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Dar'Athrax

Two eyes, two ears, one mouth.

0 · 309 views · located in Chapter One: The Prophecies Fortold...

a character in “The Flameseeker Prophecies”, originally authored by Nekohina, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

Dar'Athrax
”I don't fight...I win.”
”Indestructible”




❝ More Than Just A Name ❞




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BASICS
”Is it really important?"


-Nickname Conquest, or War (rough mistranslation of his name)


-Age 27


-Gender Male




[size=200][font=times new roman]❝ Under the Armor ❞




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APPEARANCE
”Scales, Fangs, Claws, Sword- did I miss anything?"


-Eye Color Amber


-Hair Color none


-Height 10'3


-Weight 845 lbs


-Skin Tone Granite


-Build Large and muscular


-Body Markings Body covered in scales, spines down the back




❝Under the Skin ❞




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MENTALITY
”I'd rather not speak of myself."


-Fears Claustrophobic, his own weakness, deep water, being unable to protect something in front of him.


-Likes Wide open spaces, calm, quiet, sound of running water, blacksmithing


-Dislikescold weather, excessive chatter, politics


-Quirks wears armor and carries a shield despite having iron-hard scales, freakishly strong, uncomfortable around thorny plants


-Personality At first glance he's rough, tough and brutally straight forward. He's rather aloof as a whole and and times down right ruthless. But when one really gets to know him, deep down he's a softie and an extremely loyal friend. He's peaceful and very hardworking, it's just that at the moment the desire for revenge is slowly eating him away on the inside. What's left of him besides that, even he doesn't know- though he's introspective enough to try to find out.




❝ The Story of Heros ❞




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LIFE
”Fate follows its own design"


-Relationships


-History Dar'Athrax was born into a small Carion tribe to the far north of civilization. Life was far from easy but it was still within the realm of normal...at least for his kind. This was brought crashing down during his tenth winter, his tribe was wiped out by a warlord in the savage lands. He'd been lucky, he'd managed to survive by hiding in the depths of a briar bush. As a youngling, his scales were still soft and thorns were able to dig into his flesh. He could only listen to the screams and sound of blade piercing flesh as he himself was torn by the bush- fear keeping him silent. Were it not for a troupe of soldiers from a nearby keep that arrived two days later, he would have died. Instead, he was found- covered in the blood of his kin, and his own. At that point, the light and joy the should belong in a child's eyes had long left his own.

The soldiers took him in, and treated his wounds. It was in a keep designed to protect civilization from the wild that Dar'Athrax grew up. His primary craft was that of a blacksmith, and his body grew large- even by his own kinds standards from the work. He eventually managed to convince the men to teach him to fight- to kill and even learned the name of the warband that killed his tribe. It wasn't until his eighteenth year that his was able to finally strike against the swelled warband of murderers. At this point, the warlord at its head held enough power to begin attacking the keeps of the north. In fact, the army in question was thinking of taking a secondary keep against the one he grew up. While the higher ups ordered a retreat, he road out himself... both for vengeance and to buy his new family some time. The belief was if he was lucky, they'd think him bait and follow him. But fate had its own plans, the secondary keep was only being attacked by an advanced force, and he had only managed to convince nearly a dozen of his fellow soldiers to buy time in the narrow pass leading to the keep. It was here that Dar'Athrax finally became famous for his strength at arms- for five days he and his fellows fought, holding the line. This occurred without break or rest, in a canyon where only twenty-five men could stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

Dar'Athrax himself had been the center line, his fury compelling him to levels of power beyond everyone's wildest dreams. His strength grew as the fight wore on, fire spewed from his maw and coated his scales. He stood as a giant, flaming bringer of death against the monsters- even when some of his fellows broke, he fought on. When his reinforcements, more of a body pick up, arrived the day after combat, they found him and what was left of his men. Those that remained, were nearly dead on his feet, Dar'Athrax himself still stood guard...holding the line against an enemy long gone. He even managed to bring himself back to base before collapsing, his allies getting their laurels and word of his fighting prowess began to spread. In the years since, he's been hired many times and fought many battles- and has yet to lose. But he's yet to get the one kill he truly wants and crush the one army he truly hates. However, since that fight that brought him fame, he's not once burst into flames as before, or ever had such a wild glint in his eye. Time and experience have made up for ferocity, and his raw power is more than enough to overwhelm most foes.



So begins...

Dar'Athrax's Story

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Dar'Athrax's loping strides carried him swiftly through the lower foothills of the northern mountains. Years of combat had honed his senses, his nose could detect no smells save that of animals- his forked tongue agreed with his nose. His field of vision was slightly more impeded due to the heavy foliage and brush of the hills. The terrain itself wasn't overly spectacular either, uneven and rocky...only his size allowed him traverse the time with anything resembling ease. An echoing roar also dominated the vicinity, a large river was nearby...over the next ridge if his ears were at all accurate. A wind carrying the boreal chill of the high peaks rushed over his skin and he was forced to grip his cloak tighter to offer a slight amount of respite.

A dull thud resounded on his right shoulder, searing pain and a warm wetness issued soon after from the limb. Pure reflex caused his body to roll left, saving him from two others. Broad-tips?! The sight of the large,bladed arrow heads left upon the stones came with a large increase of his heart rate- he had to run. He'd set out this morning hoping to find a site for ambush, maybe even lay waste against even a small portion of the army responsible for his tribes massacre. However, it would appear he himself had been the one ambushed; a curious notion since broad-tipped arrows weren't exactly known for their long range. His breathing had become loud as he pumped his legs, ducked, wove, rolled- anything to keep less arrows from hitting him. Suddenly it hit him, the wind, the archers were using the wind...and no doubt one of the higher perches to shoot him down.

Instinct told him the river was his best bet, and experience and taught Dar'Athrax to listen. He sprinted towards the raging current, now fresh in his vision...white foam and all. His lungs and heart had begun to burn from his exertions; after all his swords, shield and armor were far from light nor was he a feather weight. A line of white hot agony spurted down his back before he managed to dive into the current. The ambush was the least of his worries now, currents battered him with more strength than he'd ever match. His equipment dragged him down like a stone and he felt blood- his very life exit him as a red haze. He struggled his way to the surface and barely managed a breath before the water crashed down upon him again. His skull cracked against something with a crack, but it wasn't his flesh that gave...a log? In desperation, he dug his claws into the wood and began to climb- eventually breaching the surface once more.

The log of his salvation was revealed to in fact be an entire tree- uprooted during the previous weeks heavy rain in all likelihood. He took advantage of his perch to shed his cloak, his claws severed the cloth with ease. The waterlogged fur instantly sank back into the current and vanished from sight- it did not reappear. The free hand was then used to peruse his wounds- none of the arrows had sunk too deeply and the bleeding was light. The biggest issue was the cloak having broken several shafts in its descent. A sudden lurch forced him to dig the claws of his hands and feet deeper into the wood- his own weight and shift the tree from its own perch. In slow motion everything pitched forward and joined the river once more, it was not long until the waters slowed. It was rather expected, the river widened and the area had a less steep incline-naturally the waters would calm. It was only at this point Dar'Athrax noticed a significant change of the suns orientation. How long have I been adrift, the thought floated through his consciousness. For that matter, have I even remain conscious this entire time?

Events weren't adding up- either exhaustion or blood loss was making him groggy... and weaker. His grip began to loosen and he was unable to command his fingers- the world became black. A knife like pain from his side brought him conscious and he subconsciously roared as only those descended of dragons were capable. A familiar tree was at his side, washed ashore in a terrain he didn't recognize. The scents were different- even the plants didn't match, hunger pains also racked his insides...how long had he been out? The area was still heavy with foliage, and only the vaguest memory of descriptions from southern traders came to mind. This would mean he was in the kingdom proper-days if not weeks from his home in the north if he were to walk.Given his current condition, that didn't provide much assurance- just because the bears were no longer at least double his size and wolves smaller than horses didn't mean he was any safer. With what strength he had left, Dar'Athrax dragged himself away from the riverbank before once more losing consciousness.

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Ketchka decided she hated mountains.

In her youth, the mountains had been a grand thing, full of freedom and adventure, of tall beauty, and muted promises of home. She’d dreamed of the rocks and the rills, the heady scent of hemlock and cedar, of crisp white snow and creeping morning mists, nameless red berries and the singing of nesting wrens. She’d dreamed aplenty, yet never stepped foot upon. The mountains had always been an untouchable dream, a symbol of everything that was out of her reach, no matter which mage house she’d been sequestered within.

Yesterday found her not only on her first mountain, but traveling it ass over teakettle. Between leaf litter and pine needles, mud and slush, wet rock and something she highly suspected was freshly heel-ground fungus, she hadn’t made it an hour solely on the merit of her own feet. The mountains were determined to take her down. There was intent. She was sure of it.

But she knew how to adapt when surrounded by the enemy. Ketchka had picked at mud drying on her fine clothes, taken a deep breath of mountain air (a lungful of earthy damp and aftertaste of lichen eating away at sandstone, not exactly the aromatic bouquet she’d anticipated) and learned how to step sideways to walk straight. If she didn’t adapt as quickly and smoothly as she remembered now, the truth was kept between her and the mountain. Today, her feet were as sure and nimble as any goat’s. Today, the chipmunks did not chitter their amusement and rush to get out of the way.

The ground gave way to soft shapes by noon. She’d left the mountain range behind, bearing no knowledge of when great peaks had lowered and the sky widened, and no clear view stretched behind. The sun released sweetness from the seed-headed grasses, cast shade beneath the oaks. She took the easier paths at the edge of riparian ditches, following trails used by cloven hooves daily until the earth hardened and polished like fine cobblestone. There were willows and black walnuts ahead, running perpendicular to her current deer trail, their greedy roots better than any dowsing rod, but by that time she already could hear the river.

Water. Freshwater. After walking fifty miles over rough terrain, it was enough to make her feel a little greedy herself. In Yideas, every bath had reeked of salt from the inland sea, every swim shared with toothed eels. This stream was languid in its movements, its bottom clean shale and polished river rock, positively begging her to throw off her boots and wade in.

She had one boot off already and was balancing on one leg when she spotted the dead body high on the bank.

“No. No-no no no no. You can’t be here,” she admonished, throwing the other boot down and rushing over. It looked Carion. Big, and Carion. And like a dragon had chewed on it and spat it back out. “If you’re alive, I’m going to kill you. You ruined a perfectly decadent swimming hole,” she said. Ketchka threw her pack down and knelt in the sedge, quickly aware blood saturated the ground as it rose up through the knees of her mage-black gown. He was wet, and smelled. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing, but nothing had eaten his eyes, so he probably wasn’t dead, despite all appearances otherwise. It was fair to say he was unconscious then.

Even mostly dead, he looked like a warrior. Ketchka bit her bottom lip. This could go bad. She didn’t know him, and the unpredictability set her teeth on edge. But he was Carion. He was hurt and weak. He wasn’t a mage. She didn’t see any other choices, right now. She’d do her best to save him.

She threaded human hands into his hair, checking his skull for contusions. She had needle and black thread in the pack, intended for mending her clothes. If he stayed unconscious, it would be easier for her to sew him back together, but he’d probably die before the last stitch. Ketchka closed her eyes, hovering a hand above his heart, and delivered the magical equivalent of adrenaline. It was a dose of pure energy: the backwash tasted like ozone to her own senses, but to a body incapable of manipulating magic, it no doubt hurt. She wanted him alert, talking. Ketchka couldn’t see inside him to pinpoint which injuries were killing him, but she wasn’t going to risk pumping him up with blood if he was going to leak like a sieve into his lung, for example. She moved both hands to his temple, setting the fleshy pads of her fingertips against the faint hollow where she could feel veins delivering blood to the brain. With a little pressure, she could return him to unconsciousness, if need be. With his amount of blood loss, it shouldn't be hard. She was ready for it, if the shock didn't rip him from her grasp.

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Awareness was thrust upon Dar'Athrax and shot through his heart much like a spear should. There was a brief convulsion- as if his body had to check to ensure everything still worked. He couldn't tell if it was more appropriate to say whether his limbs were weak or numb, but he managed to heft himself onto his knees and one arm. The other arm hung limp, but he could still move his fingers- the shoulder itself wouldn't move or hold weight. He dug his tail into the ground to compensate and provide additional stability. At this point, he noticed a woman nearby- hand on his skull. If everything turned out well, she'd be his savior- experience kicked in, and he began to list what he knew.

"Right shoulder," the words came out of his mouth in a rushed fashion- his body was pumping adrenaline like crazy. "Broadhead arrow, two pronged and all the way in-preventing use.They're designed to caused massive bleeding and kill large game. Around seven more are in back with broken shafts,only three pierced- guessing about a thumbs length of penetration." Strength returned to his limbs during his report, and he grew warm. He had fallen for such a simple ambush and nearly been killed for it- all this time and he'd basically gotten no better! He sat up straight and untied his blades and shield with his left hand. Their weight caused them to sink into the wet dirt- self loathing and anger allowing him to push himself ever further.

His raised posture gave him a better look at the woman in front of him- she appeared human. She was definitely on the tall side for a human though. His instincts were telling him he was missing something, but instead he focused on clearing his back. He deliberately kept his gaze leveled at the girl and slowly moved his left hand around to his back. A bit of blind fumbling occurred before he located the first shaft. There was no pain when he gave it a test wiggle- his armor had caught it. Without any hesitation he yanked it out of his armor- the metals screeching in protest. The arrow was held forward, tip down at his front- the girl may have had a cautious attitude but he doubted she had actually understood his full statement. It was for this reason he held the arrow forward; the head itself was about the size of a human hand and weighed a pound and a half.

"In case you were wondering what a Broadheaded arrow looked like," he kept his voice steady before dropping the arrow. He reached back again- this time from the hip and found another, this one had gone into him. With a grunt, he pulled this one out too. The area burned, but he felt the wound closing...he always healed quickly when he was angry. This arrow was also cast aside but it was the last one he could reach with only one arm. "Pardon the belated pleasantries," he didn't exactly have much experience with the opposite sex. "The name's Dar'Athrax. Don't worry about inflection, it's impossible without a forked tongue- gratitude for the save." At this point he paused, unsure exactly what to say from there. After all he had a million questions and he couldn't be sure of this woman.