Cheshire
(#88042724)
Witchborne G4 Zelievna | G3 Blackmore
Familiar
Ponder Orb
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 48/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Female Imperial
This dragon cannot breed until Jun 12, 2024 (14 days).
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
24.23 m
Wingspan
16.47 m
Weight
6433.82 kg
Genetics
Flint
Metallic
Metallic
Obsidian
Noxtide
Noxtide
Obsidian
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 7 Imperial
EXP: 157 / 11881
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
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 C H E S H I R E 
BARGHEST LORE AND LINEAGE PROJECT
GENERATION III BLACKMORE’S LINE WITCHBORNE LINEAGE (WITCHKIN) GENERATION IV ZELIEVNA'S LINE 
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The entry is written in faded ink, a date scrawled at the top of the page next to a short title that reads “Ars Goetia”. It is the account of one Abigail Morose regarding a strange book inherited from her grandmother. When I was a child, my grandmother used to read me stories. She would clear her throat and push a worn pair of spectacles up the bridge of her nose before selecting a book from the shelves. I have many fond memories of sitting in her lap, an old rocking chair creaking beneath us as she read. Sadly, my grandmother passed away several years ago. The family gathered to clear out her belongings and each of us selected something of hers to take with us. My brother chose the old grandfather clock and my sister took our grandmother’s collection of jewelry and dresses. For me, there was only one clear choice and I inherited the old collection of books that lined the shelves in the library. After my grandmother passed away, I hadn’t the heart to unpack the books and for the past few years they sat in the attic gathering dust. It was around a week ago that I finally decided it was time to arrange them on the shelves of my own largely empty library. There had to have been nine or ten boxes in total and I hauled each one out of the attic, rummaging through and arranging the contents. I recognized most of the books. Many of them were the old folk tales that my grandmother read to me as a child. A few of them were cook books or guides to botany, one of my grandmother’s favorite hobbies. There was one book, however, that I had never seen before. It was a hefty thing with brittle yellowed pages and a worn black leather cover. There were faint carvings on the front, so faded that whatever shape they once formed had long since been obscured by time. The strangest thing about that book was that it refused to open. Nothing appeared to be holding it closed, but the pages were stuck as if they had been glued together. After an hour, I gave up on trying to pry the book open and placed it on the shelf alongside the remainder of my grandmother’s collection. Over the next few days, I kept finding that book in unusual places around the house. First, it was on the floor beside the shelf and I thought it simply must have fallen. Then I found it resting on the couch or lingering in a different location on the shelves. Each time I found it, I tried the cover, but it remained sealed tightly closed. This went on for several days until one evening, I found the book laying open on the floor. I gasped when I saw it. I remember that it was the night of a full moon because the light was pouring through the window and seemed almost to glow when it hit the book’s open pages. I lifted it from the ground, flipping through to find that it was some kind of old spell book. It contained a series of intricate circular drawings interspersed with text. I ran my hands over the open pages, my fingers brushing lightly against the ink. It was then that the book snapped closed. I screeched trying to shake it loose as pain seared through my hand. It was not just the blunt pain of having my hand crushed. It felt as if something were being etched into me and when the book finally let go and fell to the floor, several crimson drops fell with it. I grasped my hand and rushed to the kitchen to clean the wound, wrapping it tightly in a linen bandage. When I returned to the library, the book was gone. I searched for it, but since that night, I never found it again. Still, the book left me with a mark. The following morning, I went to re-wrap my hand and saw that two of those circles from the book’s pages had been etched into either side of it. They burned madly like the marks of a brand. Even more strangely is that I feel the urge to draw. I can’t stop. My right hand seems to have a mind of its own and no matter what I try to draw, it is always something horrid. . . Pulled directly from the pages of that book. I’ve woken up to find that my walls are covered in the visages of horrid beasts and I’ve found those circles drawn upon the floor. I know I must have sketched them in ink, but the wood underfoot is ashen and burned. . . And where it begins to fall away the scent of sulphur wafts up from a heated darkness. We attempted to follow up regarding Abigail’s report and found that she had tragically passed away after falling through a sinkhole in the second story of her home. We managed to visit the house and found the walls were covered in smears of ink. There was indeed a cavernous hole in the floor of the second story bedroom that looked as if it had been burned through the wood. The hole was rimmed with claw marks, as if something had hauled itself up through the opening. Something that smelled strongly of sulphur.
Layout and artwork by awaicu
Banners by PoisonedPaper
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