Schattenfeuer » Hibernal Den » Isavar

Isavar

(#79005489)

Level 25 Guardian

Familiar

Greattusk

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

17.18 m

Wingspan

19.05 m

Weight

8162.57 kg

Genetics

Coal
Ribbon

Ginger
Foam

Olive
Peacock

Hatchday

Jun 21, 2022
(1 year)

Breed

Adult
Guardian

Eye Type

Nature
Rare

Level 25 Guardian

Max Level

STR

102

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

__._

Isa'var Dbair.
↠ fancy title here

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall..."

Parted from everything by an ocean of healing oil and seas of raging salt, he was something exotic, something strange in this desert of gold and copper. Not that he knew about the roots of his being, long alone as he was. All his knowledge beyond the desert’s borders stemmed from books and scrolls. A memory of a tale, not even something seen by his own eyes. Either way, none like this mattered in the long run.

The Jil were kind people, they thrived between the horrors and the bittersweet wonders of eldritch blessings, faithfully tending to the rotten bones of a long fallen pantheon. Old gods, they murmured in the shade of towering spires, their true deities. From scrap searching, begging outcasts, they rose to the crown of existence and here they were now.

A race of towering folks, many armed, sweetly kind and far too accepting, they tended to the gift left to them on the broken bodies of their once oppressors. Yet here he was, the one standing out with scars on his chest and only two arms, swinging his weight like a weapon of bludgeon. A well fed, sun kissed shape that became yet another tool, he worked smart - not hard - to reach the top of a path chosen. I am, he would speak through honeyed smiles and sharp glares. the one that allows you to rise. Or plunge deep into shame.

Just because he was a halfbred child long abandoned, they tended to think of him as soft as his appearance. But the gold wrapped around his limbs, the gems adorning his skin did not come from nothingness. Luxury wasn’t a commodity that came by easily, not even in this horrors filled utopia that Jilal had become. His skills of trade did not come in artificial lightning, born from gloves of copper and wire, no, no. Quite the opposite. All he needed was a pen and paper, a letter filled with a set of specific words, woven into paper wings or a sword to cut deep.

The events of his upclimb were as unremarkable as they could be, hardships and success came hand in hand, yet all they served in doing was adding another facet to the skills he tended to so faithfully. How far do you want to rise, one of many faceless lovers asked between tumbles on expensive pillows and silken sheets. And he just scoffed. Are you never satisfied with what you have?

All this?, he raised a hand, large and each strong finger adorned in rings and gems, waving at the room’s beauty, Exquisite and expensive, delicate, rare and a paradise for those craving only the best. Comes as fruits of my labor. And if there is nothing you can add, you may just as well leave, your duty fulfilled and presence no longer desired.

And they left, every single one of them. Few could handle the volatile sting of his pride, his words barbed and cut to the very bone. Their ego far too easily bruised but never did the endless stream of lovers stop, they came, huffing, puffing, arms full of gifts and intentions to tame his willful demeanor only to leave with empty hands and broken hearts. A few were low enough to reach out again and again, threats and hollowed promises on their lips while greed gleamed in their eyes. Thinking of him as easy prey, those few became one with the glimmering desert surrounding the city’s beauty.

Had he expected Jilal to remain in an age of unchanging bliss, he found himself ripped out of his dreams of nothingness by the arrival of newness. People from beyond, traveling over oil and salt and sea, through dunes of sand and chalk, came with eyes wide in wonder and throats full of strange words. Speaking, muttering of an empire beyond, he found himself pushed in a position of unique importance. A headache he doubted he needed in addition to an old god’s hound dogging after him like he smelled blood.

Unending greedy, he was now squeezed between handling strangers in a stranger land, their naivete as adorable as it caused trouble, while Dezoath breathed down his neck, fanged mouth curled in a smile too cruel and too irritating, yet he stilled kissed this filthy mouth.

Dezoath
Growling like a wild animal, a barely
broken hound, he is never too far
behind. Yet unlike the ones that
came before, he is not soft, not
gentle. Fierce and sharp in not
only shape.

___

code & assets by archaic #19153

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