Ptoma
(#9210125)
Level 25 Fae
Familiar
Longneck Vigilante
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Fae
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
1.08 m
Wingspan
0.87 m
Weight
1.19 kg
Genetics
Rose
Iridescent
Iridescent
Slate
Basic
Basic
Orange
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Fae
Max Level
STR
109
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
41
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
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P̵̭͉̮ͯ̃̕͟t̢͐͗̿̽̿̊͐͏͙̖̩ǫ̫̭͈̩̝͋ͦͤ̓̋̒̊m̵̳̮͔̺͈̭̫ͯ̆͟ā̱͎̮̝̲̜̳̱͟ͅ
The accursed
She/her
The accursed
She/her
   
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Someone wanted her gone. In hindsight we should have questioned why, but we were starstruck. All of us. A soft-spoken and timid dragon was such an oddity out in the harsh wilderness that no one saw the glimmer of crimson eyes or the not-quite-benign tilt of a smile. To those of us trapped in the shadow of the mountains, she was a glimmer of sunlight and the echo of hope. She settled down quickly, sending back only a hurried note and a nominal sum of money to her previous clan; something none of us had seen before. Even the most disgruntled settler was not entirely estranged from their birth clan. She waved one delicately painted paw and assured us our hospitality was all her family wanted to see. We didn’t pry. We really should have. For five weeks things went on as normal. Snow fell in sheets and billowing flurries as they always did. The ground crunched underfoot with each tentative step, necks craned to snoop in on neighbors and whispered voices oozed gossip and dripped conspiracy. It was said a new clan had settled into the valley even though no one had seen tail or hide of anyone. “In the marsh,” they whispered, eyes wide and wings shuffling at their sides, “There’s something out there. Something… unnatural.” We laughed and rolled our eyes; superstition existed only among the very old and the hatchlings. And, to appease both, we scoured every inch of the marsh. Aside from frozen mud and slush, there was nothing but the faded markings of ancient graves and long forgotten ruins. Still the rumors spread. Parents corralled their hatchlings and snarled at their own shadows. Night became an enemy and the premature dusk that hung in the air went from charming to threatening. The coldness grew frigid. Threatening. Soon even the most stoic and apathetic of us grew paranoid. Then the egg rot hit. It started at the edge of the territory. One of the smaller offshoots of the clan- a borderline feral group that kept mostly to themselves- showed up one day, a half dozen oozing, putrid eggs in tow. A few hushed, whispered words were exchanged between the clan leaders before the dark tinted dragons continued on. The stench clung to the very earth for weeks. And soon the nests inside the town were coated in a thick, gelatinous slime. All hell broke loose. Hatchlings were hidden away. Sage and rosemary were tucked away in the corners of rooms. Salt lay in unbroken lines across doorways and newly sealed windows. Bloodied feathers appeared, almost as though by magic, strung across the narrow roads. They connected the cold, lifeless buildings like emaciated intestines. No one dared to go outside, even during the day. No one except for her. She seemed unaffected: stoic when the putrid ooze clung to her feet and aloof when the low wailing lamentations of mothers rang out into the gloom. This time the glimmer of crimson eyes and the not-quite-benign tilt of a smile were impossible to misinterpret. It was time to take action. Once the snow was permanently stained a deep grey and the rotten stench had embedded itself into our souls- had become a part of us we could never wash out- we decided enough was enough. Armed only with teeth and claw and broken bits of windows and warped planks we moved. A group of twenty sleep deprived and half-starved dragons marching to confront the source of all our problems. This was going to end. One way or another. |
M̳̙̏̉ͅO̭͉̪̬͍̜̮̺ͦͧͥT̤̹͉̮̠̙͓̘ͧͯ̿͐͆ͬ̾̋̽̀͜ͅH̵̯͕̦̯̼̄̊ͥͨ͒̃̊͂͠͡E̪͕̟͓̙̅̄̇̍͆̐́͘R̴̙̲̞̫͙̪͗͝ͅ ̴̷͖̄ͧͣ̉͐̽̌̅͜C̷̢̨̟̪̗̟̖͈̞ͭ͋ͯ̌A̢̯̩̞̥̐ͬ̕͢R̹̰̺͊̓̈́̍ͫ͂͜͡͞E̖̱͍͕̩͉̊̈ͯͣͪͪ͗̄Ṣͩ̏̐̊̉̅ ̶͉͉̭̫̹̟̯̲̌̑̌͗ͦ́͞F̸̫ͯ̿ͧ̎̏O̳͐̀ͪͨ̆ͥ͒͜͠R̸͉̙̼̹̠͛ ̗̻̮ͥ̈́̎͞Ḩ͈̗̺̦͕̗͈̄̐̈́̑͌ͬ̅͠Ẹ̸̶͚ͦ̿͑͋͝ͅRͨ̏̿ͧ̃͂҉̧̳̩̜̩̥̳͔̠̳ ̂̈́̓̉̚͠͏̴̠͇̰̙̦͖̭ͅC̰͖̬͔̹̏͒̐ͨ̐͠H͚̺̘͈̱̞̎I͛̍͗ͬ҉͕̖͍̩͙̙͕͖L̵̻̺̂̅ͮͯ͆͑̾́̚͜D̠͉̣͙͙͎͉̯̜̉͑̓͗̍̓ͣ̋̈R̠̩̺̫͓͛ͤ̏̈́̇͐̓́̕ͅͅẸ̮̗̩̜̞̻̃̈N̴̙̮͕̞̤̣̥̔̆̅̀̏
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This dragon doesn't eat Meat.
This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Ptoma to the service of the Icewarden 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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