Ziatores
(#8884711)
Level 1 Nocturne
Familiar
Longneck Hunter
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Male Nocturne
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.82 m
Wingspan
7.54 m
Weight
379.9 kg
Genetics
Stone
Vipera
Vipera
Maroon
Eye Spots
Eye Spots
Platinum
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Nocturne
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
Ziatores
|
Scout / Cartographer
Intrepid | ??? | ??? | ??? | ??? The Nocturnes have always been here. They have carved their homes into the blank spaces on the maps, piercing eyes staring at you from the places you always overlook. Did you ever wonder why the echoes of your voice in the mountains sounded a little more different with each reverberating repeat? The eerie voices shouting back at intruders in the Cloudscape Crags have always belonged to the Nocturnes. Particularly, they belong to a secretive Nocturne clan making its roost within the jagged crevices near the foot of one of the tallest mountains. For years, they hunted with the bats, sometimes snatching a straggler or two once the flock had accepted them, flitting to and from the sheltering spires of the frigid crags. It was in this arctic grotto that Ziatores cracked his shell, tended to by parents that had never ventured beyond the mountains. Though born into a small family, Ziatores grew up far from alone, for once he had taken his first faltering steps and stretched his wings, the armored egg beside the remnants of his own budged, birthing his smaller, more frail brother Zepheren. Enveloped in the secrecy of their reclusive clan, the two youngsters quickly grew inseparable. For a time, the clan amused themselves with the squawking of their youngest charges as the older members brought back stolen voices from foolhardy dragons who believed themselves alone in the valleys. But as the pair began to be allowed further and further away from the comparatively warm embrace of their lair, they knew it was not just fun and games. For as long as the clan had existed, they had cultivated a dangerous tradition; when their children began to breach the cusp of maturity, they would be sent to climb to the top of the mountain that sheltered them, to pray to the Icewarden at its summit and return with the deity's blessing. The clan had owed their continuing survival to this ritual, and when the morning of their trial broke feebly through swirling clouds, Ziatores and Zepheren faced their task with honor and a powerful sense of duty. They would not fail in their task. They would watch each other's backs, defend each other to the death if need be. They would return successful or die in the Icewarden's name. With cold sunlight choking under the weight of agitated clouds, the brothers began to bound up the mountain, the more robust Ziatores leading the way but keeping his pace slower for the weaker Zepheren. For a time, their progress was swift and unimpeded, broken only by the occasional hunt for small bits of sustenance. Pursuing their goal with unrivaled zeal, the intrepid teenagers failed to notice the skies darkening far earlier than it should, the cold wind biting with sharper teeth than they were used to. They'd been prepared for snow, but it quickly became more than snow. What started as gentle flakes rapidly evolved into swirling maelstroms of frigid daggers ceaselessly battering against the Nocturnes' scales. They faltered. Blizzards had not been out of the question, but they'd always been able to retreat into the shelter of their lair and curl up by their parents. Such was not a possibility now. What kind of disgrace and shame would they bring if they turned back now? Time was of the essence, and as their vision became shrouded in deeper, thicker layers of white, the brothers began to panic. Ziatores desperately tried to wrap the tip of his tail around Zepheren's leg or wing or horn, whatever he could get a hold of, at the same time trying to duck his head into any crevice that looked possibly big enough to house them. In his haste to slither into one, Ziatores did not initially realize that Zepheren had slipped out of his grasp. The second he noticed, Ziatores shot his head out of his shelter, screaming Zepheren's name into the howling gale. He shouted until his throat turned raw and tender, until frost caked his scales and his nose went numb. The winds were even stronger now, forcing Ziatores to retreat, tearful and shivering, back into the cramped cave. Perhaps Zepheren had found a shelter of his own, he thought. That had to be what had happened. Struggling and failing to hold back half-frozen tears, he held onto that thought, white-knuckled and quivering in fear and exhaustion. He didn't know how long it took for the storm to end. Perhaps it had raged all night and the light that shone through was that of a new dawn, or maybe the Icewarden simply had to give a quick and blustery sendoff to a scouting party from a different god's army. Whatever the case, Ziatores feebly snaked his head out of his hole, only to loose a startled squawk at finding an unfamiliar face examining him. Not an unfamiliar dragon... but an unfamiliar creature. The snugly dressed Longneck seemed concerned, stepping forward slowly and offering a strip of dried jerky. Ziatores could not deny that his ordeal had made him hungry, and hesitantly reached out to snap up the surprisingly flavorful meat. Once a bit more energized, Ziatores suddenly remembered Zepheren's absence, and hastily hauled himself out onto the fresh snow, hoarsely rasping his brother's name. The Longneck rushed forward, placing a steady hoof on the dragon's shoulder. He knew all the hidey-holes of this place, the Longneck said in surprisingly fluent Draconic. Despite being an enemy to dragonkind according to common opinion, Ziatores believed this stranger. He'd waste his energy searching fruitlessly, so he quietly described Zepheren to his impromptu companion, and with new tears welling up in his eyes, the pair set off on a mission to find the younger Nocturne. For hours the two probed every crack big enough for a Nocturne to squeeze into, but to no avail. Growing increasingly desperate, Ziatores would bound off recklessly, rasping Zepheren's name into the wind, hoping that perhaps his brother would hear and respond. Nothing but the mocking voice of the wind answered, laughing at him and planting a deep dread in his heart. Eventually, as the sky began to darken again, the Longneck called Ziatores back, explaining that he had a camp nearby that the dragon could use to take shelter for the night. Reluctantly, Ziatores accepted, slinking to a back corner of the covered camp, painfully aware of the nervous stares of the scattered few Longnecks in residence. He didn't bother to chime in as his guide made the case for allowing him to stay, instead curling up and wrapping himself in his wings. The Longnecks reluctantly allowed his guide to continue his search, and the two once again set off at the crack of dawn. It was all for naught, for over days of searching, no trace of Zepheren could be found. His clan must think both of them dead, Ziatores thought, both swallowed by the blizzard, a sign of the Icewarden's rejection. But perhaps the god hadn't quite forsaken both of his children just yet. With renewed determination peeking through the weariness, Ziatores informed his Longneck companion that he had one last idea, and without further explanation, began to haul himself up the craggy slopes towards the summit. Night had fallen by the time he reached his goal, a crude shrine perched precariously on the mountain's spire and half-buried in snow. WIP WIP WIP |
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Exalting Ziatores to the service of the Tidelord 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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