Lycidas
(#78120702)
dio boia, hangman god [any pronouns]
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Shadow.
Female Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
21.55 m
Wingspan
18.95 m
Weight
8812.14 kg
Genetics
Cinnamon
Iridescent
Iridescent
Ginger
Blend
Blend
Maroon
Stained
Stained
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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 L Y C I D A S 
BARGHEST LORE AND LINEAGE PROJECT
GENERATION III CAVIAR | ROE'S LINE GEN 6 NAOMI | GEN 6 IGNIS 
"Quote"
L ore summary. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, vix dicant consulatu patrioque at. Ea ius vidit paulo, usu iusto mandamus eu, mea cetero inermis urbanitas ex. Laudem mucius intellegat mel an, ut usu populo propriae probatus. Autem accusam legendos ex quo, duo id efficiantur neglegentur. Delectus platonem ut vis, vidisse impedit voluptua an sed. At eos quis laoreet omittam, sumo elit aliquando *** te. Per mundi alterum at. |
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"Have you created another failure? I'd have thought you learnt from your... previous mistakes." Frankenstein sneered from the doorway. The Wildclaw had a flair from being present when Elsevier wanted his privacy the most. "Madara!" He snarled, summoning his familiar to see their latest creations. With the full moon high in the sky, not a single cloud dared cross over the star filled night. Their formation was complete as the Imperial stood over them, watching. "Master, let me train this group. The last turned out fairly stable compared to previous ones. Perhaps, I can complete our mission? I promise, I will not fail you." The beast smirked, staring at the little beings that rested in slumber in front of them. Elsevier nodded, agreeing to give Madara full reign over their trainings. With his gaze upon the small creatures, "We are so close. I wonder, what their destiny has in store for them..." He watched as his familiar nudged the four awake, having them follow her to their adventure. The young Lycidas moved inwards. His poetic garlands have no ripe fruit yet, but are a tender green. His soul had not yet drunk deep of the joy-giving spring, nor yet tasted the bitter fruits of autumn. The sweet smell of violets and wild thyme fills the air around him, and every day he is shown some new view, some new prospect, some fresh scene. He lives in a world of simple pleasures, a place where the sun is always high in the sky. His creators have made sure of that. They have made each apple, each plum, each bubbling brook, as perfect as they could be for him. As perfect as the dream it was. After their past failures, they had to make sure that their creations would be perfect and happy. And the young Lycidas was happy. For now. He was happy. He ran across the golden planes, hunting rabbits and mice, smelling the many flowers, befriending the deer. The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, the waving dog-wood and the vine-clad nook, are all his familiar friends. The song of birds never stopped while he listlessly sauntered along the margin of the pleasant river, and he never ceased to love the flowers, though he had seen them fade a thousand times. He never grew bored of the world he lived within, and he was never lonely, because his nature was too simple-hearted to admit of that singular misfortune. Lycidas never knew his parents. He knew they existed, all things have them, he’d seen the warrens of rabbits and the nest of birds. He had to come from somewhere. There had to be others like him. There had to be. He had searched his whole world, from the valley, to the forests, to the vast, impassable cannons that bordered this dream and reality. But the young Lycidas found nothing, no-one. He was alone. For years, he was alone. And that’s when this started to go wrong. It started out small, not enough for the young Lycidas to notice, but it was there. He was waking up. Even in his innocence, he was still a Barghest. A monster, a demon. He didn’t know, and that was by design. But it wasn’t to last. With each footstep, the grass around him grew duller, the flowers wilted, the sky darkened. The blooms that were once his dearest friends now feared him, when he reached out for their redolent bouquet, they decayed to nothing in his hands. Lycidas became scared of the world he loved so dearly, as his body grew and changed. Dogsbody, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, move to one great goal. Lycidas is empty, created without a soul. No matter his innocence, he will never be whole. The dream-world would be putrefied, regardless of how much Lycidas prayed. The world was a lie, not a paradise. The willow trees became ash, the sky darkened. The forest fell to unnatural winds, and the once-kind beasts warped themselves into abominations. The young Lycidas ran, but he could never be free. His body transformed, as the binding that kept the Shade in his flesh began to break and bend, just as Elsevier had intended. His creators knew that they couldn’t keep him in the false Elysium forever. They knew that his power would grow to the point where he could not be held back anymore. But they weren't about to help him, no. This cur needed to learn what it meant to carry their bloodline, the desiccated calling that they all held, a blasphemous parody of the natural order. Endless dream-warrens had to be opened, endless worlds had to be conquered. It was their birthright to do this; they were the rightful heirs. Soon, the young Lycidas lay at the of his rotten world of silver-spindle and bone shards. He cried for his world, his withered flesh, the unripe dreams it bore. He would not give up and die here, as the ground crumbled and broke. He would not give up to the desperate certainty of death, and so he clung to the fading, desperate hope of life. He would not be consumed by the darkness. He would not. As the sky began to fracture, he flew, the influence of gaslight in his blood, through those cracks, and the earth was gone beneath him. He let out a strange, awful cry, and he felt his bones shift beneath his thin flesh, the lamplighter-sun burning him inside and out, and he crawled and crawled towards out of his reality. The old Lycidas moves outward. His garlands have atrophied to near nothing, and his teeth have overgrown his entire face, leaving him fully mure and almost blind. Wings that now knew the bitter fruits of autumnal sun, burn constantly as if they are ignited via lucifer matches. The world he lives in now is not his own, an island of endless dull winter. He is a demiurgic beast, snatching and eating the clumsy dreams of nearby sailors and gulls. Each day lends itself into this same consubstantial monotony. He is not happy. His creators have made sure of that
Layout and artwork by awaicu
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