Abaddon
(#31538529)
Messenger | She/They
Familiar
Masked Phantom
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Female Imperial
Expand the dragon details section.
Collapse the dragon details section.
Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
27.98 m
Wingspan
18.3 m
Weight
8640.4 kg
Genetics
Orca
Giraffe
Giraffe
Orca
Saturn
Saturn
Ice
Gembond
Gembond
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
|
Abaddon
{ Ab-buh-don } Nicknames: ??? • Messenger for the Dead 
╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮ Spoken Words and Sweet Songs ♫ (artist) - (song) ♫ Voice Claim -(Example) ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ |
Abaddon probably didn’t hatch alone, but her earliest memories included neither parents nor siblings. Instead, there was a vast darkness, deeper than the bottom of the sea...and infinitely colder, too. Sounds lapped just at the edges of her hearing, groans and screams and wails. “They are the dead,” her grandmother intoned, but by then Abaddon had become accustomed to them, and this pronouncement didn’t rattle her in the least. Then, too, it might’ve been because she herself was not alive, not exactly....
She was raised by her grandparents. They were both Coatls, a great deal smaller than she was, but even as a child, Abaddon recognized the strength burning within them, and she submitted willingly to it. Her grandparents had a great deal of political power as well, and Abaddon was educated from an early age, reared for the daunting task of tying the Underworld with the Land of the Living.
When a being is conceived in the Underworld, its essence is joined with that of the phantom plane, resulting in special abilities. In Abaddon’s case, this gave her the ability to see rifts in space, portals between the worlds of the Dead and the Living. Most messengers of the Underworld had to make use of complicated spells and pathways, and Abaddon quickly became the envy of the realm when it was realized she could travel between worlds just by stepping through those rifts. In time, Abaddon was called to serve the Underworld. She would escort newly-perished souls down to the land of the Dead.
It was a task fraught with danger. Abaddon was not corporeal, but she could still be damaged or destroyed. On one occasion she was sent up to the surface, or close to it, to retrieve a miner’s soul. The poor Wildclaw had been cornered by a star-beast. His soul was flung from his body by a sweep of the monster’s claws, and Abaddon quickly sheltered him under one wing. The two of them shivered as the beast briefly glanced up, its eyes shining like twin moons. It lowered its head once more, and Abaddon didn’t wait to see it devour the miner’s body. The Wildclaw’s soul pressed against her side as she guided him through the rift and into the afterlife.
The world of the Dead is sunless, but not without beauty or light. The dead miner was struck speechless with awe by the palaces of precious metals, the forbidden fruits pulsing with ambrosia. Abaddon led him past the trees and up the gleaming steps. In due time, the Wildclaw stood before a judge: Barastyr, one of the princes of the Underworld.
The hall was lined with soaring columns, and from their shadows, Abaddon watched as the Imperial judge pronounced his sentence: The miner had lived a relatively blameless life and was free to frolic in the Elysian fields. The Wildclaw, looking considerably more cheerful than he had in days, allowed himself to be led away to eternal peace and quiet.
Barastyr watched him go. He raised his head and boomed, “Is there no one else?” But the hall remained empty and silent. After a pause, the judge looked into the shadows.
“Abaddon, are you still there? Come out of the shadows, my Lady—let’s not stand on ceremony.”
Abaddon did so, stepping forward to join her mate. She had been matched with Barastyr as part of a political arrangement between their families; theirs was not a passionate or romantic marriage, but they liked each other and treated each other well. They had not been married long, as time ran in the Underworld—only a few decades or so. There was the strong possibility their affection for each other would deepen, and Abaddon decided she wouldn’t mind that.
“You have been busy lately. There has been an influx of new arrivals, it seems.”
Abaddon nodded. “I have funneled some of them to the other judges. Perhaps this spate of new souls will slow.” She glanced up briefly, thinking of the star-beast on its inevitable course to the sky.
“Strange things are afoot....Well. Stranger than usual, anyway.” Barastyr absently groomed his whiskers, his tail waving back and forth. Now that there were no souls to judge, he was considerably more at ease. Abaddon remained as steady as ever, though.
“I have heard that you may be assigned to new territory soon. The engineers of the Shifting Expanse grow bolder in their explorations. They are pushing at the boundaries originally established for them, claiming lands colonized by the Longnecks and the Harpies.”
They both knew what that meant: Battles and accidents were inevitable, and more souls would arrive. Abaddon and Barastyr would be busy.
The judge considered his own words, and then he remarked, “Still, I’m sure it will not be too much trouble for you.” His smile was faint, almost hesitant, but it was sincere. Abaddon inclined her head in solemn response.
Long years passed. Abaddon and other psychopomps found themselves diverted to, as Barastyr had noted, the Shifting Expanse. It became common for Abaddon to escort not just individuals, but also groups—dragons who had perished all at once in some great battle or mishap. Still, there were the occasional smaller jobs to finish. One night, Abaddon arrived at the bedside of an old engineer. She listened to his last rattling breaths, and then, as they were replaced by the wails of his clanmates, his ghost arose, shimmering and translucent, from the husk it’d previously inhabited.
The old eyes blinked, and then the Snapper raised his head. “Oh...I suppose that’s it. Errm, good evening, Miss. Are you an angel?” He punctuated this last question with a brief but respectful bow.
In spite of herself, Abaddon’s lips twitched. “No,” she admitted, “I am here to escort you to the Underworld.”
“Ahh...” The Snapper seemed a bit put out. “We don’t go to...the gods?”
Abaddon was genuinely puzzled by this. “The gods are everywhere,” she said, sweeping one wing around the Snapper. In the sudden darkness, he managed to chuckle. “Y’know, that makes more sense than the stuff our priests sometimes babble.”
They walked through the rift and down the dark tunnels. The Snapper said to her, “My name is Edison.”
“Yes, sir. I was sent to you.”
“Gonna miss those young fellers.” Edison tried to look back. But there was only blackness; the world of the Living receded like the light of distant star. “I’m not from the Expanse originally, y’know. I was born in the Viridian Labyrinth. Bless the Gladekeeper, but I never really felt like I fit there. Engineerin’ in the Shifting Expanse turned out to be more my thing. I say...” He craned his neck forward. “Is this going on for much longer?”
The truth was that Abaddon was tired. In the distant past, she had been able to step instantaneously from one realm to the next. But in recent years, she had been traveling between the worlds almost non-stop, and it was quite draining on her. Like an exhausted runner who has slowed to a trudge, it now took her longer to deliver souls. Perhaps a change of career was in order.
“Somewhat longer, yes,” she answered, because she was a truthful soul and there wasn’t anything the Snapper could do about it anyway. He remained silent for a short while.
And then he ventured, “You don’ mind if I talk some more, do ya? It’s just so...dark.”
This time, Abaddon couldn’t help herself; she actually managed to laugh.
Edison started to talk. It didn’t hurt that his voice was light and soft; he spoke almost lyrically, sentences winding into each other like tapestry threads. They formed pictures of a life left behind: an unsympathetic family, hard but rewarding studies, and colleagues and friends who had welcomed and respected him. He had found work in a prestigious clan, one that was rumored to have challenged the Stormcatcher—and won.
Abaddon nodded at this. “Yes...I have heard something of the sort. Clan Escalon, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, yes!” Edison’s own laugh was deep and booming, shades richer than his light, hoarse voice. “You’ve heard of us even down in the Underworld—that’s amazing! Wouldn’t Raiden laugh if he knew!”
And Abaddon, after a time, began to ask questions and then volunteer her own opinions as they walked into the dark. Edison was always happy to answer and lend comments of his own. It was almost sad when he squinted ahead and mumbled, “Hey...I can see a light.”
So could Abaddon. It was the lanterns of the Underworld, corpse candles and will-o-wisps garlanding the trees. They had arrived.
Barastyr was busy, so Edison would be escorted to another judge. In response to the worried look on the engineer’s face, Abaddon assured him, “One who has lived a blameless life has nothing to fear in death.”
“That’s very pretty to hear. But after that...well, that’s it, ain’t it?” He sighed, the first time she’d heard him do so. “I thought I could hang around as a ghost and check on the young ‘uns, but I can’t even do that. Ah, well. Maybe it’s for the best.”
But there were ghosts, Abaddon knew. They were not always dead souls that clung stubbornly to life. More often than not, they were natives of the Underworld—just as she was—that had been granted special dispensation.
“Perhaps there will be a way for you to share your advice with the younger ones,” she told Edison. “It may be possible—but first you must be judged. Then I will look into it on your behalf.”
The old Snapper beamed. “Thank you, Miss. Oh...I suppose we’re already here. Errm, do you need a fee? I know they do that sometimes, gold coins and such—”
Abaddon waved this aside. “We do not trade in coin in the Underworld. But in any case,” and she smiled back, “the pleasure is mine.”
Abaddon had performed her task as a psychopomp well, so when she requested a change of assignment, the rulers of the Underworld did not object. Nonetheless, they warned, “It is a job many find thankless, for once the Living perceive the Dead, they do not always react favorably.”
This was true. More than once Abaddon found herself cursed or targeted with magic spells (and the occasional bit of crockery) when she appeared in the deceased’s former homes. Arguably more terrible were those who threw themselves at Abaddon’s feet and tugged at her cloak, wailing and pleading with her to bring their loved one back.
In the face of these tribulations, Abaddon remained resolute. She was here to recite the messages the Dead had given her, nothing more. The effect on the Living was always the same, for when Abaddon spoke the words, she did so in the dead dragon’s voice. The Living stopped shrieking vituperations or pleading for amnesty, and they would listen, enraptured, to the voice of someone they had known and loved.
It proved to be a more difficult job than escorting souls. At least the newly dead were bewildered and often tractable. Dealing with the Living was an entirely different matter. Abaddon often sank back home, weary and discouraged. Barastyr often complimented her efforts, but that was all he could do; his place was here, with the Dead.
Edison chuckled ruefully when he heard this. The Snapper had adjusted well to his new status, and he spoke to Abaddon in the same comfortable voice as before: “Yeah, the Living are tricky customers. I guess it’s because they’re, well, not done with things yet, so there’s room for change, y’know?”
“Yes,” Abaddon said with uncharacteristic surliness. She wasn’t looking forward to going up there again.
Edison let out another chuckle, gentler this time. “Don’t worry, Ma’am. I’ve got a collection of stories for you to take to Clan Escalon. You’ll like them—and they’ll treat you right, I promise.” Light radiated from his warm smile, wreathing through his translucent body.
Abaddon bore his manuscripts up to the surface. She was a bit stubborn to admit it, but she’d asked for a change of assignment because she’d grown bored of being a psychopomp. She had been at it for millennia....She suspected Barastyr was weary of his job, too. Perhaps even the immutable, unchanging Dead needed something new after a while.
The job had changed, certainly, but not the weariness—though this time it was the fatigue brought on by stress, not boredom. “Perhaps I should rethink things,” she thought before she stepped onto mortal plane.
She arrived in the medical ward of Clan Escalon. Almost all the nearby dragons were asleep—except for a Pearlcatcher bustling down the aisle. She froze when she caught sight of Abaddon.
“I greet you,” boomed the Imperial. She folded her wings more tightly, making herself look smaller. “I am Abaddon, a messenger from the Underworld.”
Abaddon could almost see the words forming in the Pearlcatcher’s mind. Finally, the smaller dragon whispered, “You are here for...one of us?” She eyed her sleeping patients worriedly.
That part of Abaddon’s existence was long past her. She shook her head. “I am here not to take, but to deliver. I have a message from the engineer, Edison.”
The Pearlcatcher gasped. “Edison!” Her golden eyes filled with tears, and Abaddon remembered: The healer had been at Edison’s beside when he’d died; she had been patting his shoulder, sad but resigned to see him go.
Now she ventured, “Um...How is he?”
“He is well, all things considered, and is looking forward to a future existence in another place and time. He has sent these stories for your clan’s archives.”
“That’s just like him! Always leaving paperwork till the last minute.” It was a surprisingly banal thing to say, and Abaddon was reminded, of Barastyr—firm and businesslike in public, considerably more talkative in private. She started to relax.
The Pearlcatcher smiled back, too. “He was always so wordy, and it doesn’t look as though that’s changed. Pull up a chair at the nurses’ station, Abby, and let’s see what he’s sent us. Would you like something to drink? My name is Jarna, by the way.”
It was a great deal better than being yelled at or having to dodge thrown crockery. Abaddon began to smile.
Many rumors surround Clan Escalon. There are rumors that they won autonomy from the Stormcatcher, that their ambassadors have unsavory pasts, that they house dragons who are not dragons. Some of these, certainly, are true. Abaddon can attest to that last one in particular.
She has not asked for another change of office. For now, she will continue working as a messenger between realms. The journeys to the world of the Living have become less strenuous, for in Escalon, she has found a place of rest.
The formerly-Living have their rest below, but Abaddon has hers above—if only briefly, before she goes back down into the darkness again, to retrieve the next batch of message for the lands above.
template by Disillusionist (254672)
Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
Feed this dragon Insects.
Feed this dragon Meat.
Feed this dragon Seafood.
Feed this dragon Plants.
You can share this dragon on the forums by either copying the browser URL manually, or using bbcode!
Exalting Abaddon to the service of the Stormcatcher will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
Do you wish to continue?
- Names must be longer than 2 characters.
- Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
- Names can only contain letters.
- Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
- Names can only contain letters.