Rocki's dragon Goneril

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

6.68 m

Wingspan

6.83 m

Weight

729.11 kg

Genetics

Clay
Flaunt

Cinnamon
Foam

Yellow
Sparkle

Hatchday

Jan 24, 2024
(4 months)

Breed

Adult
Wildclaw

Eye Type

Fire
Common

Level 1 Wildclaw

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

_______

» goneril. «

"the priestess" ━ [goner ∙ ill] ♀ ESFP━

...

___________

» "a wooden broom." «

"please, come in dear, make yourself at home" a young woman hummed softly to an approaching guest, she gestured gracefully, allowing a grey bird to alight gently upon her outstretched arm.

the inside of her tent, supported by metal beams and lush velvet drapes exuded the fragrance of dusty bookshelves mingled with her elegant perfumes, while an array of crystals adorned the walls, each seemingly imbued with a different emotive resonance. the grey parrot, perched upon the woman's arm, appeared to whisper into her ear, its nervous twitch betraying a subtle anxiety.

"i sense you are new to these surroundings, or perhaps reticent by nature? do not feel obliged to speak excessively if it does not suit you. However, it’s best if you let me know what goal you have for today’s visit.," the lady remarked as she pulled out a chair from beneath a draped table and gracefully seated herself opposite. the table was empty aside from a stack of cards and a rosy candle.

"i seek enlightenment regarding my fortune, of course" the man responded in a monotone voice, his countenance obscured by a white mask that covered the majority of his face, save for half faint, enigmatic smile. such attire seemed a bit odd to the teller, though due to his unwillingness to reply to her comment about being a new face she assumed him embarrassed of seeking assistance as some men were.

as per her routine, she arranged the cards in the traditional celtic cross pattern, synchronising their layout with the gently undulating smoke of a rosy candle. yet, she sensed an unusual detachment in her guest, an absence of genuine interest in the fortunes foretold or the intricate art of card divination. with each card revealed, the man's responses remained subdued, devoid of any genuine reaction.

"your past seems to be symbolised by the upright Major Arcana of death. please do not be alarmed, as many often misinterpret its significance," she ventured.

"what kind of creature is this?” the man asked, unalarmed

__________________________________

"a rat."

notes.

"and do you believe you would be willing to give up your position in this tent, even if it meant saving his life?"

there was a moment of silence which enveloped the tent, punctuated only by the rustle of curtains shielding the chamber from prying eyes as the heavy winds rolled endlessly. The woman's brows knit in distaste as she swiftly gathered her cards into a single pile, rising from her seat. "You are hereby dismissed from my tent. Fortune tellers are not mere transients; we are chosen vessels of the land's very soul."

"is this your final answer?"

"must i call for the friths?"

the masked man stood and exited the room.

While the minister had her own oracle, Cordelia was known as the herald of divine whispers, for held sway over the common denizens of the forge, channeling ethereal communiqués to those who sought enlightenment. Through the passing hours that followed, she tended to a myriad of patients, each bearing tales as mundane as they were profound, yet none captivating her in their essence or disdain. Bearing the mantle bestowed upon her by the forge's venerable shaman, Aldrich, Cordelia was steeped in the ancient lore of magicism, her senses attuned to the subtle murmurs of mystical forces. With reverence akin to devotion, she graced the hallowed solstice rites, weaving the rituals that bound mortals to the celestial realm. For in these sacred observances lay the essence of the sanctum's vitality, a beacon whose radiance pierced the veil of the mundane. Without these necessary means of worship, would the sanctum still burn bright with power? Lives had to be sacrificed to keep it so, even if it mean hearing their voices coursing through the molten veins of the earth.

As she caressed her locks with tender care, Cordelia wove them into delicate strands, each a testament to the artistry of her hands. Her reflection danced upon the polished surface of her vanity mirror, a fleeting glimpse of ethereal grace captured in its glassy embrace. this tranquil ritual was only then interrupted by a spectral silhouette which flitted past the edge of her ten directly blocking the lights of the street within that brief moment. A shiver traced its path down Cordelia's spine, a silent tremor that belied the initial serenity of her surroundings. With cautious steps, she ventured forth, her gaze sweeping the threshold in search of whoever had dared to trespass upon her tent.

In solitude, she beheld a wreath of amethyst blooms gracing the earth, a silent tribute to beauty's fleeting embrace. With delicate reverence, she gathered the floral offering, its petals a testament to untold sentiments as she brought it into her home to observe its craftsmanship in better lighting. Though commoners may regard such tokens with unknowing eyes, Cordelia recognized their silent language, bluebells are flowers not meant to be harmed therefore they were said to bring poor fortune to the home that they were brought into.

“I pray fortune for whoever sent me such a beautiful gift, i know they must mean no harm. Though, i will have to put it back outside, what a shame- this is beautiful handiwork indeed.” she hymned her gratitude as a shadow of unease danced across her thoughts, perhaps she expected a response from lufian but he must’ve been asleep by now for the sun had already set.

She slept peacefully that night, so much in fact that she woke later than expected. Rather than being woken by the sound of lufian, she woke to the sound of her front bell ringing. Was her parrot still asleep? “Ah, has the sun already risen?” the women mumbled as she rolled out of bed in a hurry to make herself presentable. With practised grace, she adorned herself with fragrant oils along her neck and wrists, their sweet perfume mingling with the crisp morning air. As she brushed her hair out of its braids, “Apologies but it may take a while for your appointment, I am running late this morning” she called to her visitor, receiving no response.

The contents of her home were as they usually should be, but a pit of anxiety felt heavy in her gut- she looked around the tent in search of lufian unable to find him. She scratched at the sides of her neck in increasing angst as she turned in circles around the room. Upon halting, the room itself seemed to still spin, where did he go? The woman scratched and scratched at the sides of her neck, she had yet to light candles for the light of her home was still dark. “I could’ve sworn my window was meant to be open, the sunlight should’ve waken me if lufian didn’t.”

She pulled open the curtains of her tent, allowing the light into her home as she looked into the fields of brush and grass that laid around her home, the bluebell crown was no longer there. Such admiration for the landscape’s beauty was cut short, as she scratched harder and harder at the sides of her neck as it throbbed with a fiery intensity, after opening the window she could now see the hints of blood beneath her fingernails as she ran to the mirror once again. The room spun behind her, figures seemed to morph in the dark corners of the room only to disappear upon her direct eye contact, the skin of her neck and wrist has grown fragile and raw as she scratched endlessly at them in agony. After a moment of clarity she threw the lid of her perfume open and held it up to the sunlight to look inside, the puny petals of a destroyed bluebell was scattered within it. Within the heaving and panting of the woman she splashed her face with boiled water once, rinsing her neck and wrist as she caught her composure, such flowers had low contents of toxicity and would not bring more than discomfort. As the beats of her own heart slowed soundly the ring of the front bell threw off the room’s harmony once again, the woman grabbed a knife from beneath her clothed table.

This was not the same visitor from before, it was a younger man with a kind and soft face, his attire well kept but not indicative of any wealth or suspicion. “Hello, I’d like to make an appointment for whenever you are next available if that’s okay with you?” he spoke gently. Upon cordelia emerging from behind the curtains his facial expression worried, she had forgotten the marks on her neck, that her hair was tangled in the midst of her madness. “I had a bit of an allergic reaction but all is well now, i will be free in an hour as it appears there aren’t many visitors today.”

"No worries at all." he left:

An hour later upon his return cordelia was in her usual appearance, minus the marks on her neck and wrists which were treated and covered. "please come in and make yourself at home” she pulled out a chair from beneath her clothed desk before sitting upon the other side. “is there any specific goal you wish to achieve from this visit today?"

"If you would be so kind, to sign this document and transfer ownership over this tent and its necessary components to my colleague." he laid a paper onto the desk

The woman jolted her arm to the compartment beneath her table only to wince upon remembering she had forgotten to put her knjfe back in its place. It was too late to sprint for it anyway, for the kindly man already had it in his.

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Exalting Goneril 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.

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