kiwipen » Lair » Varkon

Varkon

(#45663916)

a knight in training taking chivalry too seriously

Familiar

Smoke Gyre

Energy: 47/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

15.96 m

Wingspan

14.16 m

Weight

7648.21 kg

Genetics

Ivory
Cherub

Sand
Peregrine

Maize
Underbelly

Hatchday

Oct 01, 2018
(5 years)

Breed

Adult
Ridgeback

Eye Type

Light
Primal

Level 25 Ridgeback

Max Level

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

Biography

Varkon
A Diligent Knight
He/Him
Loyal | Dedicated | Quirky

"How dost thou do on this finest of days?" - Varkon

Blindingly Loyal
Or Just blind

Mate
🗡️
X
🗡️
X
🗡️

[X - X]

Joyous praises were sung when from a single egg clutch hatched a small, yellow Tundra wriggling out of its egg with damp baby downy matted to its tiny fluffy form and mewls of wonder and confusion babbled from its toothless maw. The newborn bobbed its head, still heavy to such a small and still learning body, eyes shining at all it peered at. Those two eyes, very literally blinding to look at for all the magic stored within, could not have promised greater fortune to the parents who’d brought this vibrant little cub into the world. Magic thrumming in their veins would be passed down as a visible, physical trait upon their child. Their empowered and beloved put upon a pedestal only minutes after hatching, named Varkon for the air of wonder and magical merit is imbued, would forever hate it.

Varkon grew up hating his shaggy fur, his soft paw pads, the gentle slopes of his rather meek frame. He did not appreciate the gentle hunch he harbored or the unwieldy horns made for aiding a parent in hitting that itch they just couldn’t scratch. But, ultimately, Varkon could not stand the immense well of mana held within himself. No, all these things were too soft and benignant. He wanted sharp claws and sharper fangs. A physique imposing and powerful to match his visions of just knights sitting tall and proud inspiring awe and order. A knight renowned for his spectacular feats in battle and the justice he would bring to cowardly and unsavory brutes. He did not enjoy hurling fire or thunder, flashing some fancy hand jazz and hurling blocks of ice at targets meters off. He could not stand to look at his own face and see the blazing power of light emanating from his gaze, though he could scarcely make out his own contours on account of the primal vision. Magic was and would never be real power; the proper tool of a knight. Though he may excel in all things arcana the path of the mage was a dream of his parents. Not his own. And he would not stand for it. He would strive to become something better than he is now, something proud and strong and principled. However, doing so would be no easy feat for a Tundra. A soft dragon, a forgetful dragon, a creature so lovingly crafted for battling foes long out of reach with his well of mana to avoid injury to his delicate frame. But he would see it though (figuratively at least.)

So he made a deal.

Her words were thin daggers veiled in honeysuckle tones. Her magic was the bidding of the very essence of darkness itself, woven through a tarot deck to bring misfortune with the promise of prosperity. An answer to any question or a solution for any dilemma: for the right price. Where was her magic when the world fell? Where was her cunning when the darkness wrought itself upon the land? But Varkon persevered. No, he would not hide behind magic like she did. He would let it affect his life one more time: she would take all that he has in trade for a form which could do just as much damage in a much more tangible form. With a wicked grin, a flutter of her eyes, and a grand flourish embellished with plumes of smoke he would find himself changing into a form so much more than he could have hoped for. She would not be there to see him wake. She had what he wanted. And so now did he.

The world was a bright blaze, as it has always been, the light flashing from his eyes a dance of blinding colors across his vision. But he could feel the sharpness in his scales, the earth scrape under his elongated claws, the spines rattled on his back as he flexed. He felt the raw power, the strength with which he had been given in trade for making the devil he’d traded with stronger. She might be back, might haunt his dreams and lurk in his shadow, but he felt no fear. No desire to lower his head and lift his flank in defense. No, his form had altered into that of a great Ridgeback and he knew none could hurt him now. And he would share this newfound strength, this swelling of pride, with the world. The world he had always wanted to protect and now could. For the first and only time in his life he could appreciate the power of the arcane. Blessed be the Lightweaver, for she had offered him a second chance. And he would run with it, run fast and fly far on wings stronger than he’d ever imagined possible with claws and teeth bared. If, perhaps, he could see where he was going. The primal gaze she left him with still offered an obstacle on his path towards knighthood. But he’d make due. He always did.

A few attempts were made and many wrong turns were taken, maybe a few trees were accidentally mauled by a very pointy nose but in time Varkon stumbled very nearly literally upon a new Clan to call his own. Perhaps his introduction was not the most graceful, with a vine wrapped neatly around his nose and a very loudly pronounced, “Hail fellow kin ! Dost thou know where I might make myself a nest to call home? A post to call my own?” But it was taken in good faith if not a with a hidden snicker or two. He found himself under the guidance of three great Warrior Guardians; CrimsonEmpress, Vivienne, and Angel. Between them they managed to work around his rather curious quirks; from the fierce blinding light beaming from his eyes to the simple minded workings of his brain and very short term memory. He made up for his shortcomings with a strength rivaling their own, a determination to complete any task no matter the cost (thankfully none which brought harm or disaster), and a loyalty to the Clan who’d let him in. He was gifted a shield brought to life with sorcery, an irony lost on the Ridgeback, and blessed with armor shining bright and silvery like every knight he’d ever read about in his tiny pile of fantasy books hidden away from prying eyes underneath the countless arcana scrolls and magick tomes he’d been given.

The wicked witch had taken much from Varkon, his magic and every brain cell he harbored. Perhaps he wasn’t so forgetful now. Or maybe he still was. So long as he could do as he was told and do it well it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see a difference. Or see much at all. The world, which had been much more difficult to see before for how bright it appeared, now materialized in blurry blobs of vibrant colors illuminated by his glowing eyes. He could make distinctions in others by color and vague wiggly form, a chunky red blotch here or a tiny wiggly white noodle there, enough to tell one Imp from another, but not much more. But this wouldn’t- couldn’t stop him. He’d made it, he was one step closer to his goal.

A long journey has this dragon trekked to find his place. To change his future to one he found fitting for himself. Magic might be his undoing in some ways, having lead to the change of his form entirely or perhaps an unforeseen battle he has yet to overcome, but he diligently stands guard with his dutiful shield at his side. Three looming Guardians watch his back (and his front… and his sides) and keep him on his toes so that maybe, in time, he’ll be the greatest knight the Clan could ever harbor. Or, at the very least, he’s beloved company to have around. He really does talk a little funny. But no one points it out, they just smile and nod. He had a new Clan, a family, to help him take the final steps on the path to his dream.

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Exalting Varkon 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.

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