@Exhalted Hoping I understood correctly that you wanted lore for one of your own dragons. I picked Ashatuur, because he's pretty and he called to me. c; I usually try to incorporate the overall clan's lore into a dragon's bio when I write, so I hope you don't mind that I attempted that here! You can see a preview of the bio format in [url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=dragon&id=6354&did=56651487]this girl's bio[/url]. c:
[quote]
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=38730868]
[img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/387309/38730868_350.png[/img]
[/url]
[item=plaguebringer bone scrimshaw]
[size=6][font=symbol][u]A S H A T U U R[/size][/font]
[font=courier new]Keeper of the Dead
[right][i][font=courier new]"I looked, and beheld an ashen horse, and he who sat it had the name of Death; and Hades was following with him."[/font][/i][/right]
[center][font=sylfaen]Death is abundant in the Scarred Wasteland. Existence here is short and brutish, marred by innumerable cruelties. It is a place where the meek inherit nothing and the unwanted go to be forgotten. Only the strong survive.
And that is precisely why Ashatuur came. A pilgrim in rags, called by the voices of the restless dead- those struck down in the prime of life, crying out in anguish for relief. Victims of sickness, famine, and of great battles where the salted earth ran red. Unburied and unmourned, their souls were left to wander, searching for the pieces of their missing lives. Such a travesty would never have been tolerated in his homeland. The dead demand their rites.
As a funerary priest and mystic of the Shattered Plains, Ashatuur saw this imbalance as a grave injustice. He undertook the duty of laying the dead to rest, following in the wake of war and outbreaks of disease. Wreathed in incense and holy runes, he was protected from the influence of malevolent spirits, but not always from their living counterparts. The clans of the Scarred Wasteland have a very different view towards burial than those of Ashatuur's native land- a body without a soul is only food, after all. And a lone priest that would waste perfectly good meat is liable to become food himself.
After an encounter that nearly cost him his life, Ashatuur was left broken in both body and spirit. Resigned to a grisly fate, he would have succumbed there- another feast for the crows- had a vast, dark shape not crested the hill. An ancient guardian, bowed with the weight of remorse. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.
Xerxes was sympathetic to his cause. Here was a king who had seen the horror of war and had turned his back on a life of brutality. [i]There is nobility in honoring the dead,[/i] said he. [i]And mercy in preserving the living.[/i] With that, he helped Ashatuur to his feet, and brought him to the tower of Blight's Edge, where a brilliant fae tended to his wounds. Despite her miraculous healing, it seemed there would always be fallen to be laid to rest. There was a place for Ashatuur here, yes- the restless dead still roamed, many felled by Xerxes' own armies in long-bygone battles.
With his hands and his heart, he would help right that ancient wrong. And so the pilgrim in rags earned a halo of light.
[emoji=deer skull size=1]
[/center]
[right][font=courier new][i]"Dominion was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth."[/i][/right]
[/quote]
Code for copy/pasting:
[code]
[center][item=plaguebringer bone scrimshaw]
[size=6][font=symbol][u]A S H A T U U R[/size][/font]
[font=courier new]Keeper of the Dead
[right][i][font=courier new]"I looked, and beheld an ashen horse, and he who sat it had the name of Death; and Hades was following with him."[/font][/i][/right]
[center][font=sylfaen]Death is abundant in the Scarred Wasteland. Existence here is short and brutish, marred by innumerable cruelties. It is a place where the meek inherit nothing and the unwanted go to be forgotten. Only the strong survive.
And that is precisely why Ashatuur came. A pilgrim in rags, called by the voices of the restless dead- those struck down in the prime of life, crying out in anguish for relief. Victims of sickness, famine, and of great battles where the salted earth ran red. Unburied and unmourned, their souls were left to wander, searching for the pieces of their missing lives. Such a travesty would never have been tolerated in his homeland. The dead demand their rites.
As a funerary priest and mystic of the Shattered Plains, Ashatuur saw this imbalance as a grave injustice. He undertook the duty of laying the dead to rest, following in the wake of war and outbreaks of disease. Wreathed in incense and holy runes, he was protected from the influence of malevolent spirits, but not always from their living counterparts. The clans of the Scarred Wasteland have a very different view towards burial than those of Ashatuur's native land- a body without a soul is only food, after all. And a lone priest that would waste perfectly good meat is liable to become food himself.
After an encounter that nearly cost him his life, Ashatuur was left broken in both body and spirit. Resigned to a grisly fate, he would have succumbed there- another feast for the crows- had a vast, dark shape not crested the hill. An ancient guardian, bowed with the weight of remorse. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.
Xerxes was sympathetic to his cause. Here was a king who had seen the horror of war and had turned his back on a life of brutality. [i]There is nobility in honoring the dead,[/i] said he. [i]And mercy in preserving the living.[/i] With that, he helped Ashatuur to his feet, and brought him to the tower of Blight's Edge, where a brilliant fae tended to his wounds. Despite her miraculous healing, it seemed there would always be fallen to be laid to rest. There was a place for Ashatuur here, yes- the restless dead still roamed, many felled by Xerxes' own armies in long-bygone battles.
With his hands and his heart, he would help right that ancient wrong. And so the pilgrim in rags earned a halo of light.
[emoji=deer skull size=1]
[/center]
[right][font=courier new][i]"Dominion was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth."[/i][/right][/code]
@Exhalted Hoping I understood correctly that you wanted lore for one of your own dragons. I picked Ashatuur, because he's pretty and he called to me. c; I usually try to incorporate the overall clan's lore into a dragon's bio when I write, so I hope you don't mind that I attempted that here! You can see a preview of the bio format in this girl's bio. c:
Quote:
Plaguebringer Bone Scrimshaw
Trinkets
A menacing engraving of the Plaguebringer. It is scrawled on the side of a large bonespike and reeks of decay.
105
A S H A T U U R Keeper of the Dead
"I looked, and beheld an ashen horse, and he who sat it had the name of Death; and Hades was following with him."
Death is abundant in the Scarred Wasteland. Existence here is short and brutish, marred by innumerable cruelties. It is a place where the meek inherit nothing and the unwanted go to be forgotten. Only the strong survive.
And that is precisely why Ashatuur came. A pilgrim in rags, called by the voices of the restless dead- those struck down in the prime of life, crying out in anguish for relief. Victims of sickness, famine, and of great battles where the salted earth ran red. Unburied and unmourned, their souls were left to wander, searching for the pieces of their missing lives. Such a travesty would never have been tolerated in his homeland. The dead demand their rites.
As a funerary priest and mystic of the Shattered Plains, Ashatuur saw this imbalance as a grave injustice. He undertook the duty of laying the dead to rest, following in the wake of war and outbreaks of disease. Wreathed in incense and holy runes, he was protected from the influence of malevolent spirits, but not always from their living counterparts. The clans of the Scarred Wasteland have a very different view towards burial than those of Ashatuur's native land- a body without a soul is only food, after all. And a lone priest that would waste perfectly good meat is liable to become food himself.
After an encounter that nearly cost him his life, Ashatuur was left broken in both body and spirit. Resigned to a grisly fate, he would have succumbed there- another feast for the crows- had a vast, dark shape not crested the hill. An ancient guardian, bowed with the weight of remorse. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.
Xerxes was sympathetic to his cause. Here was a king who had seen the horror of war and had turned his back on a life of brutality. There is nobility in honoring the dead, said he. And mercy in preserving the living. With that, he helped Ashatuur to his feet, and brought him to the tower of Blight's Edge, where a brilliant fae tended to his wounds. Despite her miraculous healing, it seemed there would always be fallen to be laid to rest. There was a place for Ashatuur here, yes- the restless dead still roamed, many felled by Xerxes' own armies in long-bygone battles.
With his hands and his heart, he would help right that ancient wrong. And so the pilgrim in rags earned a halo of light.
"Dominion was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth."
Code for copy/pasting:
Code:
[center][item=plaguebringer bone scrimshaw]
[size=6][font=symbol][u]A S H A T U U R[/size][/font]
[font=courier new]Keeper of the Dead
[right][i][font=courier new]"I looked, and beheld an ashen horse, and he who sat it had the name of Death; and Hades was following with him."[/font][/i][/right]
[center][font=sylfaen]Death is abundant in the Scarred Wasteland. Existence here is short and brutish, marred by innumerable cruelties. It is a place where the meek inherit nothing and the unwanted go to be forgotten. Only the strong survive.
And that is precisely why Ashatuur came. A pilgrim in rags, called by the voices of the restless dead- those struck down in the prime of life, crying out in anguish for relief. Victims of sickness, famine, and of great battles where the salted earth ran red. Unburied and unmourned, their souls were left to wander, searching for the pieces of their missing lives. Such a travesty would never have been tolerated in his homeland. The dead demand their rites.
As a funerary priest and mystic of the Shattered Plains, Ashatuur saw this imbalance as a grave injustice. He undertook the duty of laying the dead to rest, following in the wake of war and outbreaks of disease. Wreathed in incense and holy runes, he was protected from the influence of malevolent spirits, but not always from their living counterparts. The clans of the Scarred Wasteland have a very different view towards burial than those of Ashatuur's native land- a body without a soul is only food, after all. And a lone priest that would waste perfectly good meat is liable to become food himself.
After an encounter that nearly cost him his life, Ashatuur was left broken in both body and spirit. Resigned to a grisly fate, he would have succumbed there- another feast for the crows- had a vast, dark shape not crested the hill. An ancient guardian, bowed with the weight of remorse. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.
Xerxes was sympathetic to his cause. Here was a king who had seen the horror of war and had turned his back on a life of brutality. [i]There is nobility in honoring the dead,[/i] said he. [i]And mercy in preserving the living.[/i] With that, he helped Ashatuur to his feet, and brought him to the tower of Blight's Edge, where a brilliant fae tended to his wounds. Despite her miraculous healing, it seemed there would always be fallen to be laid to rest. There was a place for Ashatuur here, yes- the restless dead still roamed, many felled by Xerxes' own armies in long-bygone battles.
With his hands and his heart, he would help right that ancient wrong. And so the pilgrim in rags earned a halo of light.
[emoji=deer skull size=1]
[/center]
[right][font=courier new][i]"Dominion was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth."[/i][/right]
@Exhalted
Bruh, sounds amazing and I just had to take part. I hope you enjoy what I've written!
[quote=Dumah]-1-
[i]What secrets is he hiding?[/i]
You’ve seen him before. You’ve seen him in the market, and down by the docks, and standing in dark alleys. You’ve never heard him speak. No one has. Whenever anyone tries, he merely walks away, disappearing without a trace. You’ve never understood that about him. His silence intrigues you.
[i]What secrets is he hiding?[/i]
He has the sky trapped in his wings, stolen and sewn together by strings of gold that fluttered with his wings. It stains his paws like paint. Every time you see them, they looked darker with every passing hour. In the morning, you notice how they are like agate; light blue and tinted with orange. When you see him on a night as you travel home, they are deep purple, like amethyst.
[i]What secrets is he hiding?[/i]
One day, you walk home from the local pub. It’s snowing. Flecks of snow swirl before your eyes. They limit your field of vision, but that’s okay. You know the area like it’s the back of your paw. You could be blindfolded and still make it home. As a child, you had bragging rights to such an achievement, for not even your friends could do such a thing!
A white sheet blankets the ground you walk on, crunching beneath your feet, sending snow flying with each swish of your tail. Cold nips are your digits, numbing your feet. You shiver. It’s not unlike winter to be bitter cold, even by the Wyrmwound of Sornieth. You just wish you would have stayed curled up by the fire for just a bit longer.
Despite your sense of direction, you find yourself growing worried. [i]Where am I? I can’t see anything[/i]. That soon fades. You assure yourself of your skill, of your youngling bragging rights. You could never get lost! At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Amid a blizzard, your confidence fades, reignites, and fades again. It’s like lighting a fire in a storm.
The distant tinkling of bells calms you, leading you towards them. Just a few feet ahead stands the market. Stalls shut for the night creak and groan in the winter wind, the fountain in the centre almost frozen in time. Cherubs, with their stone horns and stone ribbons, glare at you. You grimace. You never liked those angels, not since your childhood. Something about them always felt wrong.
One time, you could’ve sworn you’d seen one at the end of your bed.
You trudge onward, shaking your head. Beneath the sign you go, wandering to the left like you always do. Travellers from all around gather in this marketplace. Your favourite is a small male called Simpson. He’s small and grey, like the cherubs, with a twisted personality to match. At least he had delightful treasures to indulge in. You haven’t seen him for a while.
His best treasure had been a black-stone amulet. He claimed it cursed by an unnamed angel, one lost to history books and folklore. He’d cry, at the top of his lungs, “Buy it and He’ll find you! Be the first to meet Him in his gracious glory!” You scoffed at the idea and bought it for a thousand. It dangles from your neck, the chain numbing your skin. The stone feels strangely warm.
Something snaps behind you, and you freeze. The stone thrums. Swivelling, you glance around the market for any sign of danger. [i]Nothing looks out of the ordinary[/i], you tell yourself. The cherubs are still, the fountain is still, the stalls are still. [i]Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Nothing looks out of the ordinary.[/i]
Except something did; one of the cherubs is missing.
Someone hisses your name. The amulet burns against your skin. You cry out, heart racing, and back away, into the fountain. The ice claws are your skin. A cherub’s horn digs into your back, wings tense from the cold air. Their voice sends infinite shivers down your spine. It grates along your nerves. It’s like listening to a thousand screeching violins. It sounds like claws against a chalkboard.
“Who’s there?” you cry, voice shaking, paw clutching at your coat. They laugh. It rings in your ears. “Show yourself!”
Rule number one when you’re pursued: never tell them to show themselves.
You learn that the hard way.
Your pursuer steps out from the shadows before you. They do it one inch at a time. The first thing you see is their paws, stained purple like they’d smashed grapes and lined with golden ribbons. The purple drifts up into brown swirls and white dots that glistens like the stars above you. You whimper. You recognise the pattern. Your blood turns to ice.
[i]What secrets is he hiding?[/i]
Two eyes of Lightning origin pierce your soul. Your heart palpitates, making you breathless, uncomfortable. Horror and curiosity mix into one; fear and inquiry hang in the air. One by one, second by second, eyes appear behind the original two. Two becomes twenty. That becomes a hundred, then five-hundred, then more.
You have to stifle a scream. Your pursuer comes closer.
A thousand eyes glare at you from the darkness of an alleyway, shrouded like a wedding veil shrouds one’s face. All of them shine a bright blue, orange tints flaring like flames around their pupils. All of them blink at you, one by one. Pleasure glints in every single one of them, with only the original two—you assume—holding their true intent;
A promise and a threat.
[i]This is the secret he was hiding.[/i]
“Who are you?” you ask foolishly. You know who it is. From their stained paws to the golden ribbons curling around his wrists, up along his arms, you know who it is. The eyes were the final give-away. You’d read about him in books, seen him in paintings. You never thought you’d meet him in person. You know who it is.
Meeting them isn’t a pleasant experience.
He chuckles darkly, his pearl-white grin appearing in the darkness. Now you know why he doesn’t speak. “My name is Dumah,” he says, his voice a thousand blades slicing your eardrums, “and I’m here for your soul.”
A flare of orange appears at his side. You don’t have time to scream.[/quote]
I'm sorry if it sounds really out-of-place, I got a bit carried away. Like someone previously mentioned, his name is an angels' name, so I had to include that because the idea of a one-thousand-eyed angel sounds epic. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! [emoji=coatl star size=1]
@Exhalted
Bruh, sounds amazing and I just had to take part. I hope you enjoy what I've written!
Dumah wrote:
-1- What secrets is he hiding?
You’ve seen him before. You’ve seen him in the market, and down by the docks, and standing in dark alleys. You’ve never heard him speak. No one has. Whenever anyone tries, he merely walks away, disappearing without a trace. You’ve never understood that about him. His silence intrigues you. What secrets is he hiding?
He has the sky trapped in his wings, stolen and sewn together by strings of gold that fluttered with his wings. It stains his paws like paint. Every time you see them, they looked darker with every passing hour. In the morning, you notice how they are like agate; light blue and tinted with orange. When you see him on a night as you travel home, they are deep purple, like amethyst. What secrets is he hiding?
One day, you walk home from the local pub. It’s snowing. Flecks of snow swirl before your eyes. They limit your field of vision, but that’s okay. You know the area like it’s the back of your paw. You could be blindfolded and still make it home. As a child, you had bragging rights to such an achievement, for not even your friends could do such a thing!
A white sheet blankets the ground you walk on, crunching beneath your feet, sending snow flying with each swish of your tail. Cold nips are your digits, numbing your feet. You shiver. It’s not unlike winter to be bitter cold, even by the Wyrmwound of Sornieth. You just wish you would have stayed curled up by the fire for just a bit longer.
Despite your sense of direction, you find yourself growing worried. Where am I? I can’t see anything. That soon fades. You assure yourself of your skill, of your youngling bragging rights. You could never get lost! At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Amid a blizzard, your confidence fades, reignites, and fades again. It’s like lighting a fire in a storm.
The distant tinkling of bells calms you, leading you towards them. Just a few feet ahead stands the market. Stalls shut for the night creak and groan in the winter wind, the fountain in the centre almost frozen in time. Cherubs, with their stone horns and stone ribbons, glare at you. You grimace. You never liked those angels, not since your childhood. Something about them always felt wrong.
One time, you could’ve sworn you’d seen one at the end of your bed.
You trudge onward, shaking your head. Beneath the sign you go, wandering to the left like you always do. Travellers from all around gather in this marketplace. Your favourite is a small male called Simpson. He’s small and grey, like the cherubs, with a twisted personality to match. At least he had delightful treasures to indulge in. You haven’t seen him for a while.
His best treasure had been a black-stone amulet. He claimed it cursed by an unnamed angel, one lost to history books and folklore. He’d cry, at the top of his lungs, “Buy it and He’ll find you! Be the first to meet Him in his gracious glory!” You scoffed at the idea and bought it for a thousand. It dangles from your neck, the chain numbing your skin. The stone feels strangely warm.
Something snaps behind you, and you freeze. The stone thrums. Swivelling, you glance around the market for any sign of danger. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, you tell yourself. The cherubs are still, the fountain is still, the stalls are still. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Nothing looks out of the ordinary.
Except something did; one of the cherubs is missing.
Someone hisses your name. The amulet burns against your skin. You cry out, heart racing, and back away, into the fountain. The ice claws are your skin. A cherub’s horn digs into your back, wings tense from the cold air. Their voice sends infinite shivers down your spine. It grates along your nerves. It’s like listening to a thousand screeching violins. It sounds like claws against a chalkboard.
“Who’s there?” you cry, voice shaking, paw clutching at your coat. They laugh. It rings in your ears. “Show yourself!”
Rule number one when you’re pursued: never tell them to show themselves.
You learn that the hard way.
Your pursuer steps out from the shadows before you. They do it one inch at a time. The first thing you see is their paws, stained purple like they’d smashed grapes and lined with golden ribbons. The purple drifts up into brown swirls and white dots that glistens like the stars above you. You whimper. You recognise the pattern. Your blood turns to ice. What secrets is he hiding?
Two eyes of Lightning origin pierce your soul. Your heart palpitates, making you breathless, uncomfortable. Horror and curiosity mix into one; fear and inquiry hang in the air. One by one, second by second, eyes appear behind the original two. Two becomes twenty. That becomes a hundred, then five-hundred, then more.
You have to stifle a scream. Your pursuer comes closer.
A thousand eyes glare at you from the darkness of an alleyway, shrouded like a wedding veil shrouds one’s face. All of them shine a bright blue, orange tints flaring like flames around their pupils. All of them blink at you, one by one. Pleasure glints in every single one of them, with only the original two—you assume—holding their true intent;
A promise and a threat. This is the secret he was hiding.
“Who are you?” you ask foolishly. You know who it is. From their stained paws to the golden ribbons curling around his wrists, up along his arms, you know who it is. The eyes were the final give-away. You’d read about him in books, seen him in paintings. You never thought you’d meet him in person. You know who it is.
Meeting them isn’t a pleasant experience.
He chuckles darkly, his pearl-white grin appearing in the darkness. Now you know why he doesn’t speak. “My name is Dumah,” he says, his voice a thousand blades slicing your eardrums, “and I’m here for your soul.”
A flare of orange appears at his side. You don’t have time to scream.
I'm sorry if it sounds really out-of-place, I got a bit carried away. Like someone previously mentioned, his name is an angels' name, so I had to include that because the idea of a one-thousand-eyed angel sounds epic. Either way, I hope you enjoy it!
Dumah has guarded the mansion for as long as anyone can remember. He walks its lonely halls, practicing for a tour he'll never give. The house is empty and has been for hundreds of years. Dragons passing by feel its dark, intimidating aura, and steer clear.
For Dumah, the mansion is home. He's always felt called to lonely places, lonely dragons. He prefers to be alone, but sometimes, the silence gets too much, and he longs for guests to entertain.
He's quiet and polite, with a startling ability to look deep into the soul and call up its secrets. An age ago, he worked as a fortune teller, apprenticed to his mother. Sometimes he sets out the tarot cards, always hoping they'll show new faces on the horizon- but they never do.
What lengths would Dumah go to, in order to find companionship? And if anyone were to wander in to keep him company, would he be able to let them go...?
Dumah has guarded the mansion for as long as anyone can remember. He walks its lonely halls, practicing for a tour he'll never give. The house is empty and has been for hundreds of years. Dragons passing by feel its dark, intimidating aura, and steer clear.
For Dumah, the mansion is home. He's always felt called to lonely places, lonely dragons. He prefers to be alone, but sometimes, the silence gets too much, and he longs for guests to entertain.
He's quiet and polite, with a startling ability to look deep into the soul and call up its secrets. An age ago, he worked as a fortune teller, apprenticed to his mother. Sometimes he sets out the tarot cards, always hoping they'll show new faces on the horizon- but they never do.
What lengths would Dumah go to, in order to find companionship? And if anyone were to wander in to keep him company, would he be able to let them go...?
@Exhalted
Your welcome to use this with or without me winning.
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=34004322]
[img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/340044/34004322_350.png[/img]
[/url]
[b]Yldrim[/b]
Glade Assassin
Reserved | Observant | Swift[/center]
I was born in the time known as the Quiet. Referred to as such for the great storm of war that followed. It tore through nations laying claim so many of my generation.
I don’t remember why I chose to fight; my parents had never known war and because of it embraced diversity. Yet, or maybe because of this, I felt a need to stand for what I believed in. You see at the time of my birth the wastelands were rich with culture, however the Plaguebringer’s wrath slowly destroyed the once thriving empire. I worried her corruption would spread.
Why choose to join the Glade Gladiators? Well, because of the nations faced with the Plague Legions the Glade were the most dedicated. While most fought only when attacked, the Gladekeeper sent aid to those in all nations facing threat from the wasteland.
It was through my time with the Glade that I first saw him, eyes of crimson, painted as if from the fallen’s blood. Xerxes was a dragon of no little skill or strength. I was tasked to assassinate the general, for while none could match his power, my poison tipped arrows and keen eye evened the playing field.
Timing is everything when removing such a figurehead, I stalked him for months. Watched his battles and his curious habits of tending to the fallen. Yet when time came to cast him down, he vanished.
Years passed and the wasteland fell silent, recovering from the loss of a generation to war. It was then that I found myself roaming the destruction in hopes of finding some fragment of the past. I instead found him. Xerxes with his adopted daughter and rag tag clan of broken, beaten and tired souls. In them I found a common goal, a desire to return the wastelands to former glory. But to bring change we must protect the leaders, so I work for the dragon I was tasked to kill, ensuring none succeed where I failed.
Your welcome to use this with or without me winning.
Yldrim
Glade Assassin
Reserved | Observant | Swift
I was born in the time known as the Quiet. Referred to as such for the great storm of war that followed. It tore through nations laying claim so many of my generation.
I don’t remember why I chose to fight; my parents had never known war and because of it embraced diversity. Yet, or maybe because of this, I felt a need to stand for what I believed in. You see at the time of my birth the wastelands were rich with culture, however the Plaguebringer’s wrath slowly destroyed the once thriving empire. I worried her corruption would spread.
Why choose to join the Glade Gladiators? Well, because of the nations faced with the Plague Legions the Glade were the most dedicated. While most fought only when attacked, the Gladekeeper sent aid to those in all nations facing threat from the wasteland.
It was through my time with the Glade that I first saw him, eyes of crimson, painted as if from the fallen’s blood. Xerxes was a dragon of no little skill or strength. I was tasked to assassinate the general, for while none could match his power, my poison tipped arrows and keen eye evened the playing field.
Timing is everything when removing such a figurehead, I stalked him for months. Watched his battles and his curious habits of tending to the fallen. Yet when time came to cast him down, he vanished.
Years passed and the wasteland fell silent, recovering from the loss of a generation to war. It was then that I found myself roaming the destruction in hopes of finding some fragment of the past. I instead found him. Xerxes with his adopted daughter and rag tag clan of broken, beaten and tired souls. In them I found a common goal, a desire to return the wastelands to former glory. But to bring change we must protect the leaders, so I work for the dragon I was tasked to kill, ensuring none succeed where I failed.
[size=2][right]finally got to write an entry! and the same as the person before me, youre welcome to use it no matter the winner:-)[/right]
-----
[center][url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=54001119]
[img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/540012/54001119_350.png[/img]
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It's dark and cold and uncomfortable when he wakes up. For a while there's nothing but these three sensations, as his consciousness fights off the last bits of drowsiness and sleep and settles back in every crevice of his mind. He waits there lying patiently, for time is of no meaning to him. Then, he focuses on the odd pressure that's been put on his shoulders, and his wings, and his back; moving stiff, unused for deities only know how long muscles, Pilane rises up.
Pilane, yes. That was his name, back then. Back before the great sleep overcame him, him and every other Gaoler he had known of. He doesn't remember their faces, he realises, nor their names. For a brief moment sadness and longing pierce his heart, as his great paws dig through the mass surrounding him. He feels the earth - dirt and stones and sand - under them, and the familiarity of it quickly calms him down. He works his way up, in the direction of what he instinctually knows the surface is in. For him, it's meditation.
Even in a weakened, malnourished state he has found himself in, the stone gives in easily to his powerful claws, and soon he feels a light breeze and the warm sun on his body. It's envigorating. He tries to shake off the last bits of dirt from his fur, and collapses as the ground beneath him starts swimming. Pilane reminds himself to take it all slowly, for his old self is new to this world. He stays on the ground, and instead takes time to gently rub his sealed eyes open.
It takes Pilane a few days to fully readjust. Being brought back to life is a whole ordeal, he thinks, as he polishes his beautiful golden jewellery. He hopes he never has to go through it again.
Days pass, and with each one he learns another rule of the reality he now lives in. He observes all the new flora and fauna, and politely greets a menagerie of odd and colourful dragons he stumbled upon. There are moments in which it all overwhelms him. After all, there's a lot to take in, and he's still recovering; he has to constantly remind himself of those two simple facts.
Not everything is unfamiliar though, and Pilane revels in rediscovering the things he remembers from what he now calls his past life. For example, the feeling of rain on his body, when the water trickles down his cheeks and hits his flightless wings. The fresh smell of ozone after a storm, and the pure content he experiences while lazying about in the sun. And of course, the breathtaking sunsets, with the sky coloured in the most spectacular ways, spread before him. He's glad to have those back, he thinks.
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finally got to write an entry! and the same as the person before me, youre welcome to use it no matter the winner:-)
It's dark and cold and uncomfortable when he wakes up. For a while there's nothing but these three sensations, as his consciousness fights off the last bits of drowsiness and sleep and settles back in every crevice of his mind. He waits there lying patiently, for time is of no meaning to him. Then, he focuses on the odd pressure that's been put on his shoulders, and his wings, and his back; moving stiff, unused for deities only know how long muscles, Pilane rises up.
Pilane, yes. That was his name, back then. Back before the great sleep overcame him, him and every other Gaoler he had known of. He doesn't remember their faces, he realises, nor their names. For a brief moment sadness and longing pierce his heart, as his great paws dig through the mass surrounding him. He feels the earth - dirt and stones and sand - under them, and the familiarity of it quickly calms him down. He works his way up, in the direction of what he instinctually knows the surface is in. For him, it's meditation.
Even in a weakened, malnourished state he has found himself in, the stone gives in easily to his powerful claws, and soon he feels a light breeze and the warm sun on his body. It's envigorating. He tries to shake off the last bits of dirt from his fur, and collapses as the ground beneath him starts swimming. Pilane reminds himself to take it all slowly, for his old self is new to this world. He stays on the ground, and instead takes time to gently rub his sealed eyes open.
It takes Pilane a few days to fully readjust. Being brought back to life is a whole ordeal, he thinks, as he polishes his beautiful golden jewellery. He hopes he never has to go through it again.
Days pass, and with each one he learns another rule of the reality he now lives in. He observes all the new flora and fauna, and politely greets a menagerie of odd and colourful dragons he stumbled upon. There are moments in which it all overwhelms him. After all, there's a lot to take in, and he's still recovering; he has to constantly remind himself of those two simple facts.
Not everything is unfamiliar though, and Pilane revels in rediscovering the things he remembers from what he now calls his past life. For example, the feeling of rain on his body, when the water trickles down his cheeks and hits his flightless wings. The fresh smell of ozone after a storm, and the pure content he experiences while lazying about in the sun. And of course, the breathtaking sunsets, with the sky coloured in the most spectacular ways, spread before him. He's glad to have those back, he thinks.
@Exhalted
Like the others said, feel free to use this if you like it even if I don't win ^^
[url=https://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=43900114]
[img]https://flightrising.com/rendern/350/439002/43900114_350.png[/img]
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It is often said that there is no beauty to be found in the realms of the Plaguebringer.
If the seed of a flower dared to take root there it would grow twisted and grotesque, losing its once pure essence to the unpredictable nature of the Plague's will. But flowers are fickle things, weak in the face of evolution.
Had these odious words been true our dear Mirna would have never come to be. A dragoness as lovely as spilled blood on a bed of roses. Graceful and unblemished, her sole visage enough to calm the ailments of a tortured soul.
It is unclear the source of this immunity, for not even the nastiest of diseases has managed to put the tiniest of scars on her perfect skin and no fever has caused her scales to lose their magnificent shine. Witchcraft some say, a blessing from the Mother proclaim others. In truth Mirna herself doesn't know but the guise of a woman with many secrets suits her well.
Alluring yet holding a demure front, she plays the hearts of males and females like an instrupent, using her charm to seduce allies to their side and lure enemies into traps. Her methods may be disliked by some but her inquestionable results have earned her a well-respected reputation in the Clan. With a talent for politics she is to keep peace and resolve conflicts when Xerxes deems violence will not be the way.
Her ambitions for their Clan are great and her loyalty to Xerxes endless, but her voice will not be quieted whenever injustice takes place. A being of reason amongst creatures of war, her presence has become essential now that uncertain times are coming. Only time will tell if her influence will be enough to keep at bay the bellicose nature of her superiors.
@Exhalted
Like the others said, feel free to use this if you like it even if I don't win ^^
It is often said that there is no beauty to be found in the realms of the Plaguebringer.
If the seed of a flower dared to take root there it would grow twisted and grotesque, losing its once pure essence to the unpredictable nature of the Plague's will. But flowers are fickle things, weak in the face of evolution.
Had these odious words been true our dear Mirna would have never come to be. A dragoness as lovely as spilled blood on a bed of roses. Graceful and unblemished, her sole visage enough to calm the ailments of a tortured soul.
It is unclear the source of this immunity, for not even the nastiest of diseases has managed to put the tiniest of scars on her perfect skin and no fever has caused her scales to lose their magnificent shine. Witchcraft some say, a blessing from the Mother proclaim others. In truth Mirna herself doesn't know but the guise of a woman with many secrets suits her well.
Alluring yet holding a demure front, she plays the hearts of males and females like an instrupent, using her charm to seduce allies to their side and lure enemies into traps. Her methods may be disliked by some but her inquestionable results have earned her a well-respected reputation in the Clan. With a talent for politics she is to keep peace and resolve conflicts when Xerxes deems violence will not be the way.
Her ambitions for their Clan are great and her loyalty to Xerxes endless, but her voice will not be quieted whenever injustice takes place. A being of reason amongst creatures of war, her presence has become essential now that uncertain times are coming. Only time will tell if her influence will be enough to keep at bay the bellicose nature of her superiors.
