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Fel Iron and Intent Bronze Sargaeroth

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Fel Iron and Intent Bronze Sargaeroth

Sinuous and massive by nowtimer accounts, here lies an alchemist garbed in lean trappings, as sly as the cunning set of whirling gaze, as subtle as the fine ichor filigree tattooing his wedge-shaped head. Copper oxidized patchy with linen verdigris scruffs haphazard his frame, as if poxed by some fel potion, setting askew every straight edge, every smooth line. A jumble of things best kept separated, he is held in twain by talons and spars of chalky demise, as if readied in lime for the graves of those things felled by the hazardous points. Even his wings seem visually tetchy, patchworked from a variety of shades in brackish bronze and chromeate copper, as if stitched together from a thousand unwilling donors.

Description Inspiration

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The Warglaives of Azzinoth, Illidan Stormrage's twin blades of awesome in the World of Warcraft.

For those who are WONDERING, these are NOT hunter weapons, though many a hunter may have laid claim on them.

Name Inspiration

Sargeras, to whom Illidan Stormrage defected to in the War of the Ancients. He is the creator and leader of the Burning Legion and fit with the brute force power of Sargaeroth agains the sly, machinations of Il'ian himself.

Plus, he just looks like a badass motherfucker, doesn't he?

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Mindvoice

From the moment Illidan Impressed Sargaeroth, the sweet darkness enveloped. Re-molded, re-formed into a shadow of who he was, he was More than what he was before. Power resides in the potential of the bond between the two, a bond cemented by a broken wasteland, pinnacled by a dark temple set atop a collection of broken mountains. Shards of the world pierce a sky filled with present darkness; a miasma that roils in the atmosphere blocking any and all light of whatever sun might exist beyond. Only a dull greenish purple glow filters through, the shadowlands held in the tight grip of deadly power.

Radioactive green set against a bruised-purple look, where shadows collect in the shards of the world that reach towards a sky that shifts and moves as if alive. Rivulets of brilliant chemical green spill from tainted waterfalls and collects in the hollows of the landscapes in dangerous eddies that are used to mask the sharpness of things stated.

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« Leadership is utterly incompetant to continue to send us on these fool’s errands. » The burbles of tainted green water pop and writhe where they collect in the hollows of the land, running like thick green tears over the landscape when the words fill the vacuum of collected space. Bruised, purpled; darkness is the ever present quality as the cutting derision is softened by submergence into the tainted waters. So many things are left unstated, though opinion is strong, woven through the landscape of shattered world.

“Be that as it may, we must do as told…” The unstated for now always lists beneath the surface of Il’ian’s carefully chosen words.


It is within the depths of such a mindscape that one can truly behold the depth of willpower it takes to hold such a shattered existence together. The spines of the world that ring outward, making all contact just a touch uncomfortable for most that come in contact, if the present darkness does not. A bored menace lingers, a malevolence winding through the rivers of iridescent, chemical green that cut through the land. They often fall into the void of space, hints of stars glitter from the cracks in the firmament itself.

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His voice is a deep rumble, not unlike thunder. Not necessarily baritone, for it doesn’t register as a humanistic sound at all. It is primal; older than human speech, the sound is leeched from the stones and rocks of the shadowland itself, torn from the skies that shoot lightning through the dark clouds with each uttered sound. It is darkness embodied, but not the clean darkness of the abyss. A darkness of malevolence. A darkness of ill-intent, embodied in a voice that ripples with a desire older than all: Power.

In his domain, beware to all who enter for his is the power that drives. His is the power that fuels this landscape of shadowed purples, radiactive greens, and a deeper darkness in shades of grey shot with the brilliance of blue-white light that signifies the torment of the heavens all held to the backdrop of a shattered world clinging to the vacuum of space and the subtle green glow that encases all.

Physicalities

In a word, Sargaeroth’s physical space is entirely drawn from the essences of the Warglaives of Azzinoth: twin blades of death wielded by Il’ian, himself. Even in the physical sense, the bronze is a weapon: a weapon of intimidation.

Physically, he is as imposing as the wicked weapons upon which he is based, yet certain elegance lingers in the cut of a form that is reminiscent of the sharp-edged blades of the assassin. The filigree markings etched into the whirling darkness of hide is reminiscent of the gold held within the centerpoint of the Warglaives of Azzinoth. Large by nowtime standards, he’s not that far off of even some oldtime bronzes, though it is not the size that matters, but the cut of bladed features. The fel menace that lingers within the whirl of eyes that never seem to entirely be content to whirl the purity of blue.

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Always, always, a hint of anger’s red muddies the whirl. As if the bronze constantly battles back a rage that is not so easily tamed, and thus the eyes will never be a comfort to those that gaze upon him. The wings are long and curved, allowing for him to be a force to be reckoned with in the skies. Talons are dagger sharp and even the wedge at the end of his tail is sharper than one should find in a dragon. His is not a collection of sharp angles of that of broken rock or dragonglass; his are the cut blades of a fine weapon.

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Sargaeroth is owed a wicked length, captured in the essence of wings and the long length of bladed tail. Even his neckridges are curved blades of ill-intent, a menace to all who should attempt to ride the bronze. Even Il’ian is careful of some of the sharper points of Sargaeroth’s blades. Oiling becomes a careful affair of ensuring that one does not rub too hard against some parts of the dragon’s pointed parts lest one incurs what amounts to a paper or knife-blade cut. More so when he’s older than when he was a baby, when he was softly rounded in cuteness. Even the most diabolical creature starts out cute!

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Sargaeroth is, in many ways, Il’ian’s weapon to be wielded with care. Strength lies coiled within the lean muscles, unrestrained but for his lifemate’s willpower. He is darkness embodied, wrapped in felfire and honed in a forge of tainted menace. Nothing soft exists in the curvature of wicked formation. He is tainted green set against the darkness of molded metal.

As a youthful dragon, Sargaeroth was never clumsy. He had a preternatural grace that was balanced against his cunning desire for causing entropy in forcing chaos around him. It is not the untrained, graceless chaos of his siblings, nay, it is pointed entropy and destruction that always, somehow, left Il’ian looking good. It’s a hard feat, and honestly didn’t work all the time, but it was this exploration of his physical world that soon heralded a slowly dawning realization: when Sargaeroth had little to do, this is when the bored menace would spill free.

Always careful, however, to only light the bridges around him on fire, not necessarily burn them to the ground. Sargaeroth and Il’ian both are so aware of the interconnected politics of a weyr that entirely alienating even the most useless of clutchmates could prove disastrous later in life when that same clutchmate ends up in a position of rank above what they may have themselves.

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Flight, swimming, walking; all mobility is done with the grace of a well-balanced weapon. He slices through the air, cuts through water, and glides on the ground. A natural is what they would call him, with his weaknesses found in the nature of the skin itself. Like a blade, Il’ian must spend candlemarks oiling him – even as an adult, it is almost every day that must be spent on tending to the bladed edges of his lifemate’s hide. Not unlike keeping one’s weapon well-honed and cleaned, so must the bronzerider keep that hide of Sargaeroth’s well-honed and oiled. Especially all the wicked curves, which is such a careful, careful affair.

Life with Sargaeroth is never, entirely comfortable. Nor will he ever be.

Personality

Sargaeroth is no weak-willed dragon. Nor is he a brash and impatient dragon; his game is a long one he plays, content to span the ages if need be. It is not that Il’ian is Impressed to a monster (okay, he is), but it is more that he is Impressed to a dragon driven by a need that’s deeper than mere intent. It is instinctual, this vie for power and leadership. Striving towards the top of a pyramid and leaving bodies behind for he is merciless in those who he would topple to get to the top. A black temple of downed spirits, built upon a shattered world of ill-intent.

Sargaeroth is not evil, per se. A least not in the traditional sense. He is still a dragon with the bone-deep desire to protect Pern from the silver’d Thread that falls like a menace from the skies. He will not seek to cripple the weyr in any capacity that would leave Igen vulnerable to attack; rather his desires are entirely in the veins of power plays. Il’ian is a great asset – it is, after all, why Il’ian was chosen – in his ability to navigate the human element of power. It is not always the most overt of plays that topples that fatted calf at the pinnacle of power.

So it is that Sargaeroth is in favor of subtle plays. Of striving Il’ian to do better, to be better, to be best. In that vein, he will push the bronzerider to aspire greater heights, yes, but at the same time, he won’t push the rider to take extraneous rank. Never will Il’ian angle for Assistant Weyrlingmaster – not only would Sargaeroth be a horrible example for youthful, easily impressed minds, but Assistant Weyrlingmaster goes nowhere. Weyrlingmaster is a slave to the baby dragons. Wingsecond, however, is possible but only as the jumping stone to Wingleader and beyond. Yet, Sargaeroth is as sensitive to the climate of the rank as he is to the rank itself.

In a climate of the rot of indecision, the bronze will push Il’ian to focus on the physical – honing his body and mind versus attempting to just rank grab. So it’s very calculated how Sargaeroth goes about bettering his lifemate. But one thing is abundantly clear: he will always seek to push Il’ian into more than what he’d ever have been prior.

From birth to the moment he assails them into the forever between, Sargaeroth will ever be an uncomfortable dragon. Filled with the clouded darkness of bored menace: when the bronze is bored, this is when the evil begins to show. The unfettered desire to destroy and conquer manifests in the destruction of things easily attained.

“Did you… just… crush that man’s barn?”
« You were taking too long. » The purpled dusk of forever night hovers above the shattered world, the shards of which dig into the mind of his lifemate, drawing an uncomfortable sensation of being gripped in the jagged edge of rocky teeth. Shadowlands collect the bruises of shadows as pebbles bounce from the rumble of the bronze’s voice that reverberates through the land. « And it offended me. »


He is entropy contained within a well-calculated mind. While his own willpower is great enough to hold together the essence of a shattered mindscape and not fall prey to insanity, it is Il’ian’s willpower that holds back the great beast that lies beneath it all. The raging hellfire inferno that is the essence of Sargeras, a mighty giant of molten bronze who is more content leading armies than not.

At one point at the moment of Hatching, it almost seemed as if Sargaeroth was going to be bronze’d perfection: a soul of goodness and light and cunning and strength. Until that moment of connection that felled the bronze and brought out the creature he’s become, torn from the twisted nether of some hidden flaw.

Something dark this way comes.

Flights

Flights…. Sargaeroth has little need for flights. He’s not really interested in greens and really only interested in golds if there’s something that he can gain from them. His is a desire to lead, and flights aren’t exactly an exacting pathway to leadership unless it’s an actual Leadership flight. These he will never miss. Never. On the whole, the chances of him chasing after a green or gold that doesn’t provide some strategic advantage is slim to none. Il’ian, himself, does not seem to be drawn to flights either, neither preferring nor disliking them.

However, on the chance that Sargaeroth does seek to fly against a female, his will be one of grace and a singular lust for the power of the flight: the female in question. His flight preferences are the same for green or gold, if he decides to fly it is not the color that determines it. It is the preference, and once that preference is set, his eye is on the prize. In the air, he is a whir of motion that one of his size shouldn’t possibly possess, and yet he is as graceful as a well-balanced weapon. He is more warglaive than assassin’s daggers, however, so he’s not quite as nimble as his smaller brethren, but he’ll give everyone a run for their money. Nor does he fight fair. Talon and wingspars are the weapons of choice as many a scratch will be laid in the attempt to get that which he desires.

In fact, he will be more than happy to climb atop the bones of his competition – erm, wings, bodies, whatever – to get to the proddy female. That is not to say that he is purposefully violent – his is not a lust-blind thing. His is a calculating destruction to ensure that he is the one on top.

Assuming, of course, that he can sink his talons into those who fly with him. It is never a surety; wars have been fought and lost just as easily won, after all.

When he loses, it is barely even a hit. Because the desire for the female dissipates as quickly as it comes, and he’s left to return back to the machinations of a long-game played that spans the length of their lives together. Literally, he will never care when he loses. Even if it is a Leadership flight – the only thing he’ll care about is returning back to the lines of battle to see all the faults in the strategy played and shore them up. No flight is ever played the same as the one before it. His is an organic and ever-changing assessment of his enemy’s (the females) weaknesses and his competition’s (the other males) weaknesses.

When he wins, he wins. But as soon as it’s done, he’s done. Not a cuddler – really, who would want to cuddle with him? He’s about as soft as hugging a sword. No one would recommend it, least of all Il’ian. While Sargaeroth might depart from the female almost as soon as the act is done, Il’ian is not forced to leave the experience. Which is a blessing! Because Il’ian rather enjoys winning, let’s be real.

All in all, Flights are not a thing of love and passion, but of lust and strategy and hints at the depth of calculation held within the burning fel-fire bronze’s intelligence.

Thread

Thread.

Of all the elements of Sargaeroth, this is one that contains a win duality. On the one hand, he is bioengineered to want to defeat Thread and nothing of his own desires will every discount that driving need to flame and consume all of the strands of silver’d Threat. In this, he is like any other bronze, brown, blue, green, fighting dragon. This means that when it comes time to fly, he will fly with a single-minded determination to eradicate all Thread that passes through his path with great gouts of flame that singe and burn.

However, it is the other aspect of his nature that wars with this bioengineered need, and that is to present himself in the best capacity possible. Even if that means possibly sabotaging those around him, which he’s not above doing, to make himself look good. He is a cunning fighter, and an even more cunning leader should he ever make it to a rank of note within a fighting wing. Should Sargaeroth and Il’ian ever make it as high as Weyrsecond or beyond, that battle-hardened leadership will serve them rather well, even if it might not serve Igen, necessarily, as well is it will serve Il’ian. Together, they are worse than apart: a burning legion of desire for power that lies hidden in the shadows of those around, ready to pounce when the time is right.

Physically, Sargaeroth is able to fight Thread and fight it well. He is top-notch physically, and Il’ian’s skill in flight is such that they’ll never be back of the bus. There’s a reason why they’re in Whirlwind.

In their mind, they are unstoppable so long as they are together.

Credits

Name: Il'ian (Elle helped by being the bouncer of ideas!)
Dragonet Desc: Elle
Inspiration: Il'ian, Elle tweaks.

Clutchmates:
Insta Rider from Igen's 2nd NPC Clutch, click here to see the details.