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Familiar
Noxious Coralclimber
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Lightning.
Born to a superstitious upper-class family, the fourth child of five, Oberyn was the first in the history of the blonde-headed family to be born with black hair. They said Oberyn was an anomaly. They said Oberyn was cursed. Oberyn wasn’t mommy’s son. Oberyn wasn’t daddy’s son. Oberyn was illegitimate. Oberyn was lonely. Oberyn had no friends. Oberyn wasn't wanted.
Raised as the black sheep, always hearing things like that, Oberyn never knew the love of his parents. Shunned by his older siblings, mocked by the children of other aristocratic families, the only person who showed him compassion was his little sister. He’s forgotten her name by now; it hurts him too much to think about. Despite all he’s forgotten about her, and despite how he hates the memory, he will never forget the expression she made when she found him sitting above their brother’s dead body, his hands tight around the other boy’s throat.
He remembers tears streaming down all three of their faces. He remembers how it felt to know that his life was over just before he had become an adult. He remembers how it felt to run, and oh, how he ran.
Like wildfire, news spread of Oberyn’s killing. An aristocrat’s son, murdering his brother? Unheard of. His name became blacker than it had ever been, and hopelessness drowned the boy who had sold his fancy clothes for money enough for new rags, a hood, and food that was quickly stolen. For a few weeks, he lived like this, miserable and faithless. When life had been so cruel to him, what did he owe it? That thought plagued him in the final days, when his eyes became so tired and heavy that all he could do was submit. In his last moments, the only thing he could ask was why.
When Oberyn opened his eyes again, he was no longer on hard stone, but in a soft bed. For the first time in weeks, he felt clean. He smelled incense and linens and the perfume of a woman he didn’t recognize. When she saw that he had awakened, she smiled. She told him her name, which he has forgotten by force of will. But he will never forget what she said next.
“You have beautiful hair, Oberyn.”
He sometimes wonders if he loved her, but he can’t remember anymore. He doesn’t care to remember the people who’ve died by his hands.
The woman, at the time, was the matron of “the brides.” She never told him what that meant, only that she was particularly good at caring for people, and that’s why she “couldn’t let him die.” She stayed by his side and nursed him to health, though he couldn’t help wondering where she went every so often, and whose voices he heard just outside his door.
“That’s the kid, huh?”
“What a poor boy…”
“He had a chance to be so much better.”
“But now he’s just like us.”
When Oberyn was strong enough to stand, he left the room the woman had given him, peeking down the hall. He recognized the place as a mansion, but he had no idea of its true purpose. With how late it was, he thought everyone was asleep, so he crept through the building to see what he could discern. It was opulent, well-decorated; no expense had been spared, he could tell. As he stood in the foyer, gazing up at the chandelier, the front door opened behind him. A woman who was not the matron had just come home, and though she was surprised, she greeted Oberyn with a warm smile, asking if he was feeling better.
He remembers screaming once he’d found his voice. He’d never seen so much blood.
He doesn’t remember what happened next, but history does.
Oberyn was locked in the mansion’s cellar due to his reaction. The bride hadn’t known what else to do-- the matron had ordered for no one to touch him, but his fear put him at risk of running away and telling of what he’d seen. He’d screamed and thrashed as he was taken hold of, shrieking as blood seeped into his clothes from the woman’s hands. He remembered his mother’s grip, holding him tight, forcing him into a closet where he’d beg and cry to be released before learning that the reason he was there was because they had guests and Oberyn’s presence wasn’t wanted. It had taught him to feared the dark, to fear being trapped, and in such a foreign situation, he’d become terrified beyond coherency. When the matron finally came home and learned of what had happened to him, she threw open the doors, hurrying down the stairs to find Oberyn on the floor crying.
“I’m sorry, mother,” he sobbed brokenly. “I’m not good enough, I’m sorry.”
“No, Oberyn.” She hushed him, holding him close as he clung to her. “I’m sorry. I should have told you what the brides really do.”
He remembers this:
He remembers learning of the Brides of Blood and Tears while laying in bed, curled against the side of the woman who had saved him. He remembers taking it all in as if numb. He remembers her asking if he was alright. He remembers her waiting for an answer, and then asking if he wanted to leave. He remembers how gentle her voice was, how soft her skin felt, how her perfume was like honey. He remembers her hair: black as midnight, soft as silk.
He remembers asking if he too could become a member of the brides.
Over the years, she trained him slowly. Other girls joined the brides in his time there, and though they excelled quickly under her same tutelage, she always encouraged him to work slowly, steadily, “they’re good, but you’ll be better.” He became a man under her watchful eye, a man that even the other brides were forced to acknowledge as handsome, charming, and talented. He lost his timid nature. He lost his hesitations to murder. He lost his compassion for many except the matron and his sisters, and through that sacrifice, he was able to succeed. Where many brides found the peak of their skills, Oberyn found a stepping stone. Through dedication, he became the best. Through persistence, he earned his place. Through tragedy, he lost the woman who had become the mother he never had.
That particular story has been forgotten, as Oberyn is the only one who walked out of that room alive, but know this: the matron died with a smile on her face, as Oberyn spared her the pain of bleeding out.
“I’m sorry, mother,” he sobbed brokenly. “I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry.”
“No, Oberyn.” She replied, blood on her ruby lips. She touched his face and smeared his cheek with her red, red life. “Don’t be sorry. You can still save me.”
He remembers crying as he cut into her, he remembers watching her mouth words he’d never heard aloud: “I love you.”
Oberyn had never seen so much blood.
Years passed. Oberyn wasn’t quite lifeless, but without the matron, he couldn’t quite find reason to live. He missed her warmth, her touch, her breath, her voice. She was everywhere. He caught the scent of her perfume sometimes in the halls, he heard the melody she used to sing in the humming of his sisters. He saw her ghost in his dreams, always out of reach. God, he missed her.
God had a funny way of empathizing.
When Oberyn first encountered Skyrim on the putrid streets of the city slums, she was but a child, scrawny and ferocious and struggling for life. He normally didn't interfere with the mundane, with targets that didn't have a price on their head, but that day he found himself as a guardian angel. With the same sword he carries at his hip to this day, he slew Skyrim's attackers, showering her in their warm red blood. When his rationality returned to him, he wondered if he'd have to kill the little girl too, for she'd seen him as a murderer.
To his surprise, he saw no fear in her crystal blue eyes. The girl immediately stood, wiping the blood from her face with something like disgust. She looked at him, the man who'd saved her, and scowled as if she was ready to fight him too. There was nothing about her that reminded him of the matron, there was no hint of her warmth or her scent or her voice when the child opened her mouth to spit profanity at him. Yet she held some kind of fire, some kind of spirit that hearkened to the woman Oberyn had loved so dearly. She had black hair.
In that moment, he knew she was the perfect bride.
He took her under his wing immediately, without question. He brought her to the House of Brides and showed her what she could have, what she could be. The sisters thought he was crazy; had he finally lost his touch, bringing in a girl so young that she hadn’t felt blood at her thighs? Most brides were brought in once they’d begun showing signs of true beauty, but here Skyrim was, staring with such ferocity that they felt she’d eat them if they said anything to prevent her from staying. Oberyn wouldn’t have let her leave either way.
Out of all of his students, Oberyn treated Skyrim most harshly. Her resilience was inspiring. She stood up each time Oberyn knocked her down. She spat in his face when he told her to give up. She proved to be every bit as stubborn as one would expect, having survived in a world that wanted to see her die, and with Oberyn’s rough tumbling, she emerged a perfectly polished gem. Their time together had seen him take on a fatherly role with the girl, and like a father, he cherished her success as her own, finding warmth and pride each time she returned from a contract with blood on her hands.
Like a father, he was outraged when he’d found that she’d fallen in love.
How could she betray him like this? How could she throw away everything he’d given her? How could another man have taught her how to love when he had loved her for so long?! He tried to contain his anger at first, but when she lit the fire, he was too ready to let it burn. It was when she fanned the smoke in his face that he stepped away, stricken with fear.
“If you kill him, I will kill you. I swear it.”
He was not fearful for his life. He was fearful of losing Skyrim’s love.
He let her be after that. He did not approve of what she was doing for a second, and he knew that only fueled her desire to rebel, but it hurt him each time he saw her sneak away from the mansion. He watched with growing sadness, and festering jealousy, and eventually outright rage as Nemesis-- what a fitting name-- pried her further and further away from him. Eventually, when Skyrim had stopped taking contracts for nearly a week, Oberyn found his limit.
“I knew one would come eventually,” the man told him when he entered the bedroom. The prince sat upon his bed, completely lax, a sword in hand.
“Then you must know you’re going to die,” Oberyn replied, his fingers running along the rim of his scabbard.
“Perhaps,” Nemesis chuckled, eyes hooded. He lifted his rapier and pointed it straight at the other. “But first, answer me one thing.”
“What?” The assassin growled, fist tightening around the handle of his blade.
“Who do you think loves Skyrim more: you, or me?”
Their swords clashed so hard that the metal made sparks.
The men needed no words, their actions spoke for them. Oberyn, usually so calm, was near-frenzied with anger. Nemesis, on the other hand, was calm and precise. Oberyn knew that Prince Nemesis was a renowned fighter, but he had never expected a cushy aristocrat to put up so much of a fight. It was after the two were beginning to struggle to hold their breath, sweating beneath their clothes, that Nemesis locked Oberyn’s blade against his own and forced the assassin’s face close.
“I love her,” he asserted, gritting his teeth as he fought against Oberyn’s strength.
“You’re lying,” the man spat.
“I’m not!” Nemesis insisted, stumbling as Oberyn shoved him away. “I love her more than anyone! I want to marry her, and you can’t stop me!”
“I can stop you if you’re dead!” Oberyn snarled in reply, lunging for the prince’s throat.
It was not skill that ended the conflict, but fatigue. Oberyn was too tired to struggle when the prince forced him against against the wall with his blade to his throat. The two breathed harshly, nostrils flared, hair sticking to their foreheads as they stared each other down. Oberyn could see an unfaltering resolve in the prince’s eyes.
Something in the assassin’s heart gave up.
He dropped his sword.
The fight was over. As the two calmed down, the prince removed his blade, kicking Oberyn’s piece away from him as they each took a seat. The smell of sweat permeated the air. The assassin was the first to recover his breath, falling into a state of pensive silence as he stared at the prince. For a long time, they were like that, sitting across from one another like statues. Then, he spoke.
“I know what she is,” he said. “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her. No one that beautiful could just want my title-- I knew she wanted my life.”
Oberyn stayed silent. The prince spoke for a long time, detailing why he loved her, why he was devoted to her. All Oberyn heard was why he wanted to take Skyrim away. After a while, Nemesis must have realized that he didn’t care, and fell silent again. The room was an abyss that separated the thoughts of the two men up until Oberyn finally admitted his defeat.
“You can marry her,” he said first. He saw the surprise in the prince’s eyes. “But you cannot stop me from seeing her.”
Nemesis was silent for a time before he spontaneously broke into a smile.
“Whatever made you think I’d try?”
His words hung in the air for a moment, and very suddenly Oberyn felt a small tickle in his gut. It bubbled, then popped in the form of a gentle snort. It was a mixture of relief, disbelief, and a wholesome realization of how absurd at least half of their confrontation had been. The prince’s smile widened, and Oberyn heard a soft chuckle in response. It was an avalanche of reaction, contagious in nature, a building of laughter that ended up in a full-on roar from both men. Despite their voices being hoarse from their fight, they laughed and laughed, doubling over in both pain and breathlessness. It lasted for nearly a minute before they found themselves and calmed down, though small chuckles accompanied their descent back to normalcy.
“Now, I’ll admit,” Nemesis began, still thumbing at his grin. “I’m not the type to share. But I never intended to take Skyrim away from her… passion. Or you,” he added, looking to Oberyn. “I want to make her happy, but I understand I can’t be everything for her. I can be her sun and sky, but you’re the one who can fully love her darker sides.” Oberyn found himself nodding, then paused. He realized that something critical was in question at the moment, and he voiced his concern immediately.
“You don’t think I’m… that she and I... “ He stuttered twice, his expression communicating every part of the internal disgust he felt. Nemesis blinked from across the room, at first surprised, and then incredibly confused.
“You’re not involved?” The prince asked, dumbfounded.
“Of course not!” Oberyn exclaimed, sitting up straight in his chair. “Skyrim could be-- I feel she’s very well my daughter, of course we’re not involved!” Oberyn’s indignation was apparently enough for Nemesis to outright guffaw, covering his mouth in an attempt to stop from laughing further.
“Then the two of us have been on very different pages,” Nemesis intoned with plenty of chuckling, “As I thought you meant to challenge me for her hand. I knew someone as beautiful as Skyrim couldn’t have just one suitor, so I figured that you had heard of me from her, and had come to kill me in jealousy.”
“Absurd!” Oberyn declared, emphatically swiping his arm as if to dismiss the notion entirely. “I came here to protect her from making a foolish decision. I know she was seeing you to spite me, at least in part. She was being irresponsible and ignoring her duties to our,” he paused, “Clan.”
“Your ‘clan,’” the prince repeated, amused. Taking a breath, he then sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Well, whatever the case, I apologize for my part in our miscommunication. You look awfully young for your age, barely out of your golden years. Do you perhaps dye your hair?”
“I’ll have you know I haven’t seen a single silver strand.”
“Well, then, you’re awfully lucky for someone my father’s age.”
“Hold your tongue, prince. I’m not fond of royalty that calls me old.”
“Not fond of the crown? That’s grounds for treason. Or are you senile?”
“Make another comment on my age and I’ll make sure you die young.”
“You snuck into the castle with that very same purpose and yet here I am.”
“I won’t fail twice.”
The two were laughing by the time Skyrim arrived. In his brief time conversing with the prince, Oberyn had come to terms with his new role. He could still love Skyrim as his daughter, and he could still protect her as he always had. The only thing that had really changed was the presence of another person in her life. And though he’d felt threatened by such a man taking his place, the prince had made a good point: Oberyn was her moon and stars, Nemesis was her sun and sky. Just because of who they were, they served different roles. It certainly wouldn’t be an easy transition, but at the very least they both understood something about one another:
They both loved Skyrim, and they’d both fight to the death for her. That much had been proven. And unbeknownst to Skyrim, it would be tested again, and again, and again. - - - - -MISC- - - - -
AESTHETICS — mystery, the silent protector LIKES — quiet evenings, warm fires, deep conversations DISLIKES — rainy days, dark places, the smell of blood
An impressive set of antlers, but they probably aren't natural.
1450
Teardrop Ruby Necklace
Apparel
A tasteful necklace strung with a fine cut ruby.
700
Battered Book of Fables
Dragonmade
The terrible thing is that all your favorite characters die in the end. (Special thanks XenonZerrow.)
70
Venomblade Hilt
Trinkets
The hilt of a Venomblade Assassin's sword can be twisted to reveal an additional hidden dagger, drenched in poison.
29
Tales of Terror
Trinkets
A dusty moth-eaten tome pocked with glowing eyes. It's pretty safe to judge this book by its cover, though it might be a good idea to wait until it's not looking right at you.
47
Biography written by Saphelle Biography layout by Zarane
..............
Meditate
Energy Stone
The caster will focus on the surrounding magical energies, generating a large amount of Breath. Reduces physical damage dealt by 75% for two turns.
25
Required Level: 1
Regeneration
Ability Stone
Surrounds the target in a restorative aura. For a short duration, they will continuously regenerate health.
600
Required Level: 5
Contuse
Ability Stone
Deals neutral magic damage and weakens the target, decreasing their offensive capabilities.
250
Required Level: 1
Charged Acuity Fragment
Augment Stone
When assigned, this fragment empowers one Lightning dragon with +2 Intellect.
400
Required Level: 5
Ebony Antlers
Apparel
An impressive set of antlers, but they probably aren't natural.
1450
Teardrop Ruby Necklace
Apparel
A tasteful necklace strung with a fine cut ruby.
700
Teardrop Lapis Lazuli Pendant
Apparel
An exquisite pendant strung with a lustrous lapis lazuli.
620
Darksteel Earrings of Necromancy
Apparel
A pair of oversized earrings inscribed with a necromancy formula.
250
Skeletal Chimes
Apparel
A plagueland breeze is best accompanied by a cheerful rattle of skeletal chimes. (Riot of Rot Holiday Item 2015.)
0
Noxious Coralclimber
Familiar
The vibrant colors warn off many predators, yet some dragons find themselves fascinated by the hues.
2350
Accent: Death Dealer
Skydancer Male Only
Accents are equippable items that can be worn like a coat of paint on top of the skin of your dragon. The look of the accent will not be passed onto offspring and may be unequipped at any time. (Designed by Pesticide.)
Itemid #22780
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Exalting Oberyn to the service of the Flamecaller will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
