minded in his devotion, faultless in his survival-He is a Thing that should not be, and yet it is anyways, between parched canyons, under the rubble of what remains in the earth kingdom. Surrounded by fear and heraldic following, he is given the mercy of not having to decide what fate awaits him-it was decided from the very start.

Old Bones

Morlais steps slowly into Slaughter's den, ducking between rotted curtains. His wings rustling softly and spread slowly behind him, tail lashing away the fabric. He doesn't like this place. He loves being here more than anything, loves the freedom that this friend provides to him. Slaughter is curled, in her nest of torn flesh, discarded cloth, her husband pressed to her chest and sleeping. His nostrils flair, and Morlais falls short.

He does not know what to make of Cyprian. He hates him for not being as loyal to their cause as he is. For distracting Slaughter from her own spread. But she is smiling magnanimously at him, beckoning him closer to her. He stares at her razor-sharp dewclaws, at the blood that always cakes her frame, the sharpened fangs pushed through the scar of her beheading that twitch and writhe like a broken, living thing.

He comes closer to her, sighing heavily and resting his heavy weight on the edge of her nest. The den is homely, to him. Homier than the cult, than those people so scared of him, homier even than the Scarred Wasteland. He hates it for it's lanterns, the warm red light, the scent of old blood and the trophies littering the ground and walls.

Morlais claws off his helmet, and sighs against Slaughter as she starts to groom him, nipping between what few scales he has, searching for bugs and grime. "How was your trip, my dear?" Her voice is a comfort to him, and he growls softly, frills twitching up, webs of filth stretching between his skull and the exposed bone. "It was tiring. It was worth it. I brought glory where I went."

She makes a soft noise, butting her snout to his, and she does not shy away from its filth. "I am proud, Morlais. The disease must be spread above all." It must be. He wonders, vaguely, why he is still here if there is work to be done.

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Exalting Morlais to the service of the Earthshaker 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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