Belphegor
(#11660966)
Level 25 Coatl
Kato
Sunbeam Ursa
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Coatl
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
7.68 m
Wingspan
7.49 m
Weight
931.86 kg
Genetics
Beige
Crystal
Crystal
Goldenrod
Facet
Facet
Goldenrod
Gembond
Gembond
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Coatl
Max Level
STR
124
AGI
9
DEF
8
QCK
50
INT
5
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
Inopiae desunt multa, avaritiae omnia.
To poverty many things are lacking, to avarice, everything.
To poverty many things are lacking, to avarice, everything.
   
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Stories are still told, around fires and tables, of Belphegor, the Golden Bandit Lord. Softened with the age implicit in any wild tale, one that happened so long ago that no one the teller knows would have seen it with their own eyes, they are entertaining, bold tales of outlawry and daring. A fierce and ambitious Coatl, who united a dozen small groups of bandits, robbers, and highwaymen, they say he was. His thieves controlled a long road and a large stretch of territory, demanding tribute from all who passed through. As his fame grew, so did those who came to follow him, serving under him. He boasted a small army, enough to make daring raids on clans near and far, coming away laden with wealth and prisoners. His private hoard was an entire mountain, hollowed out and filled with gold, so the stories go. Never seen without his armor as gleaming gold as his scales, Belphegor was a fearsome figure, but a poetic one. It was easy to tell stories about him with a dash of romance, and a ring of fantasy. Those whom he terrorized would tell a different story. Those who lived in the shadow of the Bandit Lord's territory quaked in fear, locking their doors at night when his bands of robbers roamed freely. They dared not cultivate nor own more than they needed to keep themselves alive, for any sign of wealth and prosperity was like to bring a raid down on them, taking all that they had. Mothers hid their hatchlings, fearing they'd be taken away to serve in the golden halls, while mated pairs kept their eyes downcast and hoped that their beloved wouldn't catch the eye of one of his raiders. Those who stood against him he made an example of, with fire and teeth and claws, leaving nothing remaining. He ruled what amounted to a small army, in a fortress stronghold, and he had every intention of gathering power and wealth until it all belonged to him. The stories are less clear as to what exactly caused his downfall. There are many different versions where the regional folk hero is the one who does so. Others say he was betrayed by one of his own partners. Still others say he never fell, only locked himself in with his hoard of gold where he waits for an opportune time to return. None of them tell the true story, in which the Golden Bandit Lord was locked away in an arcane prison, stripped of his armor, left with no gold but his slowly fading scales. Metatron, the implacable jailor, kept him locked there, never heeding his roared threats nor his demands to be freed, even when they turned to pleading, and then to silence. He knew what he had done, and Metatron's vision of justice was the mill that ground slow, but fine. This was his punishment, caught up to him at last, and Metatron intended to hold him for the duration of it. Whatever Metatron had intended, the clan's leader, Jeanne, had other ideas. She was an infrequent visitor, but in possession of a softer heart, and perhaps in some ways a clearer vision, than Metatron. She saw something in Belphegor that had changed over his long imprisonment, and when she offered him parole, and later membership in the clan, he took it gratefully. Now, he is barely recognizable as the arrogant and greedy lord he used to be, although he still favors golden armor and his scales are beginning to regain their luster. But he is quieter, more thoughtful, and fiercely loyal to Jeanne. It's true that sometimes there is an avaricious gleam in his eye when he sees someone else with wealth, but more often than not, he shudders and turns away, deeming the price too high. Although Metatron does not believe in his supposed change of heart, and watches him suspiciously in every free moment waiting for him to fall back into his old ways, he seems genuinely determined to atone for what he's done, measuring worthy deeds against his old crimes. ~by Mirrorstone |
Short Stories
1.
He went over his own golden armor several times with hot water and polish, making sure it shined and sparkled. Yes, he still wore his prized possessions, but he liked to say it was all he had to his name. His armor, and his memories. Oh, yes, his memories. Ruling over territory that others had only dreamed of, commanding an army four times the size that even the largest of clans, and more wealth to last him for decades, and then some. His memories were poison, however. He knew very well that he was in the wrong back then, but so blinded by greed and by the gold that he couldn't look away. Every night he told himself 'no more' but he always wanted more, and more, and more. His greed was unchallenged, his arrogance impossible to talk down. His rage, easy to spark. Belphegor knows he was wrong back then, but when he looks back on his past self, he can't help but feel pity, mixed with a longing to go back to how things were. To get his army back together and to- no, he learned his lesson. He was freed under very simple, basic terms. He could stick to them, yes? He had to. His future, his sanity, depended on it. Money itself was not the root of all evil, but the love of it, and he had enough love to go around. Every time he saw a little bit of treasure, laying out on a rock, the owner no where to be seen, he had a sudden urge. Just a few more coins couldn't hurt... no. They would hurt. Maybe not then, maybe not to him, but someone would pay for his crime. The innocent did all the time. Even when he had his fair share of lovers.
Ah, his string. His harem. Stolen from the claws of their mates, of various attributes, types, sizes, temperaments... no children to his name, though. The eggs, if his current obsession had any--if they could have any--would be crushed. Thrown out. No children. No need to have any. They only drained the treasure away. His raiders didn't share the same ideal, having children with those that caught their eyes, the females teaching their children how to steal just like they did, the males teaching their daughters how to trick dragons out of all their money. His army grew under the constant hatchings of eggs, of the love of at least one parent. Some of the mates that were taken from their homes were killed, locked away, or forced out into a land with a bad name, especially if they tried to take their children away from the army. No, Belphegor needed more soldiers to maintain his territory, his life style. This was survival of the fittest, emphasis on was. He shivered at the thought of all the young dragons he ruined. Of all the families he tore apart. Of the horrors he let his underlings commit just because he found it amusing. He began to scrub the armor harder, trying to free it of the smallest bit of dirt while the banner dried near the fires of the land. The water was getting too hot, but he didn't feel it on his hands.
Then came the day he was captured, locked away to atone for his crimes and sins, to think about what he did. It took a long while until Belphegor began to finally look at himself--instead of at his victims. He did bring this upon himself, everything he did, everything he had said and thought of doing. His greed was responsible--no, he was. He couldn't go around blaming something that was only part of him. His greed, his anger, his lust... it was all the cause of this. What would have happened if he hadn't done those things? Perhaps he would be in charge of his own clan? Be a warrior? An ambassador? A mid-dragon? Who knew. His claws were shaking and he had to put his armor down. In the distance, there was a visitor, coming to talk with the Matriarch about something or another. They were dressed in gold, in silver, in gems so rare that Belphegor felt like he could reach out and snatch them, to claim them as his own. He squeezed his eyes shut and got back to work on his own amount of gold, the small bit he could still call his own. This was his. This armor, the decoration, the paintings on his hide. It was his and no one could take it, but he couldn't take anything more. Unless he worked hard for it. A cold nose pushed against his arm, and Belphegor looked at his bear. the Sunbeam Ursa gave a little roar, showing his teeth before sitting at the hot water, the lava plumes making it hotter, almost boiling. Oh, that's right. His armor was clean now. Yes, he could dry it. Moving away from the water, and taking up a clean, soft cloth, Belphegor began to polish the last bit of armor he had to clean. His flourish pieces had already been cleaned, sitting on other cloths, waiting to be put on again to decorate his hide.
He sighed, putting the armor down, taking the banner off of the rock it was drying on, before carefully putting it back in place, smoothing it out. A simple life... right, simple. Filled with hard work and constant giving. Not taking. Belphegor believed that, maybe, if he could make back his whole fortune, every bit that he lost, he would return every piece to those he took it from. He would visit them all personally, and return what he stole, even if they got it back once he collapsed or not. Perhaps that would be... not enough. The countless families he hurt, the children whose lives he had ruined. Nothing could pay those he had hurt back. Nothing. Not even if he was to tear off each of his feathers. Maybe that was why his plumage was slowly fading... this was punishment from the Lightweaver herself, the Flamecaller doing nothing to stop the atonement that must happen. Belphegor only hoped that, when and if he died, that it would be quick and painless, but what did he even deserve? Did the Grim Reaper know?
His bear gave a low, worried growl.
"Depressing thoughts, I know," Belphegor replied, putting all his armor and flourishes on, making sure everything was in place. "But we have work to do."
~by Dew
Ah, his string. His harem. Stolen from the claws of their mates, of various attributes, types, sizes, temperaments... no children to his name, though. The eggs, if his current obsession had any--if they could have any--would be crushed. Thrown out. No children. No need to have any. They only drained the treasure away. His raiders didn't share the same ideal, having children with those that caught their eyes, the females teaching their children how to steal just like they did, the males teaching their daughters how to trick dragons out of all their money. His army grew under the constant hatchings of eggs, of the love of at least one parent. Some of the mates that were taken from their homes were killed, locked away, or forced out into a land with a bad name, especially if they tried to take their children away from the army. No, Belphegor needed more soldiers to maintain his territory, his life style. This was survival of the fittest, emphasis on was. He shivered at the thought of all the young dragons he ruined. Of all the families he tore apart. Of the horrors he let his underlings commit just because he found it amusing. He began to scrub the armor harder, trying to free it of the smallest bit of dirt while the banner dried near the fires of the land. The water was getting too hot, but he didn't feel it on his hands.
Then came the day he was captured, locked away to atone for his crimes and sins, to think about what he did. It took a long while until Belphegor began to finally look at himself--instead of at his victims. He did bring this upon himself, everything he did, everything he had said and thought of doing. His greed was responsible--no, he was. He couldn't go around blaming something that was only part of him. His greed, his anger, his lust... it was all the cause of this. What would have happened if he hadn't done those things? Perhaps he would be in charge of his own clan? Be a warrior? An ambassador? A mid-dragon? Who knew. His claws were shaking and he had to put his armor down. In the distance, there was a visitor, coming to talk with the Matriarch about something or another. They were dressed in gold, in silver, in gems so rare that Belphegor felt like he could reach out and snatch them, to claim them as his own. He squeezed his eyes shut and got back to work on his own amount of gold, the small bit he could still call his own. This was his. This armor, the decoration, the paintings on his hide. It was his and no one could take it, but he couldn't take anything more. Unless he worked hard for it. A cold nose pushed against his arm, and Belphegor looked at his bear. the Sunbeam Ursa gave a little roar, showing his teeth before sitting at the hot water, the lava plumes making it hotter, almost boiling. Oh, that's right. His armor was clean now. Yes, he could dry it. Moving away from the water, and taking up a clean, soft cloth, Belphegor began to polish the last bit of armor he had to clean. His flourish pieces had already been cleaned, sitting on other cloths, waiting to be put on again to decorate his hide.
He sighed, putting the armor down, taking the banner off of the rock it was drying on, before carefully putting it back in place, smoothing it out. A simple life... right, simple. Filled with hard work and constant giving. Not taking. Belphegor believed that, maybe, if he could make back his whole fortune, every bit that he lost, he would return every piece to those he took it from. He would visit them all personally, and return what he stole, even if they got it back once he collapsed or not. Perhaps that would be... not enough. The countless families he hurt, the children whose lives he had ruined. Nothing could pay those he had hurt back. Nothing. Not even if he was to tear off each of his feathers. Maybe that was why his plumage was slowly fading... this was punishment from the Lightweaver herself, the Flamecaller doing nothing to stop the atonement that must happen. Belphegor only hoped that, when and if he died, that it would be quick and painless, but what did he even deserve? Did the Grim Reaper know?
His bear gave a low, worried growl.
"Depressing thoughts, I know," Belphegor replied, putting all his armor and flourishes on, making sure everything was in place. "But we have work to do."
~by Dew
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Exalting Belphegor to the service of the Flamecaller 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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