Frejlandt

A place for dragon bios from #40982 on flightrising.com. Adult themes and dark stuff here. Read at your own risk. Not your bag? Add "frejlandt" to your blocked tags and remember that writing something does not mean endorsing something :)

[frejlandt]

Diemre III

The changes came quickly after that.

Three scrolls, three excruciating hours. Master crystallized her skin: the chocolate of her body, the teal of her wings, the deeper aqua of her belly. When it was finished, Diemre was a living jewel, a shimmering labradorite shaped like a dragon, flashing in the sea-green light of the deep ice caverns.

“Now you will thank me,” Master told the dragon, removing the iron cuffs that held her to the circle. Diemre was too weak to move. No matter how hard she tried to flee it manifested only as a sad flutter of her wingtips. A twitch in her claws. The golden tundra loomed. His paws moved across her body like he owned it, fastening aquamarine adornments to her. 

“Say it,” Master said. 

Diemre stared at the creature that had done this to her. 

“Thank you, Za,” he fed her the line. His eyes bore into hers, far more invasive than his paws. 

“Thank you, Za,” she whispered, and wept. 

[frejlandt]

Diemre II

In his chambers, Master poured over his mirrors, testing the combinations he desired. At every turn, he found Diemre's current form... distasteful. How could he appreciate the crystals of her hide on such a minuscule creature? First things first, he decided. Transforming a dragon was no easy task. He embedded hooks into Diemre's wings to keep her still, bound her to the stakes outlining his ritual circle. His fingers flit across his library of scrolls, found one marked with a nocturne's crest. Diemre was just now becoming afraid. Just now realizing she could not flee. An itch grew deep within her bones as runes lifted from the scroll at Master's command and began to sink through her hide. Her muscles rearranged themselves with sickening lurches. She should have died, mercy would have been to die, but no relief came, not even the safety of unconsciousness. Her skeleton ripped through tissue and reformed. Her throat tore from screaming until she could do nothing but gape her jaw in silent horror. And then it was over. The pain vanished as if it had never been. There was only Diemre, but she was changed.

[frejlandt]

Diemre

The fae arrived in a shipping crate stamped with Shavynel's crest. She rested in a bed of hay, wings banded close to her body to prevent thrashing and injury. A blind covered her eyes, keeping Diemre docile. Master turned the bound form over in his paws, eyes needling into every crevice. "There is much to do," he said to the jesters flanking him. "You will be still, or you will be hurt," Master told the fae as he freed her wings, and here the assassin loomed into view, his grin vicious at the idea of showing off his skills. But she did not move. Could not, for shock. "What do you fancy, Za?" one jester asked, quill in hand. "Crystallize her," Master said. He pulled one of the fae's wings open, stretching the ligaments and sinews wide. The journey was enough trauma for the fae. There was no resistance. "Body and wings," Master said as the jester scribbled to keep up. He ran the pad of his paw down the center of Diemre's belly. "And here." "What of her form, Za?" the jester asked. "That will change, in time," Master said. "Perhaps when she has recovered from the genetic metamorphosis." He turned the fae over, inspecting her conformation, more than pleased with the resonance her eyes had with her colors. She was perfect. Or she would be, once he was through with her. "I will start now," Master said, still holding the fae as he went towards his chambers. "I am not to be disturbed."

[frejlandt]

Xoyd

The X makes it clear he was born for the slab, made of Master’s own blood but when has that ever stopped him? 

Something about the colors - just the two colors, no third - reminded Master of the ugly silks he’d seen sell so handsomely. They were not colors he enjoyed, but the status of owning them was ever-so-acceptable. And now he had something to match. 

You should know, by now, how much matching means to Master. 

He turned his son into a mannequin, a trophy case for the silks. He hunted and gathered, scavenged and dug, and one by one the ugly son was covered in ugly silks until, this week, he was complete. 

[frejlandt]

Stardust

The cosmos is filled beyond measure with elegant truths...

A night beneath the stars, gazing at galaxies, can turn even the greatest constructs into children’s playthings. What are politics to the gravitational pull of planets? What is wealth to the cosmic systems that created all we know and are? 

Even Master’s gods pale. Light? Fire? The sun is a 4.5 billion year old tangle of both, generating a billion atomic bombs of power every second. Shadow? There are comets who drift beyond solar systems, who know nothing but stars, who live in a night that is eons long. Water? Europa’s deepest ocean is some 62 miles - 100km - deep; an order of magnitude greater than anything our planet can offer.

Even death itself, which Master knows so intimately, cannot compare to the slow loss of entropy in the universe, the eventual death not just of stars, but of matter and energy capable of creating stars - the death of all existence. 

From the stars all things come, to the stars all things go, until the final, ultimate nothing.

If there is anything to which Master remains reverent, it is the cosmos. Stardust is his ode. 

[frejlandt]

Tytaer

Master never thought he could create something beautiful; he gave up on that long ago. Sure, he mixed and matched the others, mapped out bloodlines and magicked the genetics of his favorites into scintillating schemes. But since his first time on a nest, since he’d stared at his offspring in horror and sent them to the slab nameless, he hadn’t thought beauty could ever be a byproduct of his own body.

He wore many skins, opalescent and gold and a few brief things he ripped off almost instantly. Beneath those skins he quietly tinkered with his own genetics, crystalizing his hide and wings, embedding electric pathways throughout his body. He never let the rest of the lair hear his screams. He buried himself in UnNiacal’s furs or sank his teeth in Myraphim’s tail like a leather band. It was his secret -  that he tortured himself the same as he tortured the rest of them.

He scattered his colors. Once. Again. 

And when the egg hatched - the only egg, his great shame - 

- - - something beautiful emerged. 

He named her Tytaer - daughter - and ignored the looks from his other offspring. 

How ironic, that he would finally create something worth loving, and having gone so long without, could not even do that. 

She wound up like all the rest: for sale. 

[frejlandt]

Damilan

“Every army needs a general,” Ore proclaimed. She waited, expectantly, and when no response came released a histrionic sigh. “Me, of course.”

Master’s lips were pressed together. Why he had thought it a good idea to keep his own offspring was beyond him. He should have sold them all, sent them to slab. Xoyd at least he kept in his trophy room, the tundra frozen and immobile, no more than a living stand to display Master’s silks. This one. This one on the other hand was getting full of itself. 

“But they also need a hero. I read all of the tomes. I listened to the odysseys. Every good story has a hero. His name is Damilan.”

This was why Master hadn’t thrown her out in the first place - the beautiful golden wings, impressive armor, flashes of jewels and the mark of the sun across his brow. Master would enjoy this one, in time. 

“You still have not told me whom this war of yours is even against,” Master mused, eyes raking over the hero.

“It doesn’t matter. Damilan will win it.”

[frejlandt]

To War

“I want to go to war.”

Master untangled himself from UnNiacal and Myraphim and stared at his daughter.  “War?” 

“Yes. For our glory, father.” 

Master enjoyed conquering, yes, but he did so in the privacy of his lair, through means psychological. 

“This is a lair of breeders and beauties, not warriors,” Master said. Oh, the assassins were highly skilled, but that hardly constituted an army. 

Golden armor clinked as Ore shifted her weight. 

“Arcane has been--” 

Oh deities, Master groaned. 

“--working on a reincarnation spell,” Ore said. Her pause was long enough to indicate both that she desired dramatic effect and was too young to achieve it subtly. “It is designed to revoke our gifts to the Icewarden.”

Perhaps, for once, his daughter’s efforts were deserving of drama. Master narrowed his eyes, tail flicking, and Myraphim, sensing the sudden shift, sidled up alongside Master’s dense fur, slipped beneath his wing. 

“You mean to say, he has devised a way to bring back those we’ve sent to the slab?”

Ore’s eyes turned up in a grin. “For our glory.” 

[frejlandt]

Master’s Portraits

People proclaim their adoration for Master in many ways. Some write letters, some donate food and jewels, and others put their pen to parchment. 

In this case, Asima’s clan sent a glorious rendering of Master, decked in his golden silks and glittering crown. Asima owns one of the crystal whites Master bred so long ago, a shy little creature with a wretched past and a mate who loves him regardless. 

Care to see more? Go fawn over theveryworstthing. 

[frejlandt]

Captive Gods: Water

“Have I dissatisfied you?” Water asked. 

“No.” Water had been entirely adequate. 

“Am I not to your liking?”

“You are.” He’d been bred like the others, a gradient from white to dark. If anything, Water’s spectrum had turned out far more impressive than the rest.

"Then what is it?”

“What is what,” Master pressed, and UnNiacal rubbed beneath the tundra’s chin to sooth him. 

“You never... summon me,” Water said. 

Master snorted. 

That was an easy fix.

“Come here.”

He would see the coatl never complained of such things again.

[frejlandt]

Xananal

Sometimes the ugliest hatchlings with the most unfortunate colors grow up to be something uniquely beautiful. No other breed, no other sex, no other genes. This combination, and this combination only.  

[frejlandt]

Emperor

Master covets many dragons, but rarely those of his friends.

Friends, well - that is another topic. The amnesiac, absent-minded nocturne and shrewd ridgeback likely wouldn’t use such a descriptor.

Friend or not, it did not save the pair from Master’s heavy judgment, especially when letting such volatile and cringe-worthy colors as deep red and light blue breed left and right. Blood and ice? Truly? Master had enough of both in his life. 

But one side effect of the nocturne’s obliviousness to such wild procreation was Emperor.  Perhaps it was the gilding, or the silks, or the glimmering contrast. Perhaps it was the matching eyes, or the snarling, sociopathic grin. But Master saw him and in an instant knew he had to have him. 

“When we’re quite finished,” Hecate said. 

Finished turned out sooner than any of them expected. Emperor turned up at the Icefields within a week - grinning that terrible grin, ready to be bred, and smart enough to bow his head when the tundra surveyed him.

Emperor was, after all, nothing if not adaptable. 

Master didn’t care that more of his dragons walked by with wounds of unknown origin, or that one or two hatchlings intended for sale had disappeared entirely. Emperor bowed when he needed to bow, and knelt when he needed to kneel, and warmed the tundra’s bed so well. 

[frejlandt]

Captive Gods: Arcane

Afraid? Master? 

There is nowhere on earth Master truly fears, but one cannot help see hesitation when he approaches Arcane’s chamber. 

“What is it today?” Master asked, squinting against the magenta glow.

“Master Master Master, yes, Za. Za, come in, yes,” the pink worm slithered through the air and coiled around the golden tundra, never quite touching, always too close. “We worship it, Za, Master, yes.” The snake made an arrow of its body, directing the tundra’s attention to a set of runic geometry etched into the ice. The lines gleamed pink, throbbing with every twitch of the spiral’s tail. “For Za, yes, we did it for Za.” “What is it?” Master pressed, glaring at the spell. It was folly to assume anything would be straight about a spiral, much less one’s answer.  “Pain. Master likes pain, yes? Yes, Za does, Za hurts them, yes, but not us - no, no, no,” the spiral traced the etching’s outer ring with his nose, sniffing like a hound. “Here, you see, here Za is where it starts. It is our gift, our gift to Master. For Master. Does it like it?” 

The tundra reached a paw towards the rune, feeling the skin tingle, then begin to burn, then - 

The spiral pushed the tundra’s claws to the side. “Not so close, Master, no.” Master held his paw against his chest, fingers twitching to dissipate the sensation. He snorted.

“Does it like it?” the spiral breathed.

“Yes...” Master said. There was much to be done with such power.  “Yes, very good.” 

The spiral came to life with pride and energy. The etching glowed so bright it cast sparks upon the floor that left pockmarks and puddles in the ice. “It likes it!” the spiral laughed. 

Master left the chamber, cackles echoing up through the ice: “It likes it, it likes it, it likes it!” 

[frejlandt]

Antique Ink

"Will it hurt?” 

Master glanced up from the inkwell, brush poised in his claws. Antiquity avoided his gaze, watching some trapped flicker of daylight in the ice.

“No.” Who could blame her for asking? They’d all listened to Frejakl’s screams when Master surfaced his gems, or Sphinthel’s howls as Master drew spines out through his skin. 

“I am not touching your genes,” Master said. “Relax.”

The nocturne breathed, golden scales rising and falling under Master’s watchful shadow. 

“Look at me,” he said. Seconds passed before she could. He caught the false canines of her upper her jaw and held her still while the brush came down. She jerked against his grip at the cool wet kiss of ink, then relaxed.

It didn’t hurt. He wasn’t hurting her. 

Her eyes fluttered as the brush moved to her brow, tracing the curves of her scales and decorating them in calligraphic flourishes and dainty little dots. Warm air caressed her crest as Master blew the ink dry. His paws dabbed, so terrible and gentle, testing until he was certain it would not smear. 

The brush continued down her spine, out across her wings and around her limbs. Antiquity drifted, certain she was dreaming, certain such interactions could not come from the likes of Master. 

His paw brushed through the feathers at the tip of her tail and his head cocked, surveying his work.  Nodding to himself, he gathered his supplies and rose to leave. Antiquity blinked, wondering what time had passed, and how she had missed so much of it. She stared at the receding gold, disbelieving. 

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” Master said, pausing in the doorway. “I never make such promises to the others.”

[frejlandt]

Captive Gods: Wind

Wind was always Master’s pretty little thing. Master draped him in silks and soft scarves and gave him little chains that jingled when he walked, syncopating with the click click of his talons. Master never touches him, only watches and listens and takes his satisfaction like anyone else upon seeing a work of art.

There are no friends for the wildclaw. No companionship. Wind’s job is to be beautiful, and Master sees any interaction as distraction. Wind walks the icy halls, but no one speaks to him, nor acknowledges him as anything but a wandering masterpiece. Even compared to Ice, locked away in the dungeon for a lifetime, Wind is, perhaps, most alone. 

***

Surrounded by other dragons but completely isolated, Wind has come to crave his Master’s gaze. When the golden tundra passes Wind cocks his head and stretches his neck and sways like silent dance. He knows the others fear the tundra, fear his touch.

But Wind would like nothing more than Master’s paw upon his fur. 

[frejlandt]

Captive Gods: Plague

To understand decay and disease is to understand all the many ways a living being can break down. If Fire is Master’s tool for torture, Plague is his mastermind. 

Not that he needs much help.

Master fancies the guardian’s thematic resonance: hide like exposed muscle over white bone, covered by blood red wings. He likes hearing Plague list all the possibilities when a new hatchling is born that does not meet Master’s standards (and, honestly, how many do?). 

Most Master sells. 

The rest are split between the assassins and Plague’s subterranean cavern in the ice. And when the assassins have finished? Plague cleans the slab of their waste, too. So much to learn from corpses, after all. 

[frejlandt]

Captive Gods: Fire

There are many ways to hurt someone.

An iron rod in a volcanic forge can’t hold a candle to Fire’s spines. Master sees death every day, but pain is an entirely different creature. Of course he’d used it as incentive several times before - the proof was in Skythe’s scars, UnNiacal’s limp, Frejfle’s eyes. 

But it wasn’t until Fire that pain became a main attraction.

Master started with Selaphaer, bidding Fire touch here, press there, now deeper. He hid cauterized wounds behind black feathers, explained to no one the skydancer’s sudden inability to speak.

It didn’t matter. Everyone in the Icefield must have heard those screams.