[center][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @mako @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @londor @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch[/size][/size][/size][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=7][color=DarkRed][font=Californian FB][b]SPOTLIGHT[/b][/font][/color][/size][/center]
[center][color=DarkRed]_______________________[/color][/center]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=27733][size=6][color=maroon]Yuubi's[/url][size=6][color=maroon] Grey and Gray[/color][/size][/center]
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/67273369][img]https://i.imgur.com/zvEI37a.png[/img][/url][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/67273371][img]https://i.imgur.com/hTokLGM.png[/url][/img][/center]
[left][color=maroon]
Since both hatched out of the very same egg, they have never been apart their whole life.
Their parents tried to seperate them once, but the hatchlings would cry ugly and loud until they were able to be be close again, as if they were in severe pain.
The parents didn't bother investigating this closer and left the brothers simply be together.
They would eat, sleep, play, learn, train, and even finish each others' sentences, one would think thier whole world would revolve around the other.
Yet, it wasn't enough, they wanted to be closer.
-----
[color=maroon]When they grew older, they heared about the Necromancers and their powers, they decided to undergo them in an effort to find the power to truely connect each others' minds.
Sharing the same strain Mother gave them, sharing the pain and fever they endured when the sickness began festering under their skin, hunting together with weakness in thier limbs, they felt united as one.
It was liberating to feel this way, even though their bodies where still apart, but it was only a matter of time then.
It paid out in the end, making them Necromancers and celebrating the surge of power and respect they where given by others.
They were formidable in the arts of Necromancers and were suggested newcomers to The Council, others where watching what big successes they would bring.
Yet it didn't gave them the true connection they seeked and they searched elsewhere, abandoning their duties quickly upon realizing this flaw.
It was The Shade that answerered thier calls and truely gave them what they wanted.
The price is not meaningful to mention.
-----
[color=maroon]"Do you think what i am thinking, brother mine?" questioned the smoke colored Imperial.
"I always do, yet you want to hear my voice, 'What could we do to become even closer than this', brother dear?" asked the silver colored one, though knowing what is suggested.
"What is the secret the Lightweaver only shared with Emperors, brother mine?"
[left][color=maroon]by Yuubi[/color][/left]
SPOTLIGHT
_______________________
Since both hatched out of the very same egg, they have never been apart their whole life.
Their parents tried to seperate them once, but the hatchlings would cry ugly and loud until they were able to be be close again, as if they were in severe pain.
The parents didn't bother investigating this closer and left the brothers simply be together.
They would eat, sleep, play, learn, train, and even finish each others' sentences, one would think thier whole world would revolve around the other.
Yet, it wasn't enough, they wanted to be closer.
When they grew older, they heared about the Necromancers and their powers, they decided to undergo them in an effort to find the power to truely connect each others' minds.
Sharing the same strain Mother gave them, sharing the pain and fever they endured when the sickness began festering under their skin, hunting together with weakness in thier limbs, they felt united as one.
It was liberating to feel this way, even though their bodies where still apart, but it was only a matter of time then.
It paid out in the end, making them Necromancers and celebrating the surge of power and respect they where given by others.
They were formidable in the arts of Necromancers and were suggested newcomers to The Council, others where watching what big successes they would bring.
Yet it didn't gave them the true connection they seeked and they searched elsewhere, abandoning their duties quickly upon realizing this flaw.
It was The Shade that answerered thier calls and truely gave them what they wanted.
The price is not meaningful to mention.
"Do you think what i am thinking, brother mine?" questioned the smoke colored Imperial.
"I always do, yet you want to hear my voice, 'What could we do to become even closer than this', brother dear?" asked the silver colored one, though knowing what is suggested.
"What is the secret the Lightweaver only shared with Emperors, brother mine?"
by Yuubi
[center][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @kava @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @mako @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @londor @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch[/size][/size][/size][/size][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=7][color=DarkRed][font=Californian FB][b]SPOTLIGHT[/b][/font][/color][/size][/center]
[center][color=DarkRed]_______________________[/color][/center]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=219747][size=6][color=maroon]Psittacidae's[/url][size=6][color=maroon] Hemlock[/color][/size][/center]
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/69779244][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/697793/69779244_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
[left][color=maroon]
I was a changeling.
I was a hatchling with green eyes born to a Plague nest, when all my sibling's eyes were ruby red. Did some forest sprite steal one sibling away and slip me in? Or was this some new expression of Plague magic, a variation of the elemental surges that gave the different hues of red to the eyes of other hatchlings?
From youth, the stares followed me everywhere I went. From confused to judgemental, even scornful. For everything I did, I had to try twice as hard to be noticed and acknowledged along with my siblings. To earn the grudging praise that others received so readily.
The colour of my eyes was only the first of many things that betrayed my heritage. I was so different from everyone else.
For the longest time, I hated the taste of meat. When my parents returned from their hunts with jaws laden with freshly slain prey, I recoiled instinctively from the bloodied carcasses. My siblings had no such reservations, tearing greedily into flesh and bone until nothing remained of those once-living creatures. Instead, I snuck in bites of leaves, foliage, moss, and bits of mushrooms.
My parents were always distant to me. What kind of Imperial, born and bred in Plague, would be vegetarian and squeamish at the sight of blood? They were the only parents I knew, but in their eyes I was not their child.
In the end, I outgrew that phase. Ultimately, what defines a Plague dragon is not ferocity or diet, but adaptability. This was the only home I knew, and I was determined to be a part of it. Even though hunting and eating meat did not come naturally to me as it did my siblings, my environment demanded it. And so, I learnt, and I adapted.
But when my siblings started coming into their own, learning how to command the contagion around them, my fears were given new form. Though I hatched in a Plague nest, I was not Plague-born. Its element of virus and rot were not mine to wield. Once again, I was relegated to the sidelines.
In my loneliness, I turned once more to the plants.
The plants that grew in the wastelands were as tough and as vicious as any of its animals. Having grown up eating them, I knew their quirks. Plants that are poisonous, plants with acid-filled sacks, plants that exploded with spores—I was aquatinted with them all. I did not have any natural venom, or viruses that came to my claw-tips. As I have my entire life, I would adapt. I would make do with what was given to me. What is theirs, will be mine.
'You are what you eat' is an old adage well-known in Plague. And like all old adages, there is some truth in them. In those reckless days, no amount of pain or suffering deterred me from my goals. My siblings learnt ever greater spells, and in my stubbornness I refused to be left behind in the dust.
That is how I found myself day after day in poor territory. Alone in a small cave behind dense undergrowth barely large enough to fit my adolescent imperial body. While my siblings studied under their tutors, I experimented. The mixtures, drugs, and potions I concocted surely would've seemed like madness to any observer.
Unfortunately, I was a poor alchemist. My senseless tinkering yielded little progress. The years passed, and I had discovered precious little. All that I had managed was to get myself increasingly ill. I became nothing more than a shadow of my more successful nest-mates, doomed to yearn after them for what I did not have.
One day, when I had once again drank a few elixirs of questionable contents, my father confronted me, scowling. I was a gaunt and pallid husk, barely able to string a few sentences together.
"Child." He said, glaring down at me. "I have let you play around with flowers for long enough. Look at what you have become. You shame me, and you shame your mother by continuing like this."
It felt like a kick to the chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but could only manage a weak cough. Something sticky dribbled down my chin.
"You have become weak." His voice was a deep rumble of discontent. "Perhaps you were always weak. We shall find out soon enough."
I gaped in horror. What did he mean? The bile that rose to my throat was nothing new, nor were the wet, hagged coughs that followed. They have been my companions for a long time now, a toll exacted by the innumerable kinds of poison I had willingly ingested.
My father shook his head in disgust. "The Goddess will decide if you are worthy of life. You will return to us a true Plague dragon, or you shall not return at all. Either way, this weak boy with his weak thoughts will die."
So, that was it. I had finally become enough trouble. I was to be removed like a troublesome thorn, a defect in an otherwise perfect clutch. What was one to do, when they're informed of their upcoming demise?
"Don't think of this as a punishment, Hemlock." My father sighed, something almost like sympathy softened his eyes. "If you give yourself into Her embrace, She will fix you. If you can earn Her favour, you'll have all you ever desired and more."
It still didn't seem real when I climbed the tall, gnarled rim of the festering Wyrmwound. Nothing made sense. It was happening all too fast.
"Your fate is in the hands of the Goddess now," those were his parting words to me, and then he was gone, and I was alone. Despair filled my heart.
I continued to cough, the acidic vapours burned my lungs. I was exhausted. I could barely breathe. I was supposed to spend some time here, in prayer and contemplation. But from the very first touch of Plague, the terror had driven me to my feet again.
Even from such short exposure, my already weakened constitution meant Her Plague found easy purchase within my blood. It was in me now. She in Her grace had lent me Her touch, but I was not ready to receive it. I was coming undone.
I had sometimes wondered if prey understood their fate, when they are caught in a dragon's claws. I felt very much like prey now, in the clutches of the Plaguebringer. And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that if I were to lie down, I would never rise again. It was a truth. The certainty of someone who was about to die.
But, even in dying, I remained stubborn. I did not want to die here. So, one claw in front of the other, I staggered away from the perch that was meant to be my tomb. Putting distance between myself and that pestilent cauldron until its oppressive mire no longer hung heavy in the air.
I could not return home. I could not even die properly, it seemed. Shame spurred me to flee in the opposite direction, away from everything I knew.
I was deathly ill and half-mad, which ironically made me a fairly unremarkable thing here in the Wastelands. The locals knew well to steer clear of my path as I travelled deeper into unfamiliar territory. But even as I left the Wyrmwound behind, I could not leave behind its Plague. I grew weaker and weaker, until finally, I could walk no more.
There was nothing left to do but laugh. The Goddess has seen me and found me wanting. My fate was preordained.
My consciousness faded. And there was nothing else.
...
When I came to again, it was to the sight of a Skydancer's claws upon my feverish forehead. I flailed my limbs outwards, trying to push myself onto my feet.
"Easy now." She said, her voice oddly soothing. "You've had a tough go at it, but everything is going to be fine."
"What is—Who are you?" I groaned.
"I am Cicatrix. I healed you. You're welcome." She said with a mild smile and an inscrutable mask of calm serenity. "You're very lucky that we found you."
"You seem much better now," she said appraisingly. "That bodes well."
I examined myself with a grimace. I looked absolutely terrible. My once full mane was missing chunks of fur, a sickly green tinged my scales, and my wings were entirely tattered. I could not understand how I was still alive, if this was me looking much better. I opened my mouth to say so, when I noticed her eyes.
"You're blind!" I exclaimed.
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. I fidgeted slightly, embarrassed.
"Eupatrid will be back soon." She said, ignoring my outburst. "You coughed on him and ruined his cloak."
"I ruined his cloak?" I asked, still disoriented and confused by the apparent non-sequester. "Wait, who's Eupatrid?"
"Eupatrid is my teacher," Cicatrix explained patiently. "And yes, it's quite a nasty cough you've got. He was intrigued by your talent. Or, he was, before you coughed all over him."
"Coughing is a talent now?" I asked, skeptical.
Cicatrix laughed like a bell. "Not usually. But you've been touched by the Goddess. Her gifts manifest in different ways."
She explained that I had been coughing up some kind of thick, acidic fluid. It ate through the fabric of Eupatrid's cloak and also a wore a few holes in the floor.
That's... something, I suppose. I thought back to the many potions and concoctions that I had made over the years, trying to replicate an ability like this one.
"It seemed I got what I asked for after all," I snorted. Coughing up acidic phlegm onto people was hardly the most glamorous ability, but I would've been so excited about it a month ago. It all seemed so absurd now.
Eupatrid, as it turns out, was an impressive Mirror. He held himself in that poised, authoritative way of someone who was used to being obeyed. He was much smaller than me, but I instinctively dropped my gaze to the floor.
"So, our guest awakens." He greeted. "What is a Nature dragon like you doing so deep in the wastelands? Touched by Mother's Plague no less?"
"Nature dragon?" I hesitated. "I'm a Plague dragon sir."
Eupatrid raised an eyebrow. "Let's not argue semantics. You were born in Nature territory yes?"
"I had suspected—I mean I sometimes thought—" I began haltingly, then stopped. "I was born here. In the wasteland."
Eupatrid's eyes flickered over to Cicatrix. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. "Hm. You're telling the truth. Not unheard of I suppose."
"I—Do you really think my parents were Nature Flight?" I worried my lip. "I was raised by Plague dragons."
Eupatrid gave a dismissive wave. "It's pointless to speculate. Eggs are lost for many reasons. The Plaguebringer welcomes all, regardless of where you were born or to whom."
I bowed my head in acquiescence, but internally my thoughts were in turmoil. I answered their remaining questions as best as I could, distracted by this new revelation. My parents might not be my parents after all.
Eupatrid apparently had other duties to attend to, and so I was left in the care of Cicatrix, who spent some days after that making sure I continued to heal.
After I was given a bill of acceptable health, I was allowed to mingle with the general populace. The Plague Clan were I found myself turned out to be larger than I had first expected. They were well established, and controlled a large swarth of the surrounding territory. Besides Eupatrid and Cicatrix, I met many other dragons—some of them residents, and some who were just passing through.
To my own surprise, I began to feel much better. Though some injuries were not able to be mended. I will always bear the scars of my ordeal, and my wings were ruined—too far gone to ever lift me off the ground again. Though I had been aghast at first, I found myself adapting as I grew stronger. My muscled filled back in, and I felt much more alert and confident. I was in good spirts. No matter what the world threw at me, I would always persist.
"I would like to find where I come from." I announced to Eupatrid and Cicatrix. I had come to regard them as friendly acquaintances, though within this Clan they held much higher standing than I. "I plan to journey East, to the Viridian Labyrinth. If anywhere in the world would have the answers, it would be there."
I had expected them to protest, but I was once more pleasantly surprised when, after some good natured jesting about me absconding to join the 'enemies of Plague', I was given some supplies and sent off in a much better state than when I arrived.
I could not fly, but my maimed winged made for an easy place to hang my bags. I did not have much of a plan as I set off in the vague direction of the Labyrinth. Home was a distant memory in the back of my mind. All I saw was the potential for a new adventure. The excitement of it brought a spring to my step that I had long lost in my turbulent youth.
Nature was a very different world to Plague. There, I found much more than I bargained for. There were things here that I could never have imagined. Clear streams of clean, drinkable water. Birds that would alight onto my shoulders and frogs that sat at my feet, unafraid. Countless flowers in colours I had never seen before.
Even the colours that I knew were different. Their green was not the sapping grasp of green given off by the Wyrmwound—it was a green of the first shoots of grass after the snow. Their brown was not the touch of decay that envelops the Wasteland—it was brown like the young bark of a sapling straining for the sun.
Yet, there were also things that I felt they had rather neglected. Children who were many moons old still romped around like hatchlings, not helping to scavenge or learning to hunt.
There was a kind of peace here. But it felt frail like paper. I had a constant itch at the back of my neck, as if any moment, an attack would come and shatter this idyllic dream. I dared not touch it, in fear that my Plague-tainted hands would cause it to all rot away. It was not long before I took my leave of the Everbloom Gardens. The community that I found myself in fretted and fussed over the most inane things. The place was beautiful, but it was beautiful in a tenuous, transitive way. The flowers that bloomed there wilted in even the slightly change of the wind. The wastelands might be harsh, but it was a place that would endure.
It was deep in the Shrieking Wilds that I found what I was looking for.
I had chanced upon them. A group of Tundras who greeted me as if they knew me. I had been standoffish in my response, suspicious of these strangers. But there was something about me that they saw and liked. They brought me into their glade like a long lost cousin. I had heard of such things in Tundras. Some ancient sign of family that they recognised, imprinted in their memories.
I was baffled. Was this where I come from?
As I gratefully accepted their hospitality, little did I know that their hidden grove was the least of the secrets these dragons kept. This community, isolated from most of the world, had retained some of the oldest magics known to dragon-kind.
This was a community of changelings.
Not hatchlings born in another nest, but dragons that could readily change their form. I had heard of this kind of magic, of course. I had witnessed it before. Dragons who use magical scrolls to alter their self from one breed to another. But these dragons did so almost effortlessly. They did not have to create scrolls, or even perform rituals. They merely cast some kind of spell and—transformed. Perhaps they were even the originators of that magic, which how easily they would shift.
More than spitting acidic phlegm, this would be an ability to truly write home about.
I had struggled to learn the Plague magic that was taught in my youth, but in my nativity I thought that I would pick up this new kind of magic easily. Plague might be lost to me, but if I'm a Nature dragon—if I'm one of them—then I'm born to do this!
My slow progress at understanding their teachings soon spilled over into frustration. It was as if I was a hatchling again, with how little I knew. Perhaps it's not the Flight or the element of the magic. It was just me who was lacking.
But there were other things to learn. They helped me patch up my splotchy knowledge of alchemy, finally showing me how to properly mix herbs, and which poisonous things are simply poison to be avoided. I learnt the simple things that no one thought about in Plague. How to brew tea. How to create sweet scents with different flowers. How to craft a hat from bamboo.
I had tried to learn more about my history as well. I do not know why my parents, whomever they are, chose this to be my form. Perhaps it was just opportunism, that they left me in an Imperial's nest. Was I another breed, once upon a time? I could not imagine not being an Imperial. Perhaps that is why, in the end, their magic so ill-fit me. They were as malleable as clay, and I was not. I was stubborn, and refused to bend.
But still, I was eager to know more. The magic to become an Imperial has long been thought lost in the rest of the world. These dragons who could change into one, and my parents who perhaps once changed me, are the only beings in the world who still know how to. But their teachings were vague, and difficult to understand. I had grown up in a very different world. The basic instincts that were instilled in their young I simply did not have. It was not so much a process of learning as it was a struggle of un-learning.
But the entire time, at the back of my mind there was a nagging fear. If I attempt their magic and changed my breed, would I be able to turn back?
Would I lose myself forever?
No one, after all, had become an Imperial through scroll-magic in a long time.
But such was the way with learning. Often we do not learn the lessons we intended.
It was only through learning how to become someone else, that I at long last, understood my own skin. I had come full circle. I had lost myself, and found myself again. There were more secrets to learn, but I declined. The tide has changed. The internal storm that has raged for years has faded to a low ebb, crashed and broke against an unmoving shore.
This place is so serene, so peaceful. The wasteland is harsh and scarred and ugly. I could not bear the thought of what would happen should those two worlds collide. I would protect what I have found here as fiercely as any virulent strain of Plague can burn beneath a dragon's hide. But, I can't protect them here. Their secrecy is their shield, and my presence only exposes them.
So, it was with this thought, that I finally decided. It was time to return home. My friends will be eager to hear of my journey, and the tale that I tell them will be long and storied. And perhaps, I could bring them a little bit of the peace I had found here.
I am an Imperial bred in the Shrieking Wilds. I am a green-eyed hatchling born in a Plague nest. I am a hunter with a maw of sharp teeth and a love for large game. I am a vegetarian who loves sweet grass and mushrooms. I am a Plague dragon, touched by the Plaguebringer and servant of Her dominance. I am a Nature dragon, who has learnt the songs of birds and ballads of the snakes.
I am a seed that has grown against all odds, and I am finally ready to bloom.
[left][color=maroon]by Psittacidae[/color][/left]
SPOTLIGHT
_______________________
I was a changeling.
I was a hatchling with green eyes born to a Plague nest, when all my sibling's eyes were ruby red. Did some forest sprite steal one sibling away and slip me in? Or was this some new expression of Plague magic, a variation of the elemental surges that gave the different hues of red to the eyes of other hatchlings?
From youth, the stares followed me everywhere I went. From confused to judgemental, even scornful. For everything I did, I had to try twice as hard to be noticed and acknowledged along with my siblings. To earn the grudging praise that others received so readily.
The colour of my eyes was only the first of many things that betrayed my heritage. I was so different from everyone else.
For the longest time, I hated the taste of meat. When my parents returned from their hunts with jaws laden with freshly slain prey, I recoiled instinctively from the bloodied carcasses. My siblings had no such reservations, tearing greedily into flesh and bone until nothing remained of those once-living creatures. Instead, I snuck in bites of leaves, foliage, moss, and bits of mushrooms.
My parents were always distant to me. What kind of Imperial, born and bred in Plague, would be vegetarian and squeamish at the sight of blood? They were the only parents I knew, but in their eyes I was not their child.
In the end, I outgrew that phase. Ultimately, what defines a Plague dragon is not ferocity or diet, but adaptability. This was the only home I knew, and I was determined to be a part of it. Even though hunting and eating meat did not come naturally to me as it did my siblings, my environment demanded it. And so, I learnt, and I adapted.
But when my siblings started coming into their own, learning how to command the contagion around them, my fears were given new form. Though I hatched in a Plague nest, I was not Plague-born. Its element of virus and rot were not mine to wield. Once again, I was relegated to the sidelines.
In my loneliness, I turned once more to the plants.
The plants that grew in the wastelands were as tough and as vicious as any of its animals. Having grown up eating them, I knew their quirks. Plants that are poisonous, plants with acid-filled sacks, plants that exploded with spores—I was aquatinted with them all. I did not have any natural venom, or viruses that came to my claw-tips. As I have my entire life, I would adapt. I would make do with what was given to me. What is theirs, will be mine.
'You are what you eat' is an old adage well-known in Plague. And like all old adages, there is some truth in them. In those reckless days, no amount of pain or suffering deterred me from my goals. My siblings learnt ever greater spells, and in my stubbornness I refused to be left behind in the dust.
That is how I found myself day after day in poor territory. Alone in a small cave behind dense undergrowth barely large enough to fit my adolescent imperial body. While my siblings studied under their tutors, I experimented. The mixtures, drugs, and potions I concocted surely would've seemed like madness to any observer.
Unfortunately, I was a poor alchemist. My senseless tinkering yielded little progress. The years passed, and I had discovered precious little. All that I had managed was to get myself increasingly ill. I became nothing more than a shadow of my more successful nest-mates, doomed to yearn after them for what I did not have.
One day, when I had once again drank a few elixirs of questionable contents, my father confronted me, scowling. I was a gaunt and pallid husk, barely able to string a few sentences together.
"Child." He said, glaring down at me. "I have let you play around with flowers for long enough. Look at what you have become. You shame me, and you shame your mother by continuing like this."
It felt like a kick to the chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but could only manage a weak cough. Something sticky dribbled down my chin.
"You have become weak." His voice was a deep rumble of discontent. "Perhaps you were always weak. We shall find out soon enough."
I gaped in horror. What did he mean? The bile that rose to my throat was nothing new, nor were the wet, hagged coughs that followed. They have been my companions for a long time now, a toll exacted by the innumerable kinds of poison I had willingly ingested.
My father shook his head in disgust. "The Goddess will decide if you are worthy of life. You will return to us a true Plague dragon, or you shall not return at all. Either way, this weak boy with his weak thoughts will die."
So, that was it. I had finally become enough trouble. I was to be removed like a troublesome thorn, a defect in an otherwise perfect clutch. What was one to do, when they're informed of their upcoming demise?
"Don't think of this as a punishment, Hemlock." My father sighed, something almost like sympathy softened his eyes. "If you give yourself into Her embrace, She will fix you. If you can earn Her favour, you'll have all you ever desired and more."
It still didn't seem real when I climbed the tall, gnarled rim of the festering Wyrmwound. Nothing made sense. It was happening all too fast.
"Your fate is in the hands of the Goddess now," those were his parting words to me, and then he was gone, and I was alone. Despair filled my heart.
I continued to cough, the acidic vapours burned my lungs. I was exhausted. I could barely breathe. I was supposed to spend some time here, in prayer and contemplation. But from the very first touch of Plague, the terror had driven me to my feet again.
Even from such short exposure, my already weakened constitution meant Her Plague found easy purchase within my blood. It was in me now. She in Her grace had lent me Her touch, but I was not ready to receive it. I was coming undone.
I had sometimes wondered if prey understood their fate, when they are caught in a dragon's claws. I felt very much like prey now, in the clutches of the Plaguebringer. And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that if I were to lie down, I would never rise again. It was a truth. The certainty of someone who was about to die.
But, even in dying, I remained stubborn. I did not want to die here. So, one claw in front of the other, I staggered away from the perch that was meant to be my tomb. Putting distance between myself and that pestilent cauldron until its oppressive mire no longer hung heavy in the air.
I could not return home. I could not even die properly, it seemed. Shame spurred me to flee in the opposite direction, away from everything I knew.
I was deathly ill and half-mad, which ironically made me a fairly unremarkable thing here in the Wastelands. The locals knew well to steer clear of my path as I travelled deeper into unfamiliar territory. But even as I left the Wyrmwound behind, I could not leave behind its Plague. I grew weaker and weaker, until finally, I could walk no more.
There was nothing left to do but laugh. The Goddess has seen me and found me wanting. My fate was preordained.
My consciousness faded. And there was nothing else.
...
When I came to again, it was to the sight of a Skydancer's claws upon my feverish forehead. I flailed my limbs outwards, trying to push myself onto my feet.
"Easy now." She said, her voice oddly soothing. "You've had a tough go at it, but everything is going to be fine."
"What is—Who are you?" I groaned.
"I am Cicatrix. I healed you. You're welcome." She said with a mild smile and an inscrutable mask of calm serenity. "You're very lucky that we found you."
"You seem much better now," she said appraisingly. "That bodes well."
I examined myself with a grimace. I looked absolutely terrible. My once full mane was missing chunks of fur, a sickly green tinged my scales, and my wings were entirely tattered. I could not understand how I was still alive, if this was me looking much better. I opened my mouth to say so, when I noticed her eyes.
"You're blind!" I exclaimed.
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. I fidgeted slightly, embarrassed.
"Eupatrid will be back soon." She said, ignoring my outburst. "You coughed on him and ruined his cloak."
"I ruined his cloak?" I asked, still disoriented and confused by the apparent non-sequester. "Wait, who's Eupatrid?"
"Eupatrid is my teacher," Cicatrix explained patiently. "And yes, it's quite a nasty cough you've got. He was intrigued by your talent. Or, he was, before you coughed all over him."
"Coughing is a talent now?" I asked, skeptical.
Cicatrix laughed like a bell. "Not usually. But you've been touched by the Goddess. Her gifts manifest in different ways."
She explained that I had been coughing up some kind of thick, acidic fluid. It ate through the fabric of Eupatrid's cloak and also a wore a few holes in the floor.
That's... something, I suppose. I thought back to the many potions and concoctions that I had made over the years, trying to replicate an ability like this one.
"It seemed I got what I asked for after all," I snorted. Coughing up acidic phlegm onto people was hardly the most glamorous ability, but I would've been so excited about it a month ago. It all seemed so absurd now.
Eupatrid, as it turns out, was an impressive Mirror. He held himself in that poised, authoritative way of someone who was used to being obeyed. He was much smaller than me, but I instinctively dropped my gaze to the floor.
"So, our guest awakens." He greeted. "What is a Nature dragon like you doing so deep in the wastelands? Touched by Mother's Plague no less?"
"Nature dragon?" I hesitated. "I'm a Plague dragon sir."
Eupatrid raised an eyebrow. "Let's not argue semantics. You were born in Nature territory yes?"
"I had suspected—I mean I sometimes thought—" I began haltingly, then stopped. "I was born here. In the wasteland."
Eupatrid's eyes flickered over to Cicatrix. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. "Hm. You're telling the truth. Not unheard of I suppose."
"I—Do you really think my parents were Nature Flight?" I worried my lip. "I was raised by Plague dragons."
Eupatrid gave a dismissive wave. "It's pointless to speculate. Eggs are lost for many reasons. The Plaguebringer welcomes all, regardless of where you were born or to whom."
I bowed my head in acquiescence, but internally my thoughts were in turmoil. I answered their remaining questions as best as I could, distracted by this new revelation. My parents might not be my parents after all.
Eupatrid apparently had other duties to attend to, and so I was left in the care of Cicatrix, who spent some days after that making sure I continued to heal.
After I was given a bill of acceptable health, I was allowed to mingle with the general populace. The Plague Clan were I found myself turned out to be larger than I had first expected. They were well established, and controlled a large swarth of the surrounding territory. Besides Eupatrid and Cicatrix, I met many other dragons—some of them residents, and some who were just passing through.
To my own surprise, I began to feel much better. Though some injuries were not able to be mended. I will always bear the scars of my ordeal, and my wings were ruined—too far gone to ever lift me off the ground again. Though I had been aghast at first, I found myself adapting as I grew stronger. My muscled filled back in, and I felt much more alert and confident. I was in good spirts. No matter what the world threw at me, I would always persist.
"I would like to find where I come from." I announced to Eupatrid and Cicatrix. I had come to regard them as friendly acquaintances, though within this Clan they held much higher standing than I. "I plan to journey East, to the Viridian Labyrinth. If anywhere in the world would have the answers, it would be there."
I had expected them to protest, but I was once more pleasantly surprised when, after some good natured jesting about me absconding to join the 'enemies of Plague', I was given some supplies and sent off in a much better state than when I arrived.
I could not fly, but my maimed winged made for an easy place to hang my bags. I did not have much of a plan as I set off in the vague direction of the Labyrinth. Home was a distant memory in the back of my mind. All I saw was the potential for a new adventure. The excitement of it brought a spring to my step that I had long lost in my turbulent youth.
Nature was a very different world to Plague. There, I found much more than I bargained for. There were things here that I could never have imagined. Clear streams of clean, drinkable water. Birds that would alight onto my shoulders and frogs that sat at my feet, unafraid. Countless flowers in colours I had never seen before.
Even the colours that I knew were different. Their green was not the sapping grasp of green given off by the Wyrmwound—it was a green of the first shoots of grass after the snow. Their brown was not the touch of decay that envelops the Wasteland—it was brown like the young bark of a sapling straining for the sun.
Yet, there were also things that I felt they had rather neglected. Children who were many moons old still romped around like hatchlings, not helping to scavenge or learning to hunt.
There was a kind of peace here. But it felt frail like paper. I had a constant itch at the back of my neck, as if any moment, an attack would come and shatter this idyllic dream. I dared not touch it, in fear that my Plague-tainted hands would cause it to all rot away. It was not long before I took my leave of the Everbloom Gardens. The community that I found myself in fretted and fussed over the most inane things. The place was beautiful, but it was beautiful in a tenuous, transitive way. The flowers that bloomed there wilted in even the slightly change of the wind. The wastelands might be harsh, but it was a place that would endure.
It was deep in the Shrieking Wilds that I found what I was looking for.
I had chanced upon them. A group of Tundras who greeted me as if they knew me. I had been standoffish in my response, suspicious of these strangers. But there was something about me that they saw and liked. They brought me into their glade like a long lost cousin. I had heard of such things in Tundras. Some ancient sign of family that they recognised, imprinted in their memories.
I was baffled. Was this where I come from?
As I gratefully accepted their hospitality, little did I know that their hidden grove was the least of the secrets these dragons kept. This community, isolated from most of the world, had retained some of the oldest magics known to dragon-kind.
This was a community of changelings.
Not hatchlings born in another nest, but dragons that could readily change their form. I had heard of this kind of magic, of course. I had witnessed it before. Dragons who use magical scrolls to alter their self from one breed to another. But these dragons did so almost effortlessly. They did not have to create scrolls, or even perform rituals. They merely cast some kind of spell and—transformed. Perhaps they were even the originators of that magic, which how easily they would shift.
More than spitting acidic phlegm, this would be an ability to truly write home about.
I had struggled to learn the Plague magic that was taught in my youth, but in my nativity I thought that I would pick up this new kind of magic easily. Plague might be lost to me, but if I'm a Nature dragon—if I'm one of them—then I'm born to do this!
My slow progress at understanding their teachings soon spilled over into frustration. It was as if I was a hatchling again, with how little I knew. Perhaps it's not the Flight or the element of the magic. It was just me who was lacking.
But there were other things to learn. They helped me patch up my splotchy knowledge of alchemy, finally showing me how to properly mix herbs, and which poisonous things are simply poison to be avoided. I learnt the simple things that no one thought about in Plague. How to brew tea. How to create sweet scents with different flowers. How to craft a hat from bamboo.
I had tried to learn more about my history as well. I do not know why my parents, whomever they are, chose this to be my form. Perhaps it was just opportunism, that they left me in an Imperial's nest. Was I another breed, once upon a time? I could not imagine not being an Imperial. Perhaps that is why, in the end, their magic so ill-fit me. They were as malleable as clay, and I was not. I was stubborn, and refused to bend.
But still, I was eager to know more. The magic to become an Imperial has long been thought lost in the rest of the world. These dragons who could change into one, and my parents who perhaps once changed me, are the only beings in the world who still know how to. But their teachings were vague, and difficult to understand. I had grown up in a very different world. The basic instincts that were instilled in their young I simply did not have. It was not so much a process of learning as it was a struggle of un-learning.
But the entire time, at the back of my mind there was a nagging fear. If I attempt their magic and changed my breed, would I be able to turn back?
Would I lose myself forever?
No one, after all, had become an Imperial through scroll-magic in a long time.
But such was the way with learning. Often we do not learn the lessons we intended.
It was only through learning how to become someone else, that I at long last, understood my own skin. I had come full circle. I had lost myself, and found myself again. There were more secrets to learn, but I declined. The tide has changed. The internal storm that has raged for years has faded to a low ebb, crashed and broke against an unmoving shore.
This place is so serene, so peaceful. The wasteland is harsh and scarred and ugly. I could not bear the thought of what would happen should those two worlds collide. I would protect what I have found here as fiercely as any virulent strain of Plague can burn beneath a dragon's hide. But, I can't protect them here. Their secrecy is their shield, and my presence only exposes them.
So, it was with this thought, that I finally decided. It was time to return home. My friends will be eager to hear of my journey, and the tale that I tell them will be long and storied. And perhaps, I could bring them a little bit of the peace I had found here.
I am an Imperial bred in the Shrieking Wilds. I am a green-eyed hatchling born in a Plague nest. I am a hunter with a maw of sharp teeth and a love for large game. I am a vegetarian who loves sweet grass and mushrooms. I am a Plague dragon, touched by the Plaguebringer and servant of Her dominance. I am a Nature dragon, who has learnt the songs of birds and ballads of the snakes.
I am a seed that has grown against all odds, and I am finally ready to bloom.
by Psittacidae
[size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @kava @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @mako @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @londor @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch[/size][/size][/size][/size][/size]
[url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/raf/3061896/1#post_3061896][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/887850273773609080/892267342329958440/noforum.png[/img][/url]
[center][size=5][color=maroon]Mother's blessings upon you.
As Riot of Rot approaches, all of the Scarred Wasteland makes preparations for their festival. Not to be outdone, the Necromancers reserve the entire month for celebration.[/size][/color][/center]
That's right - Necrotober is back! Every day this month will have it's own unique prompt, which you may answer with whichever creative output you have - lore, drawings, paintings, outfit scries, anything! At the close of the month, we'll have a drawing for several fun raffle prizes. Click on the banner above to be taken to the Necrotober event thread!
[url=https://discord.gg/5Q8NHQtGE6][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/887850273773609080/892270322961748008/nodiscord.png[/img][/url]
What's this? A Discord-only Necrotober?! This year, we roll out the first ever Discord-only Necrotober event, running concurrently with the forum, run by our very own @Wyldangel It will have it's own prompts and pool of prizes! If you haven't already, please join the Discord by clicking on the banner above for more information and to get your creative juices flowing!
@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @kava @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @mako @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @londor @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch
Mother's blessings upon you.
As Riot of Rot approaches, all of the Scarred Wasteland makes preparations for their festival. Not to be outdone, the Necromancers reserve the entire month for celebration.
That's right - Necrotober is back! Every day this month will have it's own unique prompt, which you may answer with whichever creative output you have - lore, drawings, paintings, outfit scries, anything! At the close of the month, we'll have a drawing for several fun raffle prizes. Click on the banner above to be taken to the Necrotober event thread!
What's this? A Discord-only Necrotober?! This year, we roll out the first ever Discord-only Necrotober event, running concurrently with the forum, run by our very own @
Wyldangel It will have it's own prompts and pool of prizes! If you haven't already, please join the Discord by clicking on the banner above for more information and to get your creative juices flowing!
[center][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @mako @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @londor @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch[/size][/size][/size][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=7][color=DarkRed][font=Californian FB][b]SPOTLIGHT[/b][/font][/color][/size][/center]
[center][color=DarkRed]_______________________[/color][/center]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=142004][size=6][color=maroon]Wyldangel's[/url][size=6][color=maroon] Igraine[/color][/size][/center]
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/63634822][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/636349/63634822_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
[left][color=maroon]
The Necromantic Council Tower with its vast knowledge of centuries had been her hatchling dream. She'd assisted the Necromancer of her home clan, devoured every tiny scrap of information they could give her about the beating heart of Plague magic. The Trials, the politics, the horror and wonder. Igraine knew all of it as stories learned heard at her mentor's knee.
The stories were not enough. Igraine had known what she would face the Necromantic Trials. Her mentor had been so sure she was ready. They had both been so eager, so proud. She would go to the tower and become an Inculcator, a scholar of Necromancy.
Igraine dreaded that the plague would never come. For days she meditated, healthy and hale, in the vaporous light of the Wyrmwound. She brought water and food to those near her who were luckier. She watched as they mastered or were mastered by their illness. When one of them offered her his plague with the stripes of his success still vivid she agreed. It was pure desperation on her part, a last faint hope.
She had never been so ill. Her mind and body burned. Igraine, ever hungry for knowledge, found a bitter truth. Her borrowed plague could never make her a Necromancer. Plaguebringer had rejected her.
She recovered in time, the young necromancer who had shown her such cruel kindness was long gone to the Council Tower. Igraine was changed by her trials, not a Necromancer but a Wraith. Those pitiable wretches who were marked for all to see as failures.
She supposed it was a second slap from the goddess that she suffered even after her trials. Blinding headaches kept her curled in her temporary den near the Wyrmwound. Igraine believed she would die there, alone and defeated. Until the others came for her.
After her rescue she learned the secret of the other Council, the one for the rejected and tormented. For the so-called failures. There she found knowledge, gathered and tended by other dragons with the same dream she had. She would never set foot in the halls of Necromantic Council Tower. Never become an Inculcator. But in the end, Igraine counted her trials a success. Nothing could keep her from learning the secrets she'd sought, not even a deity.
[left][color=maroon]by Wyldangel[/color][/left]
SPOTLIGHT
_______________________
The Necromantic Council Tower with its vast knowledge of centuries had been her hatchling dream. She'd assisted the Necromancer of her home clan, devoured every tiny scrap of information they could give her about the beating heart of Plague magic. The Trials, the politics, the horror and wonder. Igraine knew all of it as stories learned heard at her mentor's knee.
The stories were not enough. Igraine had known what she would face the Necromantic Trials. Her mentor had been so sure she was ready. They had both been so eager, so proud. She would go to the tower and become an Inculcator, a scholar of Necromancy.
Igraine dreaded that the plague would never come. For days she meditated, healthy and hale, in the vaporous light of the Wyrmwound. She brought water and food to those near her who were luckier. She watched as they mastered or were mastered by their illness. When one of them offered her his plague with the stripes of his success still vivid she agreed. It was pure desperation on her part, a last faint hope.
She had never been so ill. Her mind and body burned. Igraine, ever hungry for knowledge, found a bitter truth. Her borrowed plague could never make her a Necromancer. Plaguebringer had rejected her.
She recovered in time, the young necromancer who had shown her such cruel kindness was long gone to the Council Tower. Igraine was changed by her trials, not a Necromancer but a Wraith. Those pitiable wretches who were marked for all to see as failures.
She supposed it was a second slap from the goddess that she suffered even after her trials. Blinding headaches kept her curled in her temporary den near the Wyrmwound. Igraine believed she would die there, alone and defeated. Until the others came for her.
After her rescue she learned the secret of the other Council, the one for the rejected and tormented. For the so-called failures. There she found knowledge, gathered and tended by other dragons with the same dream she had. She would never set foot in the halls of Necromantic Council Tower. Never become an Inculcator. But in the end, Igraine counted her trials a success. Nothing could keep her from learning the secrets she'd sought, not even a deity.
by Wyldangel
[center][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch[/size][/size][/size][/size][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=7][color=DarkRed][font=Californian FB][b]SPOTLIGHT[/b][/font][/color][/size][/center]
[center][color=DarkRed]_______________________[/color][/center]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=243715][size=6][color=maroon]Shadari's[/url][size=6][color=maroon] Ottavia[/color][/size][/center]
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/54588623][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/545887/54588623_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
[left][color=maroon]
Ottavia pushed the vial a little with her front foot, sighing. The solution wouldn't be done for another thirty minutes, and she was bored. The two necromancers she mostly served were off on some sort of official council business, and the other necromancers had their own servi or neutralized ghouls to attend to them. She didn't mind being left to her own devices, but the experiment she was working on today was just an extra level of dull. Slumping forward, she rested her chin on the table and sighed.
"I can hear you sighing from down the corridor." A voice commented from outside the cavern. A voice she knew very well. The snapper was not the most elegant of dragons normally, but she thanked her patron deity that she at least had the grace to not accidentally knock the entire table over as she moved to stand and turn towards the entrance. The large head of a familiar ridgeback was lowered to look into the room. He could fit in if he wanted, but it would be a tight fit, and she had a lot of fragile implements in there.
"Ascaris, what are you doing here?" The snapper asked, trying to sound casual. It wasn't, but if the ridgeback noticed, he said nothing.
"Oh, I'm out of tasks for the moment, and I was passing by." He gave her a toothy smile. "Are you busy? Do you want me to go?"
"Yes!" She paused. "Wait, I mean no! I'm not busy, and you don't have to go."
It was a well known fact to everyone but the ridgeback that she liked him. He was awkward, and friendly, and very kind to her, but he was like that with everyone. She wasn't sure he was interested in anyone. But sometimes...
"Well, if you're not busy...I got some food and I think I got too much. Do you want to share?" He asked in a friendly way.
"YesI'dlovethat!" Ottavia exclaimed quickly, suddenly glad for her darker colored scales hiding her face probably turning red. "I just need...ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes. Okay. I can wait ten minutes." He replied with a nod, and raised his head to start moving away. He didn't get far as a realization hit him. "Oh, where should I wait for you?"
It wouldn't do to leave without setting a meeting place.
"What about by the stream? On the near side, not the far one. I know you don't like water." Ottavia replied with a smile.
"That sounds good. I'll see you there!" He exclaimed, and took off down the hallway. She didn't see his excited grin as he went. Ascaris was quite proud of himself. He finally had managed to ask the dragon he really liked.
And he missed her giddy expression as she set her experiment up so it would be fine without her. As thrilled as she was about getting to share a meal with the dragon she was interested in, she didn't want to waste all the boring work she had already done.
[left][color=maroon]by Shadari[/color][/left]
SPOTLIGHT
_______________________
Ottavia pushed the vial a little with her front foot, sighing. The solution wouldn't be done for another thirty minutes, and she was bored. The two necromancers she mostly served were off on some sort of official council business, and the other necromancers had their own servi or neutralized ghouls to attend to them. She didn't mind being left to her own devices, but the experiment she was working on today was just an extra level of dull. Slumping forward, she rested her chin on the table and sighed.
"I can hear you sighing from down the corridor." A voice commented from outside the cavern. A voice she knew very well. The snapper was not the most elegant of dragons normally, but she thanked her patron deity that she at least had the grace to not accidentally knock the entire table over as she moved to stand and turn towards the entrance. The large head of a familiar ridgeback was lowered to look into the room. He could fit in if he wanted, but it would be a tight fit, and she had a lot of fragile implements in there.
"Ascaris, what are you doing here?" The snapper asked, trying to sound casual. It wasn't, but if the ridgeback noticed, he said nothing.
"Oh, I'm out of tasks for the moment, and I was passing by." He gave her a toothy smile. "Are you busy? Do you want me to go?"
"Yes!" She paused. "Wait, I mean no! I'm not busy, and you don't have to go."
It was a well known fact to everyone but the ridgeback that she liked him. He was awkward, and friendly, and very kind to her, but he was like that with everyone. She wasn't sure he was interested in anyone. But sometimes...
"Well, if you're not busy...I got some food and I think I got too much. Do you want to share?" He asked in a friendly way.
"YesI'dlovethat!" Ottavia exclaimed quickly, suddenly glad for her darker colored scales hiding her face probably turning red. "I just need...ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes. Okay. I can wait ten minutes." He replied with a nod, and raised his head to start moving away. He didn't get far as a realization hit him. "Oh, where should I wait for you?"
It wouldn't do to leave without setting a meeting place.
"What about by the stream? On the near side, not the far one. I know you don't like water." Ottavia replied with a smile.
"That sounds good. I'll see you there!" He exclaimed, and took off down the hallway. She didn't see his excited grin as he went. Ascaris was quite proud of himself. He finally had managed to ask the dragon he really liked.
And he missed her giddy expression as she set her experiment up so it would be fine without her. As thrilled as she was about getting to share a meal with the dragon she was interested in, she didn't want to waste all the boring work she had already done.
by Shadari
i'm participating in no spend november and am Hella Tempted To Buy Dergs rn, so to alleviate my pain and distract myself i am gonna drop lore ideas here
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/72171933][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/721720/72171933_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
[list]
[*] neveah is gonna belong to a polyamorous polycule and it's going to be lovely i just need to find her some joyfriends/entourage members
[*] local necromancer secretly studying emperor consciousness and sentience
[*] neveah slept with a luminax plushie when she was young
[*] [s]that luminax plushie is totally not still in her nest and is totally not cuddled nightly[/s]
[*] she was deathly afraid of failing her trials because she values her freedom and independence, and failing would mean indentured servitude to someone else (or worse)
[*] she was absolutely That Childe that would not stop asking questions. now that she's older, she's learned the value of holding her tongue, but whenever she finds a question that tickles her fancy she won't rest until she's found the answer
i'm participating in no spend november and am Hella Tempted To Buy Dergs rn, so to alleviate my pain and distract myself i am gonna drop lore ideas here
- neveah is gonna belong to a polyamorous polycule and it's going to be lovely i just need to find her some joyfriends/entourage members
- local necromancer secretly studying emperor consciousness and sentience
- neveah slept with a luminax plushie when she was young
that luminax plushie is totally not still in her nest and is totally not cuddled nightly- she was deathly afraid of failing her trials because she values her freedom and independence, and failing would mean indentured servitude to someone else (or worse)
- she was absolutely That Childe that would not stop asking questions. now that she's older, she's learned the value of holding her tongue, but whenever she finds a question that tickles her fancy she won't rest until she's found the answer
[center][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0][size=0]@3idolon @thecell @kmrikkari @horseleech @sixcrows @mnkn10 @essayofthoughts @rosielin @reotheleo @wolfandcrow @stduke @shadowfire1223 @toxicsugar @vengeful @wolftrickster @scorpiontail @meilkor @ikyana @caathedral @yuubi @shadowpiper @spiderfrog15 @spore @twilitraven @arborpunk @probablyskeletor @roaringspector @foxghosts @tarantulove @teahorse @princessfirefly @cosmicfalcon @delotha @artemisaeternity @cartographic @wyldangel @wolfandcrow @featherfalls @noxextractum @frankenfood @kalicokat @godofmesses @validemotions @cinamonpizza @kwozmotis @dathomir @shadari @mnkn10 @sylvanlady @firebirdsuite @clockworkeclipse @antisense @psittacidae @serpentineoracle @bxy26 @inkfrog @fatbingo @levantera @elysifish @amezrou @finalflight @mothermalice @flyteofheart @sonjmir @tendervulture @adaejha @berceuse @ichorapotheosis @taejin @geist @rampant @serpentscribe @yangxin @loucat @thevvitch @strangeflesh @counterklock @dekomaru[/size][/size][/size][/size][/size][/center]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/hp56gdizp19uqry/plaguetop.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=7][color=DarkRed][font=Californian FB][b]SPOTLIGHT[/b][/font][/color][/size][/center]
[center][color=DarkRed]_______________________[/color][/center]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=498491][size=6][color=maroon]Bxy26's[/url][size=6][color=maroon] Finch[/color][/size][/center]
[center][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/58927295][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/589273/58927295_350.png[/img][/url][/center]
[left][color=maroon]
If she had never seen it, she might have been bold enough to face the Trials and thrive. She might never have been obligated to take the lesser role, and she might have been a force to be reckoned with.
But during her training, prior to the Trials, a Ghoul arose from the currently testing batch of would-be Necromancers. It was a frightful beast of an Imperial. As Finch cowered in horror, still hatchling-sized, it flew overhead and snatched another hapless trainee. Finch only saw two Imperial heads dangling over her, and was convinced she was witnessing the birth of an Emperor.
They made her go through with the Trials anyway. She shivered on the edge of the pack, afraid to even move for fear the Plague would take her and turn her into an Emperor, too. Her fear displeased the Mother, and she failed to pass the third trial, afraid to infect even her willing victim.
The Necromancers that chose Servi that trial all selected Servi that were either the same breed or smaller than themselves. Finch, miserable in her knowledge that she was one of the largest breeds, cowered into a ball, afraid that she would be selected by an Imperial.
She was, but she absolutely refused to go with him. Eyes wide, shaking her head, scarcely even able to express her fear through her chattering teeth. Finally he gave up and selected a Skydancer Servus instead.
"Hmm," said a rather high-pitched voice.
She glanced down, where a querulous Fae elder crouched beside her mentors. "She won't come to much," he said, in the distinctive monotone of his breed, "not until her fear is gone, anyway. She won't be good for any but the most menial of tasks." He flipped his frills in exasperation. "I'm too old for this, and too impatient, too, but no one else will select her for service. Come on, you," he called up to her. "Give me your head, so I can tell you where to go."
"As long as there aren't any Imperials," she quivered.
"Why would I have Imperials around. They're far too big and too clumsy. But I guess I'll have to make an exception in your case." He swished his tail in front of her. "Look."
He was perched between her eyes, and she had to cross them in order to look at him.
The Fae, too, was a Servus. Yet he had the mark of the Council on his brow. "I'm one of the Elder Instructors. Stick with me, and you'll learn some things."
[center]-- -- -- -- --[/center]
[color=maroon]Finch held her whiskers stiffly, jolting at every shuffling sound. So few Necromancers entered the Archives that she doubted she'd see one, and yet...this was the Council Hub. The place was swarming with Necros. And that, as always, included other Imperials.
She shuddered. Her master was trying his hardest, but she still could not shake the fear she had of her breed. That was why he had sent her into the archives--alone--looking for a particular treatise on pathological phobias. Such diseases of the heart and mind were not those of a Necromancer to control, but you never knew what you might find in the archives.
She tripped over something. For just a moment, she'd been focused on the dusty shelves, and now there came a growl in response. It seemed to go on and on, growing in intensity and volume until the shelves rattled. Someone on the next aisle over turned their head, glaring at her between the shelves. His eyes flamed in the darkness, and her knees turned to water as she recognized the largest and most feared of all Necromancer Imperials.
ConTam was in the library, and she had just stepped on his tail.
In her mind, if even a quarter of the tales of his madness were true, he was already half an Emperor. Forgetting about her mission, she gave a small [i]yeep[/i] and bolted. Leaping over shelves and sending other smaller Necros sprawling in her haste, she half ran, half flew toward the exit.
She could hear ConTam's roar behind her, if not the words. There was nothing in her mind except escape. She bolted out the door, sending her poor Fae master tumbling head over heels in midair.
"FINCH." His tone could not change, but his volume certainly could.
"Y-y-y-y-yes, master?"
"What on Sorneith--" ConTam's roar was much closer now. "Oh frostbreath. You would have to run into him. I'd better go explain."
Finch shivered next to the wall. She hated her fear. She hated the irrationality of it, the crippling instability, and the fact that it meant that she, a giant Imperial, was cowering out here while her poor dear master, as tiny, old, and feeble as he was, had to face down one of the most powerful Mancers on the Council. She tried, really she did--but at least everyone else was afraid of ConTam, too, not just her. She took a tiny grain of comfort in that.
[i]But Alden is not afraid of ConTam.[/i] The thought made her guilty and disappointed in herself all over again. Her fear displeased the Mother. It was what had made her what she was, a Servus... and it was what stifled even her ability to serve. She hated herself for that.
[left][color=maroon]by Bxy26[/color][/left]
SPOTLIGHT
_______________________
If she had never seen it, she might have been bold enough to face the Trials and thrive. She might never have been obligated to take the lesser role, and she might have been a force to be reckoned with.
But during her training, prior to the Trials, a Ghoul arose from the currently testing batch of would-be Necromancers. It was a frightful beast of an Imperial. As Finch cowered in horror, still hatchling-sized, it flew overhead and snatched another hapless trainee. Finch only saw two Imperial heads dangling over her, and was convinced she was witnessing the birth of an Emperor.
They made her go through with the Trials anyway. She shivered on the edge of the pack, afraid to even move for fear the Plague would take her and turn her into an Emperor, too. Her fear displeased the Mother, and she failed to pass the third trial, afraid to infect even her willing victim.
The Necromancers that chose Servi that trial all selected Servi that were either the same breed or smaller than themselves. Finch, miserable in her knowledge that she was one of the largest breeds, cowered into a ball, afraid that she would be selected by an Imperial.
She was, but she absolutely refused to go with him. Eyes wide, shaking her head, scarcely even able to express her fear through her chattering teeth. Finally he gave up and selected a Skydancer Servus instead.
"Hmm," said a rather high-pitched voice.
She glanced down, where a querulous Fae elder crouched beside her mentors. "She won't come to much," he said, in the distinctive monotone of his breed, "not until her fear is gone, anyway. She won't be good for any but the most menial of tasks." He flipped his frills in exasperation. "I'm too old for this, and too impatient, too, but no one else will select her for service. Come on, you," he called up to her. "Give me your head, so I can tell you where to go."
"As long as there aren't any Imperials," she quivered.
"Why would I have Imperials around. They're far too big and too clumsy. But I guess I'll have to make an exception in your case." He swished his tail in front of her. "Look."
He was perched between her eyes, and she had to cross them in order to look at him.
The Fae, too, was a Servus. Yet he had the mark of the Council on his brow. "I'm one of the Elder Instructors. Stick with me, and you'll learn some things."
-- -- -- -- --
Finch held her whiskers stiffly, jolting at every shuffling sound. So few Necromancers entered the Archives that she doubted she'd see one, and yet...this was the Council Hub. The place was swarming with Necros. And that, as always, included other Imperials.
She shuddered. Her master was trying his hardest, but she still could not shake the fear she had of her breed. That was why he had sent her into the archives--alone--looking for a particular treatise on pathological phobias. Such diseases of the heart and mind were not those of a Necromancer to control, but you never knew what you might find in the archives.
She tripped over something. For just a moment, she'd been focused on the dusty shelves, and now there came a growl in response. It seemed to go on and on, growing in intensity and volume until the shelves rattled. Someone on the next aisle over turned their head, glaring at her between the shelves. His eyes flamed in the darkness, and her knees turned to water as she recognized the largest and most feared of all Necromancer Imperials.
ConTam was in the library, and she had just stepped on his tail.
In her mind, if even a quarter of the tales of his madness were true, he was already half an Emperor. Forgetting about her mission, she gave a small yeep and bolted. Leaping over shelves and sending other smaller Necros sprawling in her haste, she half ran, half flew toward the exit.
She could hear ConTam's roar behind her, if not the words. There was nothing in her mind except escape. She bolted out the door, sending her poor Fae master tumbling head over heels in midair.
"FINCH." His tone could not change, but his volume certainly could.
"Y-y-y-y-yes, master?"
"What on Sorneith--" ConTam's roar was much closer now. "Oh frostbreath. You would have to run into him. I'd better go explain."
Finch shivered next to the wall. She hated her fear. She hated the irrationality of it, the crippling instability, and the fact that it meant that she, a giant Imperial, was cowering out here while her poor dear master, as tiny, old, and feeble as he was, had to face down one of the most powerful Mancers on the Council. She tried, really she did--but at least everyone else was afraid of ConTam, too, not just her. She took a tiny grain of comfort in that.
But Alden is not afraid of ConTam. The thought made her guilty and disappointed in herself all over again. Her fear displeased the Mother. It was what had made her what she was, a Servus... and it was what stifled even her ability to serve. She hated herself for that.
by Bxy26
