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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
23.32 m
Wingspan
22.69 m
Weight
5991.91 kg
Genetics
Platinum
Metallic
Metallic
Silver
Alloy
Alloy
Moon
Opal
Opal
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
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 V A R G R 
BARGHEST LORE AND LINEAGE PROJECT
GENERATION N/A BITTEN BY SLEIPNIR 
"Until I'm gone.. Stay with me,"
A son lost to the forest. A man turned beast, who courted death five times. |
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The first time Vargr courted death, he was just a whelp. With the onset of spring, his stomach rumbled more than ever with the promise of a season of gluttony ahead of him; his father and brothers promised to take him hunting, but they were preoccupied with tilling the fields and preparing the farm for a new season of growing. Vargr, youngest of four and small for his age, took it upon himself to follow the snowmelt to the valleys skirting the woods and hunt his own game. Elk graze on the newly blooming grass, pushing the last of the slush out of the way to make room for new green buds to reach for sunlight. Vargr waits until he picks a target; an old elk, no longer spry and moving slowly. He waits until he finds an opening, when the herd gets closer to the tree-line where he's hidden in wait. In a burst of movement, he chases the old cow elk down and takes the animal to the ground. He dispatches the elk quickly, and says a quick prayer over the body. His father taught him to thank the game he hunts for giving their lives to sustain him, and Vargr is young enough that he's loathe to go against his father's instructions, even when unobserved. Crunch, of snow underfoot. Vargr turns, and even when he is grown and well-acquainted with the monster before him, he will always be unable to describe it. Too many limbs, with a shaggy grey pelt like a wolf and the sharp teeth of a dragon; that is the closest he can get, describing features instead of the whole. He trips over himself in his haste to back away from the elk, hopeful that the monster will take his hunt and not his life. "You can have it, you can have it, oh Arcanist what is that!" Vargr yelps, unable to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth like snowmelt pouring down a mountain. The beast makes a deep sound like a mountain lion, and lowers the front of its body, much like a dog begging to play. Before Vargr can think, the beast is lunging for him, teeth snapping down on his ear. Vargr howls, not so much in pain but from fear, and runs. He can hear the beast following him, giving chase; as though this is a game to it. He runs all the way home, and when he tries to explain what happens, his parents will sit around their hearth and thank the Arcanist that he hadn't been killed by that wolf. None of them will believe him when he says what he saw isn't a wolf. The second time Vargr courted death, he was grown and prideful. He has been hunting for seasons now, no longer just chasing the footsteps of his father and brothers; he knows himself to he strong, to be able, and Vargr trusts that beyond any reason. The winter ahead will be tough, so Vargr takes the opportunity to hunt before the seasons turn to autumn. His ears twitch, one torn from the teeth of the wolf who'd attacked him so many years ago. There is something nearby, moving, and he hears the alarm call of a turkey and the mad scramble of a fight, only silenced by the snap of powerful jaws. Vargr isn't alone -- his brothers are nearby, and would hear him if he called for them -- but regardless, he creeps forward without calling for help. He skirts around the trees, and sees it; a large, towering grey wolf. Feathers scattered on the fresh snow with flecks of blood, with no turkey in sight. The wolf meets his eyes, and he wonders if all wolves have near-glowing yellow eyes. But the moment is lost and the wolf darts away, so he unholsters his bow and gives chase. A big wolf could provide meat for his family through the entire winter, and the pelt could be used to make a cloak for Vargr's newest sibling, a little sister still too young to leave their mother's side. He lets loose an arrow, and it sinks into the wolf's flank, but it doesn't slow or falter in its mad bolt. It doesn't matter. Soon, the wolf is cornered; Vargr notches another arrow, as the wolf pants and watches him. The wolf's eyes are bright, and intelligent, but Vargr has no time to feel guilt or trepidation. It's this moment, this fleeting moment when he could've realized what he was up against; but Vargr is hungry, and he is eager for a winter not spent losing weight and muscle as starvation sets in. The beast bares its teeth, and changes, and he stumbles back. That thing is not a wolf. And then the beast lunges, before he could fight or flee, and then everything becomes motion. The motion of wrestling, trying to wrest the Not-Wolf off of him, but it's big; as big as him, and not many things are. He flaps and flares his wings, shouting and then screaming when teeth sink into the back of his neck. He feels the beast shudder and then the weight on his back is gone. Vargr sinks to the forest floor, his entire body shaking, and then he hears them; his family, shouting and grabbing at him. He blinks his eyes and looks up, only to see the beast's many-pawed form disappearing into the trees. This time, after his brothers carry him home, his family will sit by the hearth and believe him when he tells him it wasn't just a wolf. The third time Vargr courted death, death courted back. He laid in bed at home, tossing and turning; his entire body feels like it's on fire, while at the same time pinpricks of freezing cold make him grab for quilts and hides to keep him warm. The injury on the back of his neck, just between his shoulder blades, is infected; it hurts beyond measure, and if he were capable of coherent thought he'd realize that he's not going to survive this. When he sleeps, he sees his little sister. When he wakes, his sister is the first to see him and offers him bowls of broth and brushes her head underneath his chin. When he sleeps, he tries to dream about good things for his sister; a castle in the clouds just for her, full of doting servants and with a warm bed and a full pantry, even in the darkest months. He dreams about teaching his sister how to fly, and how to hunt, and in the mornings she'll demand he dreams about sewing and embroidery so she can teach him, too. Vargr isn't sure what's reality and what's dreams, anymore. Throughout it all he is frail, and the bite on his neck burns, and he loses weight no matter how much he eats. He is ravenously hungry, but nothing is filling. One such dream of castles and playing games with his sister, Vargr wonders numbly if he can stay here forever. He does not want to leave this place of luxury and happiness, he doesn't want to die in the cold. "Stay with me," Vargr says after they're done playing hide-and-seek, and his little sister tilts her head at him. "Until I'm gone.. Stay with me," "Silly, you're not going anywhere!" His little sister reaches up and pats his cheek with her tiny claws. Then she turns, and goes back to whipping batter for cupcakes. Anger rattles his chest with every breath, but with a sigh he lets it go, and fiddles with his sister's mane to braid it. Someday in the future, Vargr will realize the only thing that saved his sister was the cycles of the moon. The fourth time Vargr courted death, it was by the hands of those he loves. The full moon rises, bathing the land in enough cold light to see by. Vargr is in his bed, sitting by his window, when he loses himself, bit by bit. He is hungry, and he yearns for sleep. He knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he will not wake; his body is thin and starved, and the infection will soon reach his heart. Someone knocks on Vargr's door, and his mother shuffles in with a candle. The room is empty, the blinds fluttering in the breeze coming from the open window. She gasps and rushes to the window, but all she can see is a large, mangy grey wolf, circling the house. The beast is as big as an imperial, and twice as fierce. "Malcom!" The imperial woman cries out, rushing to find her mate. Their youngest son is missing; alone out in the cold. She knows little other than panic as she near-collapses into her mate's arms, and he has little time to comfort her before he's rounding up his older sons and throwing on thick coats to head out into the utterly still night to search. They grab bows and crossbows to deal with the mangy wolf outside, and any other predators which seek to feast upon their small family. Vargr's little sister, the youngest of the family, does not rouse from her slumber. She sleeps on and on and on, never knowing of the wolf outside her window. Someday, but never soon enough, they will realize the wolf is not quite a wolf. But tonight they are frenzied, and fearful, and eager to attack anything that might've hurt their little boy. The fifth time Vargr courted death, he knew his luck had run out. He does not remember his first transformation, but he remembers the sharp arrow-tips puncturing his hide, and the terrible frenzy of needing to feed. The next transformations are easier; he knows after the second to expect himself to become bestial on the night of the full moon, and he knows to keep himself far from civilization when the growling creature inside him is set free. It becomes a horrible waltz, between him and the thing he is becoming. Vargr cannot return home, not when he claims his first victim in their sleep and he realizes, with a start, that he'd never be able to stop himself from devouring his little sister's spirit if given the chance. But he must feed, and that is the worst part; the food he eats turns to ash in his mouth, never sustaining him, and he knows he will not survive starvation as late summer turns to autumn. Something must break, and Vargr fears it will be his resolve. So he leaves for the forest, and lives like a beast. He hunts when hungry, eating whatever creatures are slower or stupider than him, and no longer prays for them. He sleeps when tired, and sometimes he finds people in his dreams; dragons who strayed too far into the wilderness, who will surely die anyways from exposure. He can give them a peaceful death, where they have wealth, luxury and happiness before they finally fade away. None of them ever question the dreams, and he becomes skillful at crafting better false realities. The travelers are enough to sustain him, but he is still dying from a thousand small grievances. He is becoming a beast, and Vargr cannot stop it anymore than he can stop the tide. With the promise of snow on the winds, Vargr moves without purpose until he reaches a river. The waters are flush with spawning-red salmon that fight against the current with all the strength in their small bodies, eager to exhaust themselves for the chance to mate and die. In the middle of the river, stands the Not-Wolf, with a salmon caught in its claws, the fish still wriggling. They watch each other for a moment, and then the Not-Wolf heads to the other side of the river, fish thrown ahead. Vargr picks his way across the river, mindful of the slippery gravel and slick mud in the water, and by the time he's across the Not-Wolf is already feasting on the salmon. Vargr steps forward, coming close to the beast, and silently wonders if the Not-Wolf can sustain itself only on the game it catches, or if it also enters dreams to eat. "Beast," Vargr growls out, fury tainting his words. "Perhaps if I kill you, my curse will be lifted," The Not-Wolf moves with unnatural speed, hooking a claw on his coat and dragging him close. He bares his teeth in snarl, but that will not stop him from seeing the blood on the Not-Wolf's teeth, or smelling the fish on their hot breath. They growl, and raise a clawed hand to cradle his torn ear. Their first encounter flashes through his mind -- it's a memory he wishes he'd forget. "You are hungry," The Not-Wolf rumbles in words it has no right to know, bright eyes glinting. Vargr swipes at the creature, but it dodges and lets them go, retreating back to the river. He watches it; it moves with supernatural grace, too-many limbs all rippling with barely repressed power. The Not-Wolf lunges into the river, jaws snapping around a fish, and throws it to where he's standing, mystified. "Eat," The Not-Wolf commands, and Vargr obeys.
Layout and artwork by awaicu
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