Cicatrix
(#68677866)
Level 1 Skydancer
SinsReward
Blight Nymph
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Ice.
Female Skydancer
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.21 m
Wingspan
4.12 m
Weight
903.33 kg
Genetics
Beige
Iridescent
Iridescent
Blood
Stripes
Stripes
Blood
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
4
AGI
5
DEF
4
QCK
9
INT
9
VIT
4
MND
9
Lineage
Biography
CICATRIX
The Priest of Fell Rites
"The mind is a beautiful bounty encased in an annoying bone container."
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 Betalain says: “Cicatrix's Plague is insidious, she does not inflict physical maladies or crippling pain, but madness and dementia. She sees every memory and thought as an individual piece that can be rearranged—or removed. It is a terrifying power. Believe me, I have long learnt that memory is not a safe place to hide valuables.”  Anodyne says: “I’m wondering if you think of her as a monster, knowing what she does. I suppose it depends on what you think that word means. Monsters are, what? Ugly? Terrifying? Can a monster be beautiful if it is still terrifying? Perhaps it depends on how you experience fear and judge beauty.” |
 None Yet!     Priest of Plague
 
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Eupatrid stared at the bones he had cast, unsure what to make of it. Faith. The first bone, the vertebra of a mirror, said. Youth. The second bone, the skull of a sparrow, told him. Power. The third bone, the fingerbone of an imperial, announced. But faith in what? And power for whom? He wondered. Is this portent for him, or about him? He hesitated, confused. He had never been as adept at reading the will of the goddess as his mother was. A knock at the door interrupted his internal befuddlement. He sighed, and went to greet the visitors at his door. "Mothers blessings be upon you." He said by rote. "If you are here to seek my services, I'm afraid you will have to return later. I have received portents I must attend to." "We are not here to buy service, master necromancer." His visitor replied. "We are here to sell it." Eupatrid felt his brows rise at the presumption. "I have nothing I need to purchase. Kindly move along." He replied, impatient to return to his work. "But you have not seen what I am selling," the visitor insisted, and took a step to the side to reveal her companion. The little skydancer looked unremarkable in many ways. Eupatrid immediately saw that she her ivory-pale eyes stared blankly ahead of her and did not focus, but that fact could hardly be called remarkable. He frowned uncomprehendingly. “If you want her trained and exalted to service, you’ve got the wrong door. Grimalkin handles the training of Mother’s exalted.” “I’m quite certain I’m at the right place. Take another look, master necromancer, then I’ll let you return to your bones.” Eupatrid blinked. “How did you know about that?” His curiosity piqued, Eupatrid looked, and he felt it more than he saw. Those blind unblinking eyes belied an incredible ability, simmering under her skin. She was a necromancer. "Hm interesting..." He murmured. Her mother preened, pleased at his interest. "This is Cicatrix. She takes after her father. Skydancers are naturally attuned to magic as is, I myself have some skill in reading others, but rarely do I met another with so receptive an ability." She paused. "A curse as much as it is a blessing, here. She's always been too sensitive." "To the ardor of plague magic especially," her mother continued. "She used to get sick from every little thing. The doctors said she was being poisoned just from the latent energy of the earth, if you can believe such a thing. We'd hoped that the Goddess would cure her of it. Give her control—or end her suffering, if it did not." "But our Goddess the Plaguebringer did not kill her—nor did she cure her. It seems her sensitivity now manifests in another form. Show him dear." The last part she addressed to her daughter, who has been sitting demurely at her feet. The young skydancer perked up at being addressed, and stepped forward now that she has been given leave to speak. She turned her head towards him, her unsettling eyes still fixed unblinking at a point on the horizon. She drew a deep breath as if smelling, or perhaps tasting, the air. Her gem flashed with a faint red glow as the world unraveled before her. A world that spoke its vitality in melodic tunes of highs and lows. She saw the low growing weeds, their pulse of vigorous life bursting forth from wet soil. She heard the song of the nightingales, with the vibrant choir of a living pulse beneath each of its notes, and each beat of its heart a pendulum swinging in its rhythm. She saw the form of the mirror dragon before her, his magic shone in her minds eye like the light of a brilliant star. Eupatrid felt—something. A tiny perturbation prickled at the edge of his awareness, something small and cautious. Then it vanished altogether. What. . . Eupatrid shook off the sudden fugue. "Flesh rot, filth fever, a crown of bones, four limbs and four claws, smooth skin and smooth scales. The taint of the Wyrmwound and the power of the Plaguebringer. Your reputation precedes you, master Eupatrid." Cicatrix spoke at last, her voice rang clear as a bell. "Your reading was a mirror's vertebra, a sparrow's skull, an imperial's fingerbone." She continued, politely bowing her head to him. "Your ruby ring is very pretty," She commented as an afterthought. "It shines out in concentric rings. But its songs are sad, it is pitched in the minor key. Did you lose something important to you recently?" Eupatrid gaped, stunned in spite of himself for a moment. He walked a slow circle around the young skydancer, taking her in. She had known his portent, though he still did not understand what it meant. Could it be, that she could read Mother’s will better than he? Did she understand something he did not? Youth, yes. Power, she has in spades. But faith? What did the Goddess desire his faith in? Then he answered his own question. Of course. He placed his faith in the Goddess, but he was not the sole disciple of the Plaguebringer. Many dragons hold her in their faith, including, he realised, this skydancer, who was wilting now in his continued silence. It was not his own faith the Goddess spoke of just as it was not his own youth or power. He cursed himself for being so daft, to take so long to see something spelled out blatantly in front of him. Cicatrix's mother watched him with a shrewd smile. "Rumours say you have never accepted an apprentice into your service. I'm glad to see that you have changed your mind on this matter." But Eupatrid was a practical soul; he only put so much stock in portents and divinations. He wanted to see for himself. "Prove it." He commanded the skydancer, a swirling current of deathly energy wreathing his hand as he called up his magic. "You want to train with a necromancer? Prove you are worthy of carrying our name. Show me your power." The two necromancers squared off against each other. Eupatrid waited for Cicatrix to make the first move. He noted the rise in the ardor of Plague magic, answering her pull as she drew upon it. When she made her attack, there was no bolt of magic or blossom of necrosis. There was a pressure at his temples, a sensation like fingers prying at the door. He lowered his defences to the magic, allowing it to overtake him. The room suddenly seemed to buckle and sway as a sickening sensation stabbed into his mind. The attack was brutish and raw, wielded more like a battering ram than a key into a keyhole. Synapses crumbled. Pain blossomed. Insanity beckoned. A towering wave of darkness rose in the distance. Eupatrid knew the crash of that wave meant dissolution. Mind-death. A flash of fear rose in him unbidden, and without conscious thought, he isolated the spell's effects. He pulled it from his consciousness as a yellow-green mist of plague energy. With a gesture of will, he quashed it. The pounding in his head cut off abruptly. The fog cleared. His mind calmed. Clarity returned. "Hm." Eupatrid regarded the skydancer cooly as he regained his focus. It was an amateurs work, but the power was undeniable. It was a kind of plague magic he hardly ever saw. A kind that, with training, could become something much more insidious. A scalpel, instead of a sledgehammer, that could plant infection that would fester for years and leave no scars behind. Eupatrid smiled to himself. The Goddess rarely granted gifts so openly. He spared a moment to wonder what he did to bring such favour, that he might better repeat it. But he pushed it from his mind. Such thinking was as pointless as wondering what he'd done wrong, in those times he'd failed and subsequently suffered Her displeasure. "Thank you for coming to me, and thank the Goddess for Her guidance in leading you here." Eupatrid gently touched his claw to hers. "I see now, you, too, carry the true blessings of the Mother. I will accept you as my student. I will train you in Her arts and in Her teachings. I will demand service of you, in service of Her." Cicatrix shivered in excitement, and bowed low. "Thank you, master Eupatrid!" She exclaimed, her eagerness plain in every word. 
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