Akrasi
(#47096206)
Level 25 Nocturne
Familiar
Unburdened Billy
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Nature.
Female Nocturne
This dragon is hibernating.
Expand the dragon details section.
Collapse the dragon details section.
Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.63 m
Wingspan
4.94 m
Weight
730.38 kg
Genetics
Dust
Python
Python
Driftwood
Morph
Morph
Radioactive
Firefly
Firefly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Nocturne
Max Level
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
| boop |
"Be whoever you want to. Just don’t get caught wearing someone else’s face. They don’t like that."
❁ STORY
When Akrasi arrived in the lair she had gold scales and shimmering horns and wide wings the colour of a purple sunset. She was met with silence and blank, haunted faces. She was greeted as a ghost might have been, for that’s what she seemed. To those who survived Fiend and the march to Dragonhome and the barrier magic strangeness she wore a familiar face. The face of a loved one who perished in the fighting. Past experience had taught Akrasi that appearing in the form of the familiar makes strangers comfortable; beastclan, dragon, they’re all the same. In this, one, case, however, wearing the face of a dead friend was a bad choice. She was met with confusion, fear, and – in River’s case – no small amount of hostility. Riverstone’s best friend, Nevermore, had been killed by Fiend in a horrible massacre, Akrasi later learned. A poor choice indeed. And when the rest of the lair learned of her ability to… acquire faces (a very specific form of shape-shifting) they insisted she share her true face with them. A mistake of their own, perhaps. For Akrasi has no true form. She is an amalgam of others, ever shifting in a mosaic of glittering static and shadow. To some she looks like a friend, to others an indistinct silhouette, to yet more something else entirely. A tree, a rock, a statue, a boat; her wings could be sails or fabric, her tail a whip, a rope, a branch. Her face might be a skull with burning, blinking eyes; a multitude of eyes or none at all. She can be quite alarming to look at. And yet some in the lair felt she could be a good fit. An outcast with no home, no family (legends and fairy tales do not count) and an unusual magical ability. Bereave finds her face-theft good for pranks, Chevron approves for less metaphorical theft. Sometimes she’s an assassin; to Aphid, a spy; to Serri, a puzzle she can’t read; a friend, a confidante, she is whoever is needed. To River, she is a horror. Akrasi avoids River lest she cause the oracle further discomfort. Incidentally, Riverstone’s warnings that Akrasi is an omen of something bad to come? That is the first of her predictions not to immediately be discarded out of hand. Akrasi doesn’t blame her. Doesn’t blame any of them for believing that. It’s probably true. Visitors are, after all, known for wearing the faces of others to commit crimes only to frame the owner. They are spoken of in old stories as monsters who slip through cracks in doors to steal children’s faces, to cause rifts in alliances and families and all kinds of strife. And only one individual may own a face at a time. No one has asked Akrasi where she got Never’s face from. It’s probably better that way. ❁ OTHER
| boop |
I love fujo with my whole heart
by me
by me
A pearlcatcher eclipses your doorway; the sheen on his pearl is familiar, the curve of his horns, the braids in his mane, the distinctive way he leans back just a little so most of his weight is on his hind legs. His eyes are the same shade of green they’ve always been, the bright colour of new growth in the spring. But the glitter behind them is unfamiliar to you, it sparkles with something unknowable, something impossible, something else.
When he opens his mouth, the voice is the same; but the words are different. “Did you see the ship arrive this morning?” Gaenor’s voice asks in the same lilting almost sing-song tone he’s always had. “It brought visitors.”
The fur on the back of your neck rises as a shiver runs down your spine. A sensation of discomfort so intense washes over you that you swear the thick fur over your whole damn body should stand on end. “You greeted them?”
“Oh yes.” He pads forward, pearl clutched to his chest with one hand and a rucksack slung over the other shoulder. You don’t recognise the bag. “They won’t be staying long, I don’t think.” The edges of his mouth curl back into a smile, not unusual for him, but something about the angle of the expression reads wrong; too sharp, too wide, too jarring against the glitter in his eyes.
You shrug, mane shivering with the gesture. “Alright. Well, just let me know what they need.”
He gives you a look that stiffens your tail. “They have everything they need.”
As he passes the hearth, out of the corner of your eye he seems wrong, the wrong shape, the colours of his scales flickering, his mane made of static and light; but when you turn to watch him fully he just looks like Gaenor. He’s past you then, heading deeper into the underground tunnels of the hive, unusual for him, but not completely unheard of.
Despite his words, you see neither hide nor hair of these visitors he mentioned. The ship captain comes in once for a meal, grumbling about deckhands taking leave without permission and never coming back. Bemoaning the cost of taking passengers - even the paying kind - when he’s a merchant ship, not a tourist vessel. That sounds wrong to you, but you can’t put a claw on what he’s said that makes no sense.
Not at first.
Two days later the merchant leaves with his cargo and some provisions. Gaenor and another dragon from your lair - a Labyrinth Runner, but you don’t know her, don’t mix with the vicious wildclaws who hunt in the deep jungles - leave with him, paying for passage with coin you didn’t know they had. You don’t know why they’re leaving even, but they board the ship with nary a fare thee well.
It’s not until after they’ve left that someone - Kona, you think, the tightly wound administrator of funds - raises the alarm. The treasury has been emptied of coins and in their place are chests full of little round seashells. For Kona the disappearance of her Charge is a life sentence. That the treasure turns up later in the most unusual places (in the cookpots filled with stew, water barrels and lanterns, paint tins and stacked carefully in the stables) doesn’t amuse her, though plenty of others find it hilarious.
Some of the coins might never turn up, or the clan might be finding lost gold for years to come. It doesn’t really matter. Gaenor and the Runner might have even taken some (for everyone accepts that they were the thieves) to pay for their passage - their escape - on the merchant’s ship.
That’s when it clicks. A merchant vessel that doesn’t like passengers, guests that don’t appear and two missing deckhands.
The fur down your spine lifts again despite the muggy warmth of summer.
Search parties are sent out, a skiff is sent skipping over waves after the merchant. But neither Gaenor or the Runner turn up. The merchant doesn’t even remember seeing them.
For a while things return to normal. Gaenor no longer performs for guests and a new Runner is appointed for forays into the Labyrinth, but life is unchanged. Guests come and guests go. You squint every time, wondering if these guests are like the last, wondering if your friend might not return one day.
It’s several months later when a pair of Runners returns to the lair with a story about bodies with ferns growing through the ribs and eyes of fungus, being slowly reclaimed by the jungle about a day’s trek in. Sometimes folks disappear into the Labyrinth, it’s not unusual, most don’t think anything of it. But one of the Runners carries a pearl in a net sling, covered in dirt thick enough to obscure the colour and pattern. He hands it to you when you ask and you carefully - with shaking paws - wipe the grime from it’s smooth surface.
The sheen of the pearl is familiar.
When he opens his mouth, the voice is the same; but the words are different. “Did you see the ship arrive this morning?” Gaenor’s voice asks in the same lilting almost sing-song tone he’s always had. “It brought visitors.”
The fur on the back of your neck rises as a shiver runs down your spine. A sensation of discomfort so intense washes over you that you swear the thick fur over your whole damn body should stand on end. “You greeted them?”
“Oh yes.” He pads forward, pearl clutched to his chest with one hand and a rucksack slung over the other shoulder. You don’t recognise the bag. “They won’t be staying long, I don’t think.” The edges of his mouth curl back into a smile, not unusual for him, but something about the angle of the expression reads wrong; too sharp, too wide, too jarring against the glitter in his eyes.
You shrug, mane shivering with the gesture. “Alright. Well, just let me know what they need.”
He gives you a look that stiffens your tail. “They have everything they need.”
As he passes the hearth, out of the corner of your eye he seems wrong, the wrong shape, the colours of his scales flickering, his mane made of static and light; but when you turn to watch him fully he just looks like Gaenor. He’s past you then, heading deeper into the underground tunnels of the hive, unusual for him, but not completely unheard of.
Despite his words, you see neither hide nor hair of these visitors he mentioned. The ship captain comes in once for a meal, grumbling about deckhands taking leave without permission and never coming back. Bemoaning the cost of taking passengers - even the paying kind - when he’s a merchant ship, not a tourist vessel. That sounds wrong to you, but you can’t put a claw on what he’s said that makes no sense.
Not at first.
Two days later the merchant leaves with his cargo and some provisions. Gaenor and another dragon from your lair - a Labyrinth Runner, but you don’t know her, don’t mix with the vicious wildclaws who hunt in the deep jungles - leave with him, paying for passage with coin you didn’t know they had. You don’t know why they’re leaving even, but they board the ship with nary a fare thee well.
It’s not until after they’ve left that someone - Kona, you think, the tightly wound administrator of funds - raises the alarm. The treasury has been emptied of coins and in their place are chests full of little round seashells. For Kona the disappearance of her Charge is a life sentence. That the treasure turns up later in the most unusual places (in the cookpots filled with stew, water barrels and lanterns, paint tins and stacked carefully in the stables) doesn’t amuse her, though plenty of others find it hilarious.
Some of the coins might never turn up, or the clan might be finding lost gold for years to come. It doesn’t really matter. Gaenor and the Runner might have even taken some (for everyone accepts that they were the thieves) to pay for their passage - their escape - on the merchant’s ship.
That’s when it clicks. A merchant vessel that doesn’t like passengers, guests that don’t appear and two missing deckhands.
The fur down your spine lifts again despite the muggy warmth of summer.
Search parties are sent out, a skiff is sent skipping over waves after the merchant. But neither Gaenor or the Runner turn up. The merchant doesn’t even remember seeing them.
For a while things return to normal. Gaenor no longer performs for guests and a new Runner is appointed for forays into the Labyrinth, but life is unchanged. Guests come and guests go. You squint every time, wondering if these guests are like the last, wondering if your friend might not return one day.
It’s several months later when a pair of Runners returns to the lair with a story about bodies with ferns growing through the ribs and eyes of fungus, being slowly reclaimed by the jungle about a day’s trek in. Sometimes folks disappear into the Labyrinth, it’s not unusual, most don’t think anything of it. But one of the Runners carries a pearl in a net sling, covered in dirt thick enough to obscure the colour and pattern. He hands it to you when you ask and you carefully - with shaking paws - wipe the grime from it’s smooth surface.
The sheen of the pearl is familiar.
‹━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━«
Sometimes, the clan sends their children off to training camps where they learn skills and trades and combat during the cold winter months. They are less likely to catch their deaths when the harsh winds scour the snowsquall tundra clean when they are tucked safely into the bamboo huts on the steppes across the strait. And their parents are less likely to worry about them getting lost in a blizzard when walking from one insulated structure to the next.
So it strikes you as odd when two of the clan’s children reappear halfway through the first real snowstorm of the season. One of them, little Azlyn, tells her parents that their ship got caught in a freak storm and they weren’t brave enough to carry on so they’d turned back. The boy, a promising lad named Dao, curls his tail around hers and nods brusquely.
Her voice is pitched high as she recounts their tale, verging on a wail, tears clearly caught in her throat. But her eyes remain dry and something about the tone feels calculated. You watch her closely and Dao’s white-blue eyes fix you with a stare that dares you to say something, to ask her a pointed question, to tip her into true hysterics. You tuck your nose deeper into your thick scarf and keep your counsel.
They are, however (whether unfortunate or not remains to be seen) foisted on you for the remains of the cold months. (Colder months, you amend silently.)
The kitchens are warm and you keep your bedding near the many fires kept burning all the way through until summer. Store rooms ring the walls, insulated and carefully sealed so nothing can possibly cause an infestation. You are always cautious to keep the doors - great blocks of ice, really - snugged tightly in their places so the heat of the fires doesn’t cause mould or rot to set in.
You run through instructions with the two children and they watch with guarded eyes. Perhaps attentive, perhaps not. Something in your aching bones insists that it’s less interest and more a conspiring silence.
Azlyn takes to the cooking with gusto. “Look at the bubbles!” she exclaims one evening while you teach her the finer points of the perfect broth.
Out of the corner of your eye a strange bulging shape shivers across the room, made of static and glitter, inconsistent in its form. Terror grips your throat as you spin.
Dao looks up from rolling a barrel of beans across the glassy floor. Whatever the shape had been is gone and he takes in your fearful stance with curiosity.
When Azlyn tugs at your coat sleeves, it feels slimy, her grasp loose and in your peripherals her face seems to ooze, melting in the heat of the fires. You turn slower this time, wondering if maybe you might catch the truth this time. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest.
But Azlyn’s face corrects itself by the time you look at her directly. Her eyes are the wrong colour, a brighter gold than they should be, even in the light of the fire.
“You’ve done well,” you say, voice rasping, eyes not really taking in her simmering broth.
You pull free of her slippery hold and scuttle out into the bracing wind. Flurries of snow have already built up drifts against the side of the mess, a supply wagon with an open top filled now with only snow. You turn your face into the wind, feeling the stinging cold against your cheek, wondering if the ice and the looming threat of the gaols have finally driven you mad.
When you duck back inside the children are nowhere to be found. Again, panic latches thorns into your heart and you stagger into the commons beyond. Some of the lair’s inhabitants look up from meals or other tasks and stare at you in askance.
“Did the children come through here?” you ask, voice tight with fear. You’re not sure if the fear is born from having lost the children (a valuable resource for a tiny clan in the deep south), or because of what they might be.
Heads shake slowly and when the others realise no one has seen them everyone launches into a flurry of activity.
You rush back into the kitchen and investigate the store rooms. They are empty.
In a moment of pure panic you rip open some of the barrels and crates. Inside them you find sawdust.
The entire lair is in uproar within minutes. The stores are pulled out, the side rooms are emptied and the every structure tucked onto the icy shelf is scoured. The children are nowhere to be found.
Someone asks how under the Lightweaver the clan will survive the winter with no food. Someone else kicks over one of the barrels, grumbling about how not even Guardians can survive on sawdust. But after the first layer of fine dirt spills out, the proper store of salted fish is still hidden beneath.
Silence descends.
Three months later Azlyn and Dao return. Along with the rest of the clan’s young, all of them chittering excitedly about their winter away and what they might be trusted with now. You and a couple of the others pull Azlyn and Dao away from the rest of the gaggle and have a few quiet words with them.
They have no memory of a storm while travelling north, do not recall their time in the kitchen or strange disappearance, nor do they have any knowledge of who might’ve packed sawdust into the tops of all the supply crates.
You don’t tell anyone else about the bizarre formless shapes that pretended to be Azlyn and Dao. Who would believe you?
Nevermore – Rest in peace (gold/lavender/white)
(peach/radioactive/cream)
(obsidian/ruby/white)
╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮
stranger, guest, passenger, traveller,
outsider, pilgrim, wanderer, envoy,
bystander, arrival, witness, watcher
So it strikes you as odd when two of the clan’s children reappear halfway through the first real snowstorm of the season. One of them, little Azlyn, tells her parents that their ship got caught in a freak storm and they weren’t brave enough to carry on so they’d turned back. The boy, a promising lad named Dao, curls his tail around hers and nods brusquely.
Her voice is pitched high as she recounts their tale, verging on a wail, tears clearly caught in her throat. But her eyes remain dry and something about the tone feels calculated. You watch her closely and Dao’s white-blue eyes fix you with a stare that dares you to say something, to ask her a pointed question, to tip her into true hysterics. You tuck your nose deeper into your thick scarf and keep your counsel.
They are, however (whether unfortunate or not remains to be seen) foisted on you for the remains of the cold months. (Colder months, you amend silently.)
The kitchens are warm and you keep your bedding near the many fires kept burning all the way through until summer. Store rooms ring the walls, insulated and carefully sealed so nothing can possibly cause an infestation. You are always cautious to keep the doors - great blocks of ice, really - snugged tightly in their places so the heat of the fires doesn’t cause mould or rot to set in.
You run through instructions with the two children and they watch with guarded eyes. Perhaps attentive, perhaps not. Something in your aching bones insists that it’s less interest and more a conspiring silence.
Azlyn takes to the cooking with gusto. “Look at the bubbles!” she exclaims one evening while you teach her the finer points of the perfect broth.
Out of the corner of your eye a strange bulging shape shivers across the room, made of static and glitter, inconsistent in its form. Terror grips your throat as you spin.
Dao looks up from rolling a barrel of beans across the glassy floor. Whatever the shape had been is gone and he takes in your fearful stance with curiosity.
When Azlyn tugs at your coat sleeves, it feels slimy, her grasp loose and in your peripherals her face seems to ooze, melting in the heat of the fires. You turn slower this time, wondering if maybe you might catch the truth this time. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest.
But Azlyn’s face corrects itself by the time you look at her directly. Her eyes are the wrong colour, a brighter gold than they should be, even in the light of the fire.
“You’ve done well,” you say, voice rasping, eyes not really taking in her simmering broth.
You pull free of her slippery hold and scuttle out into the bracing wind. Flurries of snow have already built up drifts against the side of the mess, a supply wagon with an open top filled now with only snow. You turn your face into the wind, feeling the stinging cold against your cheek, wondering if the ice and the looming threat of the gaols have finally driven you mad.
When you duck back inside the children are nowhere to be found. Again, panic latches thorns into your heart and you stagger into the commons beyond. Some of the lair’s inhabitants look up from meals or other tasks and stare at you in askance.
“Did the children come through here?” you ask, voice tight with fear. You’re not sure if the fear is born from having lost the children (a valuable resource for a tiny clan in the deep south), or because of what they might be.
Heads shake slowly and when the others realise no one has seen them everyone launches into a flurry of activity.
You rush back into the kitchen and investigate the store rooms. They are empty.
In a moment of pure panic you rip open some of the barrels and crates. Inside them you find sawdust.
The entire lair is in uproar within minutes. The stores are pulled out, the side rooms are emptied and the every structure tucked onto the icy shelf is scoured. The children are nowhere to be found.
Someone asks how under the Lightweaver the clan will survive the winter with no food. Someone else kicks over one of the barrels, grumbling about how not even Guardians can survive on sawdust. But after the first layer of fine dirt spills out, the proper store of salted fish is still hidden beneath.
Silence descends.
Three months later Azlyn and Dao return. Along with the rest of the clan’s young, all of them chittering excitedly about their winter away and what they might be trusted with now. You and a couple of the others pull Azlyn and Dao away from the rest of the gaggle and have a few quiet words with them.
They have no memory of a storm while travelling north, do not recall their time in the kitchen or strange disappearance, nor do they have any knowledge of who might’ve packed sawdust into the tops of all the supply crates.
You don’t tell anyone else about the bizarre formless shapes that pretended to be Azlyn and Dao. Who would believe you?
Quote:
Below is a collection of scries to represent the faces Akrasi ‘owns’.
What happened to the original owner is unclear and might be best left that way
What happened to the original owner is unclear and might be best left that way
Nevermore – Rest in peace (gold/lavender/white)
(peach/radioactive/cream)
(obsidian/ruby/white)
╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮
|
stranger, traveller passenger, guest outsider, pilgrim wanderer, envoy bystander, witness  capricious • bright • relaxed »━━━━━━━━━━━› code by epher #101073 |
Don’t look away.
‹━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━«
To say her name is to invite her into your life. To look her in the eye is to surrender your identity. To scream is to give her voice.
Blink but once, and a mirror stands before you. Your reflection made flesh peers back. There is little to distinguish it from you. A greenish sheen to the eyes in direct sunlight; a shadow seething beneath skin; a slightly fluid shift in motions as if this is not a familiar form. Blink again, watch her inhabit your life. The way she imitates you mannerisms, your inflection, the tilt to your head when you laugh at something that confuses you. They solidify as you feel yourself flicker. Are you even real? Do not blink a third time. She might use your face to commit a crime – the perfect frame up when you continue to wear your face but she’s already moved on. She might use it to play a harmless prank, or to show an abuser the meaning of fear. She might claim the face for her own, adding it to her permanent collection. And there can be only one to own a face. Blink a third time and your perspective shifts. You feel solid again, but unlike yourself. It’s a hazy kind of murder; the kind that leaves no trace as the original feeds the stranger. You fade and your eyes close; not a blink, they’ll never open again. Her eyes shimmer just for a second, no one notices, they see only your face and smile. But when she smiles back she shows too many teeth. They mistake her intent for pleasantries. It will be their last. |
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|
A pleasant but vaguely discomforting stranger; reminder of what matters most.
‹━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━«
Out of the corner of the eye they seem to hold no shape, formless masses of dark static and brilliant glitter and seeping ooze. When looked at directly, they hold only the shape you expect to see. Sometimes this is the face of a friend, a colleague, a lover. Sometimes it is a kind but unfamiliar soul. Around the edges their bodies blur, seeming to bleed between faces they have borrowed or stolen. Sometimes their eyes are one colour, sometimes another. Sometimes they seem to shift between two creatures you thought you knew well. Sometimes you might see two of the same individual. And sometimes they simply vanish. They might be pranksters, criminals, murderers, or something altogether more twisted. They hold allegiance only to themselves, not even the gods can sway them. It is said they steal naughty children, punish the wicked, and trick the innocent. But that's only if you believe in such stories. |
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stranger, guest, passenger, traveller,
outsider, pilgrim, wanderer, envoy,
bystander, arrival, witness, watcher
‹━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━«
Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
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This dragon doesn't eat Plants.
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Exalting Akrasi to the service of the Earthshaker 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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