Taurus
(#78104839)
4th Gen Barghest - Ire/Alabaster
Familiar
Wandering Surgepriest
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
30.34 m
Wingspan
24.58 m
Weight
8529.35 kg
Genetics
Silver
Piebald
Piebald
Grey
Myrid
Myrid
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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 T A U R U S 
BARGHEST LORE AND LINEAGE PROJECT
GENERATION IV IRE | ALABASTER'S LINE 
"I will make the most beautiful purgatory for you, my only friend, and I will keep you safe here."
A gentle soul, corrupted only by his kind heart. He wishes only to help, though his help comes at a great cost. |
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The rain pelts down, washing out the cold shores of a small fishing village located on the eastern shore of the Southern Icefield. Hail is mixed into the rain, and the freezing ice and water are quick to soak through any clothes and raincoats. Damascus is one such dragon, caught in the rain and soaked to the bone; he shivers and shakes as he rushes through the empty cobble streets, his small wings flapping uselessly in his haste to reach his destination. Damascus slams the door open, and practically collapses onto the closest chair. His boss, Ms. Rosalie, watches him with Fire-bright eyes and nothing short of disappointment at Damascus's soaked appearance. Lightning cracks outside, and Damascus jumps in fright. The mail he'd been tasked to collect from the next town's post office was soaked, and he clutched it underneath his robes as though they could've protected the poor paper. "Let me see it then," Ms. Rosaline tsked and gestured for the mail, and Damascus scurried forward to set the postage onto her desk. The ink was stained from rain, and utterly unreadable; all the mail was ruined, every last piece of it. "The storm came outta nowhere..." "Enough of that, you useless whelp. Where's your mailbag? It's waterproof, and you should've been using it," "Ah, funny story.. I seem to have misplaced it," Ms. Rosaline didn't find his story very funny, and Damascus ended up racing home without a single coin to show for his days' long trek. He'd be lucky to have a job in the morning! If the rain didn't wash the entire town into the sea, that is. Damascus's life is a humble one, compared to the fancy, well-to-do dragons he serves. He sleeps in a leaky attic above his aunt's home, on a bed of straw, and at the crack of dawn he heads to the market to buy -- or steal, when he lacks the means -- some bread or cheese for breakfast, and then he's straight to work. He's no proper Courier-breed dragon, but he's a courier despite it all! Ms. Rosaline had taken a proper risk when she hired him, and he strived to do her proud. She's never been proud before, but he hopes to change that, someday. However, he finds himself facing down obstacles more often than not. The lack of a mailbag means he needs to carry all the mail and packages in his hands, and he needs to be extra careful when the weather turns nasty or else the mail all gets ruined. The shores of the Southern Icefield are dangerous, too; the sea that separates them from the mainland is unoccupied by aquatic dragons, and full of maren that're happy to make his life difficult. Not to mention the highwaymen, and avalanches, and seasonal passes that fill with snow a week early. There's no better life for him, and he's happy enough with his lot in life, though many may find his lifestyle lacking the glitz and glamour of a civil man's life. But... Would he refuse an opportunity to better his circumstances, if given one? Of course not. He's not dull, despite what Ms. Rosaline says. He'd do just about anything to have a fancy, well-to-do life, but he knows there's no chance of it. He's better off not dreaming at all. Snow comes down in heavy waves, silent except for the tinny whistle of the wind. Damascus sits in candlelight by the window of the Robin's Nest Inn, in a town very far from his home, watching the blizzard only intensify. The dream of returning home before spring leaves him with every half-inch of snow accumulating on the ground outside. The snows seem to come earlier and earlier every autumn, and Damascus can't make sense of it; the Icewarden must have cursed his children on the coast. "Would you like me to refill your cup, sir?" One of the innkeepers asked and watched him with large, concerned eyes. Spirals are deceivingly easy to understand, once Damascus stopped comparing their large ears and wide eyes with hatchlings. "No thanks," Damascus sighed. His tea has long gone cold, but he can't force himself to drink the rest of it, even if it was warmed. "Do you know if there's any work for the season to be found around here?" "Hm... 'fraid not," The spiral glanced away, guilt clear by the way her ears pressed to her head. "There's never any work to be done once the blizzards set in," "There must be something," Damascus prodded, and cupped his hands around his drink. He couldn't pay to stay in this inn for the entire winter without work, he could barely feed himself on the best of days. He wears many-layered clothes just to hide the way his ribs show underneath his hide. "No, I'm sorry, courier," He'll need to find another way to pay, then. The Robin's Nest Inn practically shuts down in the winter, Damascus learns. There's never any travelers, and the money dries up immediately. He can't offer to wash dishes or mop floors when there's nobody to dirty them, and soon he's got no money left to pay for his own lodgings. He can tell the innkeepers don't want to kick him out, so he leaves voluntarily; he knows they'd bleed money trying to take care of him, and he doesn't want to burden them further. He'll just need to fly over the pass. The skies are blessedly clear of any clouds, and Damascus takes to the sky and begins his journey. He used strips of torn cloth to strap the mail to himself underneath his clothes to ensure it wouldn't be dropped or lost in flight; though the setup feels uncomfortable and restricting, it seems to be working. Two hours into his flight, and he notices a freezing wind whisking past him, coming from the south. He pays it little mind and flies faster; only another six hours, and he'll be past the snowed-in mountain pass. Damascus takes the time to glance down at the snowy land beneath, and the endless white practically blinds him from the reflected sun's glare. He nearly falls out of the sky as his vision turns white, but he steadies out his wings and coasts on the warm ocean breeze coming from the east. Damascus blinks and tries to clear the glare from his eyes, but it does no good; all he can see is endless, monotonous white. The wind turns frigid again, and he loses the lift necessary for him to stay in the air, and he begins to spiral towards the ground. If there's nobody around, then who can say if the noise was the scream of a dragon crashing to the ground, or just the howl of wind through the mountains? Damascus awoke to warmth. He opens his eyes, yet still sees nothing, and he fumbles up. All he can see is endless white, and now he's terrified. Did that single glance at the snow blind him permanently? Oh Icewarden, he'll lose his job! Ms. Rosaline would never retain a blind courier -- he'd lose the mail more frequently, and he'd never be able to deliver it. Deep breaths. At least he's alive, right? The warmth around him-- it isn't just warmth, it's heat. The kind of sticky, tacky heat that Damascus associates with a sauna, or a swamp; by the buzz of insects and the smell of mud, he's fairly sure a swamp is more accurate. But there's no swamps nearby the eastern coast, certainly none that would retain such heat during the onset of winter. "Hello?" Damascus calls out, but nothing answers him. With a great sigh, he picks himself off the ground and begins walking. He runs into trees, and his talons squelch into puddles and mud, and his wings snag on branches. Still, he walks, and doesn't stop until he trips into a greater body of water than a mere puddle. Sputtering, Damascus clambers back onto the shore and tries to wring the water out of his clothes. With a start, he touches the letters and packages bound to him underneath his clothes, and groans when he feels the waterlogged parchment. Another shipment ruined because of him. Perhaps he should just fly, at least then he can't fall into any ponds; but just as soon as the thought enters his mind, he discards it. He's likely to get himself stuck in a tree, as clumsy as he is right now. ...Cold... A breeze passes by, frigid and sharp. Damascus perks his ears as he hears the snap of a twig underfoot, and turns towards the sound. He has no idea what the thing is, just that it sounds heavy and large; he prays it's not an alligator. "Oh wayfarer, you've wandered quite far," The dragon, who introduces himself as Taurus, leads Damascus back to his home. Taurus claims that this place is part of the Viridian Labyrinth, which sends Damascus's head spinning. He was nowhere near the Viridian Labyrinth, how could he have possibly woken up here? But as far as he could sense, Taurus was telling the truth; it'd explain the swamp, at least. Damascus nearly tripped over the stairs in front of Taurus's home, and chuckled nervously to himself as he inched up the stairs carefully and took his time navigating the interior of Taurus's single-room home. He was still getting used to moving without his sight, but he's getting better at it; there's no reason for his blindness to be the end of the world, right? Even if Ms. Rosaline will surely fire him. "Take a seat, I'll find something to clean your talons with," Taurus instructed, and Damascus was quick to obey. He found Taurus's couch, and settled down upon it; he tried to keep as much mud off the couch as he could, but he's certain it'll need to be cleaned anyways. He listens to Taurus patter around for a bit, and allows his nerves to finally calm. He's not stranded in a blizzard, at least. Taurus walks over to him, and takes Damascus's hand and begins cleaning the mud off with what feels like a wet rag. He's not sure how to feel about it, but he doesn't complain; it's not like he can see the muck, and Taurus can. As Taurus goes over every exposed bit of Damascus with the wet rag, Damascus realizes that he can feel fur brushing against him every so often. "Ah.. You're a tundra then, or an obelisk? A gaoler?" Damascus guesses, and Taurus exhales in a way that Damascus thinks is a laugh. "Not quite. I take after my mother," Taurus explains, and in a way, explains nothing at all. Damascus accepts that they're probably not at the point that Taurus feels comfortable sharing what he is, or how he looks; perhaps it's more intimate to describe oneself, instead of simply being seen and forced to accept that you've been observed? ...Maybe it's a Nature dragon thing? They're silent for a long while, as Taurus finishes cleaning Damascus off. Soon he's instructing Damascus to strip out of his ruined wet clothes, and change into something soft that Taurus offers him. Once he's changed, cleaned, and fully able to appreciate the ambient heat of the swamp, Taurus lets him know night is falling and they should rest. It's been a long day, so with a yawn, Damascus thanks Taurus and falls asleep on the floor with a single quilt to keep him off the hardwood. The next day, Taurus convinces Damascus that the nearest city is too far for them to travel without adequate preparations, and Damascus should focus on getting used to living without vision while Taurus makes the necessary preparations. Damascus falls asleep hopeful he'll be heading home soon. The next week, Taurus sprains his ankle and convinces Damascus to wait to make the journey until Taurus is well enough to guide him. Damascus falls asleep concerned for his friend, and willing to wait to ensure Taurus's healthiness. The next month, Taurus does not give an explanation when Damascus asks why they can't go to the city. Damascus falls asleep wondering if he'd heard correctly when Taurus closed the door with a click, indicating a lock. "There's nothing for you back there," Taurus says suddenly one day, as they're outside in Taurus's garden. Damascus has become an expert at identifying weeds between the useful vegetables, herbs, and plentiful flowers, and he puts his claws to work digging up weeds by their roots and tossing them into a growing pile. He rips out a dandelion and tosses it to the pile, and turns to where he'd heard Taurus's voice. "What are you talking about now, Taurus?" "The city, your town, there's nothing for you back there," Damascus feels a frigid breeze passing by, and he shakes it off and trying to address the crushing weight of the elephant in the room. He knows Taurus doesn't want him to leave; he's known that for weeks, ever since Taurus admitted how isolating and lonely he was before Damascus came along. "Taurus, I can't stay here forever. I have family back home," "Damascus, please," He hears the shifting of weight and near-soundless step as Taurus approaches him. Taurus crouches in the grass and cups Damascus's face in his hands, and Damascus tries to pull away; Taurus's grip tightens, and blood wells in the tiny scratches that his claws leave in Damascus's cheeks. "I don't want to hurt you," His heart kicked off, and Damascus saw. In the white expanse of nothingness he'd taken to ignoring, he saw a great grey wolf. A gigantic, terrifying beast; the size of an Imperial, perhaps larger, and the cold breeze came back and battered Damascus as he stayed there, frozen in fear. "...You're not..." You're not a dragon, Damascus wanted to say, but the words wouldn't leave his throat. "Can you see me, friend?" The wolf asked, in Taurus's voice. "That's... Good. I will make the most beautiful purgatory for you, my only friend, and I will keep you safe here," In a place between life and death, an endless white expanse exists. Dotted in this place are lost souls; dragons who never made it home, and who were never found. They exist listlessly, fearfully, and cannot escape without someone to guide them. The great grey wolf is one such guide, but he has forsaken his duty. He grabs fistfuls of the white nothingness, and creates beautiful, lush paradises. He makes places for souls to live, and thrive, and never leave. There, the great grey wolf exists, amongst the lost souls and the false edens of his own creation. He will never be alone again. Comments:
"he's a 10, but he forcefully brought children back to life and is holding their souls hostage so he could be their dad"
Layout and artwork by awaicu
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Exalting Taurus to the service of the Icewarden 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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