Muttsmutt's Clan

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WARNING

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all of the permanent dragons in this lair are canonically undead. the bios of my dragons may have unsettling content. viewer discretion is advised. do not read my bios, or lore in general, if death, or undeath, unsettle you.

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HELLO

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transylvanian. undead cryptid. old enough. weird & cold. curious & talkative. friendly. will entertain random PMs. FR+10.

if you're waiting for my reply on anything & i haven't replied within 48 hours, poke me please. i'm busy and forget things.

hibden is all fodder, last tab is all fodder. 18k untrained, 28k trained.
all dragon prices are up for negotiation.

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LORE

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we are builders. we are carvers. we are shapers. of flesh, and bone, and sinew. from times immemorial death has evaded us.
and it can evade you, as well. come closer.
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hidden deep within the cairnstone rest, there is a sprawling cavern system, taken over by the un-dead. the repulsive catacombs are home to a menagerie of death presided over by "the master"- a bizarre entity wielding unnatural power over life & death. zealously reverent of its undead state, it has dedicated its un-life to spreading its gift to willing and unwilling dragons alike- and it has made some likeminded friends.
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the heart of this territory of the un-dead is the ossuary- the throne room. a gargantuan cavern, its size rivalling the greatest ruins. covered in bones, rot, and sinew, from ground to ceiling- a veritable tapestry of remains adorns its walls. the back of this colossal sepulcher has been carved out to give way to an opening towards the ocean- the waves of which lie but a few meters below the gaping maw of death. this hollow at the very back of the cairnstone rest- hidden well within winding, rocky cliffs- is the clan's main access route. at the mouth of madness, lies a putrid, horrifying beast, most of its massive decaying form sloping down into the ocean. the corpse of an "emperor"- the master's throne and magnum opus.

it is here in this massive chamber, strewn before the great abomination, where the dead convene and coalesce. though their purpose may reside in other parts of the territory, their unholy assembly is holy ritual; for it is then and there that they receive their continued blessings, renewing the assurance that death may not claim them from the master. in this most sacred sepulcher, they profess their dedication, admiration and worship of the death-tamer; kept afire with each step they yet take, and each thought they still have. it is not fear that binds them, but love, for they are all one big happy undead family.
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all of the worship and reverence towards the master finds its fount within the crypts- a place where all have been, yet none dare speak of in any words but those of praise and awe. what the master performs in the crypts surpasses the holiness of the renewal rituals by orders of magnitude. its passion is found not in maintenance, but in innovation and creation. there is nothing the master does with more love than its work in the crypts, a temple where it becomes nothing but the vision with which it drives its hands towards the grandest purpose of all.

there is no honor greater than to be subject to the master's will, for whatever may come, it is a deity's love that brings it about- and when its hands lay upon flesh, the flesh becomes everything that a deity dreams about- a world to shape, a holy creation. the one and only sorrow amid this place is of those whose lives are slated for another purpose, those whom the master would not lay a hand on, for they are to lay their own hands among eachother. yet they may find their solace knowing that it is their actions, and the flesh they spawn, which the master will love and cherish more than they ever could, more than life ever could. for this is the essence of the crypts- the master's love, passion, and dedication to undeath; and no words could ever begin to convey the mind-shattering breadth it stretches, and the godly depths it reaches.
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far away from the heart of the dead, the air in the catacombs is a delight to the senses. the ancient stone feels like a stalwart guardian between the outside world and the horrors interred below. yet still, as a fresh breeze rolls in from the outside, the pungent smell of rot wafts out from the inside. many have dashed their wills against these walls and shattered their minds; for when pushing further, they must contend with growing horrors. it is not merely a trick of the light- what one thought to be rock, was indeed, in fact, fossilized bone. maps, pickaxes, lanterns, and many such tools grasped in skeletal hands, speak of kinship to the explorer- that their purpose may have been one and the same. this greeting vanguard residing in the walls- they are the lucky ones. they are now the mouths that speak, the hands that reach out. the very ground that skitters and twitches.

their purpose is a most honored and noble one, for every now and then, the tunnels churn. their dead mouths whisper of what their dead eyes have seen. once the great one has heard enough of the distant counsel of the catacombs echoing in its endless mind, at its command, the clamor stills to a cryptic silence, if just for a few moments. fates have been decided. a rythmic, hellish noise of thundering bone and stone, echoes towards all ends, heralding to all what horror unfolds. the walls reach out, dead hands grasp eachother, and dead bodies rise and pack together. the path closes. the ground pushes and pulls, cracks and opens, breaks and welcomes. they are ours now.
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a word of reassurance- not all who wander will be lost. most distal from the master's heart, lies the cemetery. herein the populace is mostly of beautiful corpses for whom the blessing of undeath is unsuited; yet whom the master refuses to fully cede before death- if they cannot share custody, then neither should have them. it is a curious matter, for the master would more readily send gifts to death, rather than life; so it is a rare occurence, that the cemetery should be filled with more than spirits and stone. sometimes, even lost adventurers may find themselves wandering among the forgotten tombs- those whose sharp instinct and weakness of nerve has kept them away from the maw of the catacombs, and spared them the opportunity of the master's blessing. truly, all manner of souls may find themselves in these overgrown ruins, where promises of life keep them sane.

if within the catacombs, their fates are decided at the behest of the council- by extension, the master's great mind; then within the cemetery, it is the greater world that may make or break the souls who find themselves there. for their sakes, they ought to pray that life may take them elsewhere, and swiftly. should they linger too long, they may pique the interest of the un-dead, who will take them instead...
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the mind may wonder where to? and the mind may answer itself and speak of legends of one "rot pit", an unspeakable abhorrence.
they are just legends, don't worry.
w