Kyoko
(#20943889)
She/Her
Familiar
Teleporting Planesrunner
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 49/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Arcane.
Female Mirror
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.16 m
Wingspan
4.11 m
Weight
552.28 kg
Genetics
Splash
Skink
Skink
Black
Daub
Daub
Thistle
Spines
Spines
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 12 Mirror
EXP: 2717 / 38956
STR
26
AGI
5
DEF
20
QCK
6
INT
5
VIT
20
MND
50
Lineage
Parents
Offspring
Biography
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Kyoko
"Mirror" |
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Once upon a time...
There was a blue rose. It grew in a desert oasis beside a pool of red water. Wine or blood, it was hard to tell, it was thick and viscous and the pull of the moon made it lap at the shoreline where that lonesome ocean flower stood with its roots planted deep in sticky sand. Its petals dripped with dew, stained purple from the rains that poured every once in a blue moon. Clawmarks in the sand surrounded it, carved away to form a moat around the roots, exposed to weathers and wind.
The flower curled upon itself, or bowed, or fell, or drooped with a heavy weight, leaning over the shining pool that gleamed like rubies that glowed in silver moonlight. The reflection showed a dragon and her shining pink eyes and blue scales and claws that filled the pool with blood and wine, teeth dripping with death and curses falling from her tongue like water from the falls.
Behind her, another glass mirror framed her war-stricken face. Shining in the reflection, a smeared image of grey and red fur, painted marks and bone and beads and the deafening echo of a war cry. The stained glass glowed with fire, licking fingers of crimson and lilac laughing and stroking the surface, staining it with soot. The flames glowed wild and bold with passion, an open wound that burnt and boiled and festered like an infection that raged with a fever decades old. A red streak shone onto the flower's reflection, bright like jasper in the indigo shadows.
The dragon hung low, a puppet with her strings still loose, clenched tight in smoky claws. Her face was frozen in fury, the echoed practice of her mother's rage, shaped from clay from the moment of her hatching. Never had her expression born an original form, never had her claws drawn blood of her own choosing, never had she walked a path not chosen for her long before she's even turned her eyes to it. She was the practiced shadow of a shining star, the cheapened impression on slightly polished metal, not quite perfect and a bit fuzzy around the edges, like it had lost some clarity in the transition between eyes.
Her anger was calculated, carefully planned by a council of elders overseen by coral and rose eyes that always watched from shadowed stone. The Queen in the shadows and her legacy of vengeance, a lineage of bloodshed and war now bore another child, a daughter whose carefully crafted image was carved in glass before she'd ever opened her eyes.
That is not to say that she is blameless. The water flows with blood shed by her claws and hers alone. The war was called to her, but the shameless bloodshed, the joy in chaos and death, the glee in shining lights fading to darkness, that was a legacy only she could claim. The story told on fractured shards of mirrored glass is one of tragedy, loss, and pain, but even monsters bleed and feel the keen sting of loss and love. It is enough to wonder if the shadows had fallen differently, would the story change? Would the rivers run gold and not crimson? Or would it all have stayed the same. Is a legacy the same as destiny? Can you ever truly break free from the strings that bind you to blood?
Too many questions, and we may never know the answers, simple folk we are, unblessed with the knowledge of what could be, what might be, what will never be. We can only know what has happened, and what we chose to do when moon pools of wine-dark come lapping at our dens and doors.
Once upon a time there was a lonesome blue rose that shone in the moonlight. It lay collapsed over a red pool, delicate stem snapped cleanly in half. From its petals flowed streams of wine that trickled across the sticky sand into waters where a reflection of ashen claws grasped at severed strings and laughter bubbled up like ripples in the lapping waves.
There was a blue rose. It grew in a desert oasis beside a pool of red water. Wine or blood, it was hard to tell, it was thick and viscous and the pull of the moon made it lap at the shoreline where that lonesome ocean flower stood with its roots planted deep in sticky sand. Its petals dripped with dew, stained purple from the rains that poured every once in a blue moon. Clawmarks in the sand surrounded it, carved away to form a moat around the roots, exposed to weathers and wind.
The flower curled upon itself, or bowed, or fell, or drooped with a heavy weight, leaning over the shining pool that gleamed like rubies that glowed in silver moonlight. The reflection showed a dragon and her shining pink eyes and blue scales and claws that filled the pool with blood and wine, teeth dripping with death and curses falling from her tongue like water from the falls.
Behind her, another glass mirror framed her war-stricken face. Shining in the reflection, a smeared image of grey and red fur, painted marks and bone and beads and the deafening echo of a war cry. The stained glass glowed with fire, licking fingers of crimson and lilac laughing and stroking the surface, staining it with soot. The flames glowed wild and bold with passion, an open wound that burnt and boiled and festered like an infection that raged with a fever decades old. A red streak shone onto the flower's reflection, bright like jasper in the indigo shadows.
The dragon hung low, a puppet with her strings still loose, clenched tight in smoky claws. Her face was frozen in fury, the echoed practice of her mother's rage, shaped from clay from the moment of her hatching. Never had her expression born an original form, never had her claws drawn blood of her own choosing, never had she walked a path not chosen for her long before she's even turned her eyes to it. She was the practiced shadow of a shining star, the cheapened impression on slightly polished metal, not quite perfect and a bit fuzzy around the edges, like it had lost some clarity in the transition between eyes.
Her anger was calculated, carefully planned by a council of elders overseen by coral and rose eyes that always watched from shadowed stone. The Queen in the shadows and her legacy of vengeance, a lineage of bloodshed and war now bore another child, a daughter whose carefully crafted image was carved in glass before she'd ever opened her eyes.
That is not to say that she is blameless. The water flows with blood shed by her claws and hers alone. The war was called to her, but the shameless bloodshed, the joy in chaos and death, the glee in shining lights fading to darkness, that was a legacy only she could claim. The story told on fractured shards of mirrored glass is one of tragedy, loss, and pain, but even monsters bleed and feel the keen sting of loss and love. It is enough to wonder if the shadows had fallen differently, would the story change? Would the rivers run gold and not crimson? Or would it all have stayed the same. Is a legacy the same as destiny? Can you ever truly break free from the strings that bind you to blood?
Too many questions, and we may never know the answers, simple folk we are, unblessed with the knowledge of what could be, what might be, what will never be. We can only know what has happened, and what we chose to do when moon pools of wine-dark come lapping at our dens and doors.
Once upon a time there was a lonesome blue rose that shone in the moonlight. It lay collapsed over a red pool, delicate stem snapped cleanly in half. From its petals flowed streams of wine that trickled across the sticky sand into waters where a reflection of ashen claws grasped at severed strings and laughter bubbled up like ripples in the lapping waves.
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Description
Kyoko is what her mother made her and very little else. She's like a clay pot, empty inside, void of life except for what is placed inside. In this case, by the only one with a key, the Wild Queen of bloodshed.
She's almost sympathetic in some ways, a tragedy of a child who never earned the chance to forge her own path, always forced to bow to the whims and wonders of a mother blinded by rage. Of course, I say almost. Many families have been torn apart by her gleeful claws, and she bathes in blood on moonlit nights instead of water. She finds joy in the destruction she causes and the fires she burns, having known little else. From childhood, her closest companions have always been pain and death, and they are the only cards she knows how to deal in the endless games of her family's legacy. Kyoko's fury is limitless. She is the wild Hand of the Queen. Her mirrored daughter and her terrible deliverance. While her brother is the judgement, she is the executioner. Her body was born on the battlefield and baptized in bloodshed. Her scales are hard as forged iron and as blue as the sky, endless expanse reflected in her armored heart. |
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Kyoko is the shadow of her mother, raised on promises of power and wealth that have yet to be delivered on. Though her faith in her mother's wisdom has long been abandoned, the only path she knows is war, and she is destined to walk it until the day she dies. |
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Icons and banners by Serpentra + Natron
Round Flight Icons from Limanya
Round Flight Icons from Limanya
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Kyoko to the service of the Arcanist 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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