Abbadon
(#27023728)
Level 5 Bogsneak
Familiar
Flamescale Spearman
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Energy: 0
out of
50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Bogsneak
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
1.02 m
Wingspan
1.58 m
Weight
2.29 kg
Genetics
Obsidian
Skink
Skink
Sanguine
Facet
Facet
Crimson
Glimmer
Glimmer
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 5 Bogsneak
EXP: 19 / 5545
STR
21
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
14
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Biography
ABBADON
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Abbadon's name was once spoken in fearful whispers and barked upon harsh curses, the cruel, savage ways of the obsidian warlord carving scars and wounds across the lands he and his spearmen vassals tore apart. Ending up between the gauntlets of his hold usually spelled certain death, unbeknownst to those that fell prey that their end would be brought about slowly, surely, showered in sweet, bitter words and tormented like a beast in a cage before the darkness would release them from the pain. Whirring, and clicking, those iron claws deftly slayed any in his path. He speaks with a wry smirk of the memory in which his hands were flayed from his body by a long since gone rival, the red ichor spilling out on the already stained ground. He, also, speaks of how he lunged with might towards his foe, and tore him limb from limb, that grin that paints itself across his face at the retelling of his story threatening to split his face in two, and those teeth, pointed, chipped, red, they told silent stories. How many had fallen at his feet? Those red eyes shone with a sense of bloodlust and intrigue, and warned others never to ask such a question, lest they only become a statistic. They had rebuilt him. Flesh that had been rendered was reinforced with armour, hands replaced with gold and red gauntlets that sported onyx, curved claws. A scarred and beaten hide was hidden from sight under a silky, black cape that shone gently under the moonlight, most enemies were under the impression that the beast could never be stopped. Yet his physique betrayed him, once, for he was originally a skydancer, blitzing elegantly across the battlefield and hailing death from above. Watch the skies! was often the cry that came from those lowly forces that opposed his advancements, death from above was often swift and merciful, but those that had the pleasure to fall from his hold didn't receive such privileges. It was at one battle that Abbadon had been beaten within an inch of his life, retreating deftly he and his forces tried to recuperate. Bring it to me, he hissed through the pain and the fire in his belly and heart, clawing at the sodden earth. Bring me the mutagen, you wretches, now! And they never saw it coming, advancing upon their camp only to be surprised to the hulking behemoth that slithered and writhed upon them with all the hate in the world searing like an inferno within his eyes. Abbadon, still reeling from the pain of his transformation, lay waste to the forces that opposed him and forced them to run like dogs with their tails between their legs, mirrors, faes, even guardians whimpered and winced from the wounds that decorated their hide like oil on a canvas, dripping red and running down, down, down to the ground, quivering upon contact with each and every drop of the sweet, crimson nectar. He seemed unstoppable. He was unstoppable. Or was he? Abbadon's warlord past began to dissipate to the throws of time, when there was no one left to fight, and his land was stained forever red, he knew his days were up. None dared to take his world from him, of course, but the now bogsneak felt content to lay upon his riches for the rest of time, his kingdom of serthis growing ever stronger by the day. It was, however, the day a scouting party returned, that wonderful day, his life changed almost completely. For better or worse was subjective to those he had pillaged and slaughtered and tended to and protected, but the warlord, atop his throne, departed to the land of light, his most loyal minions following close behind. Aurelia. He had coveted a place long before he saw the swathes of dragons that lay within, swarming with life he barely stood a chance, but his curiosity alight, Abbadon approached the gates. He spoke sweetly and promised the guards his intent of visiting, eyeing all of the faces that turned to look at him. And then he saw her there, his heart skipping in his chest and he craned his head to see her clearly. A bogsneak, plague, like himself, only gorgeous. Powerful and utterly disturbing, caressed by the Plaguebringer's touch with bones and claws and teeth where they shouldn't be, but Abbadon did not care. He could feel the uncertainty pouring out of her as he approached, she did not feel comfortable with his gaze. I don't deserve it, she whispered to him after a long silence between the two, looking straight at him. It had been a long time since another dragon had been eye to eye with him, let alone looking at him as if he were nothing more than an old friend, instead of the cowering bodies and weeping eyes he was used to. I believe you are worth more than you think. Abbadon spoke back, genuine, and the female nearly broke. She confined her story, of her mistakes and past tribulations that lead her to where she was today. Abbadon gently lifted one of her mighty paws within his own, and carefully he wrapped those artificial claws around her own, whirring them gently as they softly squeezed her flesh. Belial. He tested her name on his tongue, before he leant forward and placed a tender lick on the tip of her snout. No one will hurt you again, Belial. I promise. |
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Exalting Abbadon to the service of the Lightweaver will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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