Gwyndolin

___________________Gwyndolin___________________ The Darkmoon God

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All mortals lose their bodies. When they die, their souls leave their shells; this is a natural process, and is therefore painless to them. But for gods, it's an entirely different matter. Gods are not meant to lose their bodies, and their souls will fight tooth and nail to hang on to the shapes they’ve got. Thus it was for Gwyndolin, the Darkmoon God. He sacrificed himself willingly – but deep instinct told him to hang on to his body. No matter how repulsive it appeared, it had served him well, and he was loath to leave it behind. But it was not to be. And even as he fell back into the void, he saw his body being assimilated by the God-Devourer. He cried out in rage at this blasphemy and tried to take back his shell...to no avail. It might have been his refusal, in the end, to accept his death. It might have been his desire to inhabit a physical vessel once more. For he did not dissolve into oblivion, as he had once thought he would. In fact, he didn’t even enter oblivion. He found himself flung into a whirling vortex. Brilliant lines of light striated with cracks so dark, they hurt his eyes. Like needles stabbing into his head – but it was nothing compared to the pain that racked his hitherto-divine form. He felt himself being shredded to bits. Pieces of himself were being ripped away. His silvery hair stripped from his skull, his serpents torn off one by one. He was shucked out of the skin he had worn like trash being dumped from a bag. The entire time, he was screaming. He contorted in helpless agony. The pain filled his mind, dominated it, so that he did not realize he was being forcibly twisted and molded into a new shape. A new body. An invisible fist closed over his mind, and darkness claimed him. Then he knew no more. ~ ~ ~ Arcamalis was, as usual, looking at the stars. She was a practiced observer, but even she did a double-take when she saw the night sky ripple, like a pond disturbed by a stone. She looked harder, but the sky remained as smooth and unbroken as a mirror. Still, she had seen something – she did not doubt that. And the more she listened, the more she became convinced something was off. Not necessarily wrong, but strange. There were weird whispers on the air. The wind, as it blew upon her face, seemed to press coldly against her bones. And then she saw it – a spot of light. It was odd in that it descended gently, like a feather on the wind. Almost as if something were slowing it down. It glowed with a cold silver light, and Arcamalis watched, her jaws parted in anticipation, as it fell towards a grove of trees. She waited for the succeeding tremor, but there was none. Whatever it was, it hadn’t fallen hard enough to shake the ground. But it made an impact nonetheless. A sudden wind rose, stirring the trees. They seemed to whisper to Arcamalis, urging her on even as she moved forward. Her adoptive father would be worried when she didn’t return home on time, but Arcamalis thought she wouldn’t mind being scolded, at least not today. This was worth investigating. She reached the grove. The trees continued to tremble, their branches clattering against each other. Dead leaves swirled over the Bogsneak’s scales. They tickled like ghostly fingers, and she paused to shake them away. Deep in the darkness, something moved. Arcamalis saw a small, nebulous glow just ahead. It shone like the moon struggling through clouds. Her own eyes, star-colored Arcane, lit up in response. ~ ~ ~ When Gwyndolin became aware again, his first reaction was to thrash in panic. His last clear memory had been of excruciating pain. A shadow of it remained – phantom pain, for he had lost many appendages. The places where they’d been still ached. He pressed tiny, slim-fingered hands against them, and a little moan escaped him. And then he looked more closely. His hands...They were more like paws, really. Thin, with long, sharp talons. Covered in scales...His whole body was covered in scales. The snakes were gone, and as he moved, he felt something else, rooted to his back. Wings. Shadows crowded around him. They were immense....No, no, his perceptions were wrong. The world was still normal-sized. It was he who had shrunk. He tried to scream, but no intelligible words escaped his mouth. Only a small, garbled drone. At that moment, a branch snapped sharply, and he turned. He almost choked as a shadow, a creature, loomed out of the darkness. It looked down at him with eyes that glowed like stars. Razor-sharp talons dug deep into the earth. As Gwyndolin stared, the shadow spread narrow, bat-like wings. Pinpricks of light glittered among the leathery folds. Gwyndolin backpedaled. He tripped over his tail – He had a tail now! What was happening?! – and tumbled into the leaves. He twisted around and then came up running. He fled through the woods, zigzagging madly, squeaking as he got entangled in moss and roots. He cut himself loose with a swipe of his claws, and he ran on. He did not recognize this world. It had trees and leaves and wind; he knew all of those things, yes. But the feel of it was wrong. The air crackled with magic...strange and alien enchantments. Every breath he took brought different scents and impressions. The turbulence of water. The distance of the stars. The urgent growth of nature. The indomitability of earth...and more, so much more. Layered over it all, in this part of the world: the unpredictability and mystery of the shadows. Finally, he burst free of the trees. He ran on and on, only to find himself teetering at the edge of a chasm. The night sky yawned above him as the stars looked coldly on. Gwyndolin beat his new wings, but he was not confident about his new body yet. He hesitated to launch himself into the air. And so the Bogsneak caught up to him. Like others of her breed, she could move swiftly and silently through the darkness. She rose up behind Gwyndolin and patted him on the head, and he squealed in dismay. Her voice, when she spoke to him, was as quiet and cool as dusk: “You yearn to return to the stars, I see.” It was such an odd remark, he paused and stared at her. She returned his gaze with a grave, steady look. “I understand,” she told him. “Sometimes I feel the same way, too.” ~ ~ ~ Zavier waited up for his adopted daughter. He was ready to berate her when she came in, but forgot all about that when she showed him the dragon she’d picked up and put into her bag. He listened as she told the story of how she had found this small stranger, confused and frightened, in the depths of the Tangled Wood. “A Fae, hm?” Zavier asked. “Well, there’s no harm in picking up another one. He certainly looks like he could use a hot meal.” And thus Gwyndolin learned the name of his new form: Fae dragon. And did he need to eat? Unfortunately, it looked as though he did. This new body needed nourishment – not burnt offerings or chanted prayers, but simpler fare. Insects. They crumbled in his mouth and melted like honey, and he willingly ate his fill. Slowly, he learned about the world around him. His rescuers were the clan of the Hidden Haven, and they were all dragons. They each had stories, families, and names. The leader of the clan, Onoind, was a Fae like him. It was some time before Gwyndolin could speak: a thin, reedy drone so unlike his previous voice. He copied the gestures of the other Faes in the clan, moving his ear frills, waving his wings. When he could communicate more effectively, the other dragons questioned him. “Where do you come from?” Onoind asked. He exaggerated his movements, thinking Gwyndolin would understand these better. “Are you from the Ashfall Waste? You have Fire eyes. Your deity is the Flamecaller. Where is your clan?” “Deity?” Gwyndolin parroted it back. And then the word burst open in his mind like a flame. He, too, was a deity – he’d nearly forgotten! He’d been so absorbed in getting used to his new body and his surroundings; he’d gotten overwhelmed....But that one word joggled his memory and reminded him of what he’d been. What he could once again be. And his own magic, buried far within him, stirred.... He wore the body of a Fae dragon, but deep inside, he was still very much a god. A god from another dimension, but a god, nonetheless. Draconic magic and a dead god’s energies – it was a potent combination. In his new shape, Gwyndolin smiled. There was hope for him yet, even after “death”. “My name is Gwyndolin,” he told Onoind, “and I answer to no god.” ~ written by Disillusionist (254672)

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Dark Sun Gwyndolin, Leader of the Blades of the Darkmoon

Gwyndolin knows he does not belong here. This is not his world. But he has no choice. There was no way back home.

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The last thoughts he remembers was being devoured.

The next thing he knows, he was lying on a cold, stone floor.

There's something wrong here, he realized.

His body feels different. The snakes are gone. There's something on his back. Everything looks larger.

______________GWYNDOLIN______________

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? "This is not my world." ___________ "If mine power be need'st, I shall assist thee." ? _________________________

B I O G R A P H Y Main Theme: Vectors ______ The last thing he remembered was being devoured. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a cold, stone floor. There's something wrong here, he realized. His body feels different. The snakes are gone. There's something on his back. Everything looks larger. ______ Completely disoriented, Gwyndolin attempted to stumble to his feet, only to realize that his feet didn't even feature the same bone structure he was accustomed to. They weren't even made to hold him up. Instead, massive wings on his back beat instinctively, holding his staggering body just above the floor. Gwyndolin turned on the spot, trying to teleport, but nothing happened. He held out his arm to use magic, but again, nothing happened. Instead, all he had was his grasping claws, protruding from sleek scales that curved over three tiny fingers. He was found near the Forum of the Obscured Crescent by Arcamalis on one of her starseeing trips. He did not want to accept help at first. He tried to wander alone at night, but it seemed that every creature he came across only forced him to run, and he couldn't even heal himself. If I was my old self, he thought angrily, You would be torn to pieces in a moment. It was only made worse by the fact that he knew he was a god, yet in this unfamiliar form the weakest of creatures could defeat him. But the fury gave way to acceptance as the weeks went by and he slowly began to meet others of his kind in his new clan--other dragons, some friendly, some cold, some almost as strange as the creatures he was accustomed to meeting. He still had nightmares of being eaten alive, but gradually became grateful that he still was alive, at least. And slowly, his magic began to return, much to his delight and relief. It began on one of his daily tests. The sick dragons had always cast him strange glances when he visited in the mornings, not knowing that he was trying to heal them. He could still feel the power in his body, but for a long time he couldn't seem to access it. Yet, one day, he held out his little fae hand, and saw a cut on a clan member's leg knit itself together, and felt the healing surge through him. He smiled. It felt almost like home again, but he knew in the back of his mind that he would never truly belong here. ______________________ As weeks passed, his powers returned _

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Lore by @Fletcher

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Hatch: Buttercup Lavender Hickory
1st Scatter: Latte Aqua Amethyst
2nd Scatter: Pumpkin Indigo Copper
3rd Scatter: Sky Royal Lead
4th Scatter: Fog Peridot Steel
5th Scatter: Moon Lemon White