Blackened, battered, and bestial, this bronze is brutal to behold. His is the hollow visage of a wraith made living, skeletal frame animated by some dark power, impossible and yet so hideously, viscerally real. His cheekbones are sharp and angular, jutting from his face like the crags of high mountains, making what remains of his features seem gaunt by comparison. The rest of his form is no less wretched, breastbone a gnarl-boned figurehead protruding against skin dark and mottled with age and decay. His chest sweeps back like the keel of a vessel once-fine, now ravaged by war and strife, sepulchral hide pocked with a faint verdigris crust that corrodes him from sternum to stomach. Gunport holes have been blasted into dingy brass sides, splintered void-black markings that shimmer with an eerie, oily sheen in the just-right light. This color is matched upon each ‘ridge of his back, umbral tones pooling like so much pitch along the long, bony column of his spine before pouring down the length of each leg. Clawed paws end in silvery hooked nails, each viciously honed to a wicked edge. Wide wings fare little better, abyssal depths touched only by ghostly billows of smoke and ash, each a tattered sail that ends in ragged aileron. Only his tail shows any true promise of life amongst so much death, stygian depths etched with knots, twists, and leaves of near-gold along its bladed length.

Egg Name and Description

Scratches in the Night Egg
Upon first glance this particular ovum looks as if it may be lumpy. Large misshapen knots curl together in shades of russet and raw umber giving it this rather unique appearance. Dark slices of near black also sporadically make this egg their home, as if an unwieldy lumberman has taken his axe and tried to fell a stubborn tree that will not fall. Uneven stripes of dark and light browns slither their way across the shell, weaving betwixt the knots and dark gashes. Some of the stripes are bright and vibrant as if at the start of its young life, while other areas are grayed and withered as if time has played some cruel trick and aged parts differently. It's only when one gets really close that one can see the small crisscross of what appear to be slashes of sharp claws in varying shades of gray. Surely Leirith would not have allowed a feline or canine on the sands to inflict this damage, but one never can tell if it's a trick of the eye without closer inspection.

Hatching Message

Wobble Message

Crack Message
Scratches in the Night egg proves that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And fall it does, with a great, exaggerated HEAVE-HO onto its side, splintering and fracturing as it rolls, and rolls, and rolls, and — THUNK. Stops.

Hatch Message
Scratches in the Night egg's surface rolls, the splintered fragments of shell bucking and heaving under the assault of whatever entity occupies its confines, the movements almost angry before claws and snout and dragon appear with a snarl — but there's something not quite right about this one. Something that says maybe it should get right back in that shell and bake a little longer.

Sands Pose #1
Never Shall We Die Bronze Hatchling KNEW YOU WOULD COME. He sensed it in his shell, knew you couldn't resist, dared you to follow. And you did, here — all of you. That emaciated, skeletal body moves with jerks and dips that give rise to goosebumps if that insidious hiss that escapes him does not. Those eyes turn their wrongness towards the candidates, a still moment of assessment and cold, calculating — nope. Just kidding. There he goes, KERSPLAT, right into the sand. All of him crumbles to the ground in a heap of wrongness and skin and bones because somebody probably should have fed him wholesome thoughts and HERE WE ARE.

Sands Pose #2
Never Shall We Die Bronze Hatchling will make sure that you do, in fact, die if you ever speak of his failure. As it stands, that not-quite-right bronze is getting to his feet and flicking a wing out with agitation to rid himself of egg goop (sorry random candidate #234; it was nothing personal) and one fantastically stubborn piece of shell. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE. SHIMMY. SHIVER. … Down he goes again, right into the sand, going for a little roll this time that was obviously planned even if your FEEBLE HUMAN MINDS DO NOT SEE IT. See, back on his feet already. TREMBLE BEFORE HIS GREATNESS. Or… yeah, okay. That sneeze of sand was pretty cute. You're not scaring anybody here anymore, Never Shall We Die Bronze Hatchling. We're all onto you now. Try again.

Impression Message

Public Message
Never Shall We Die Bronze Hatchling SEES YOU, VILLAINS. HE SEES YOU ALL AND YOUR VILLAIN MOUSTACHES. That sneeze was his allergy to you and you, and ESPECIALLY YOU MATHIS, ya dang landlubber. He is not cute. Watch him muster up all of the dignity that he has with another rattling grit of sound that escapes his throat as a low, continuous growl, one that makes it seem as if his fall-to-the-candidates will turn into some macabre display of hatchling blood frenzy. But no. Not today. Not yet. Destiny is at work here, and there's just no time to indulge in one's darker desires. One, two, three steps forward carry him to the darkest candidate on the sands, those hollow eyes meeting (from all the way down here awwwwwwwweee) in a challenge — one he expects to be met. Cease your ill-made jokes and pay attention. There is no tolerance for failure nor mutiny here.

Private Message
Mist rises up around you, obscuring your view like the deepest fog, that silver shadow that makes it so you can't see the mast in front of your face. You're lost, cast away from the sands as thoroughly as you were your ship… yet you can feel the lurch of it beneath you, the heave of your stomach as the deck rolls in the storm. Lightning cracks, a sharp sound like the snap of the whip - and then, as the sting of pain sets in, then comes the laughter. «What's the first rule of being a thief? » a voice asks, the rolled words of a sailor deep in his cups. « Remain unseen. But you've failed at that, haven't you. You were too proud to stay in the shadows, too arrogant to keep yourself down. You rose to power because you could… and I like that. Ambitious toys make for the best playthings. » Out in the fog looms a face - shadows and darkness, silver billows that outline a demon of the oceans, a kraken of the tides - and then he crashes around you, the deck splintering under your feet as serpentine coils entangle you and your ship alike, dragging you down beneath the waves to the grave of all true sailors. « Your soul belongs to me, Ki'lian. I am Zyddagath, and I know exactly who you are. » The fog lifts, the lanterns of your vessel's wreckage blooming to a sickly glow that's enough to illuminate the faces - the reaching hands - of the other doomed souls you've cursed to this place. « Forever, Ki'lian. » And he laughs, your dragon-boat, your scourged sails, as he lets your eyes once more behold his skeletal form of claws and wings against the sands.


All magic comes with a price. — Rumplestiltskin

And this, Ki’lian, is yours. The price for your freedom. The price for your soul. Is it worth it? One might well have their doubts, for your Zyddagath’s personality couldn’t be further from the paragon of kindness and saintlihood reflected in many of his clutchsiblings if he tried. Reprehensible to the last, he’s about as far from the concept as one can be without setting toe into the troubled waters of being considered true evil. If anything, he’s settled himself right around ‘chaotic neutral,’ a creature of intense self-interest and very few scruples to speak of.

This will make those first few weeks of weyrlinghood troublesome for you indeed, for while weyrlingmasters are providing you with structure and guidance and ways in which to create fulfilling lives for you and your dragon both, Zyddagath will be… well…

« This is easily the most boring lesson I’ve ever been made sit through. I don’t need to be taught how to eat. Did you need to learn this lesson when you were younger? Eugh. Of course you did. But you’re a human. It matters not. We’re leaving. »
“Can we do that?”
« Do you honestly think they can stop me, dearie? »

And that’s a good question, one of many you will have to confront and determine just how you will approach with your new lifemate. How will you guide him, or, worse, how will you let him guide you? Because he has no moral compass to speak of, and evil isn’t born, dearie - it’s made. He’s in the game to better himself, to improve his chances - of success, of survival, of escalating himself (and, by proxy, you) into as much power as one can obtained without allowing onesself to be fettered by such disdainful things as rules - so he could very easily fall in one direction or another. No matter which way he goes - towards something resembling responsibility, or towards something much, much darker - he can and will drag you down right along with him. You’re in this together now, for better or for worse, and trust us when we say things could become much, much worse if you let them.

If I have to choose between everyone else and me, me wins every time. — Rumplestiltskin

Your comprehension of just what kind of a dragon Zyddagath is will come incredibly early on. As a young dragon, he’s likely to have rocky relationships with his clutchmates. He feels little innate sense of kinship just because of some accident of birth, and indeed, very little connection at all to anyone in immediate relation to him, and worse he doesn’t want to. He may lash out at them with sharp words and claws for their foolishness (or simply because they have something he wants), letting the savage thrill of personal righteousness carry him through the act without remorse. There’s just something enjoyable about asserting one’s correctness, about using your mind or, when necessary, your body to put someone in their place: beneath you.

Eventually weyrlingstaff is bound to notice that this has gone well beyond mere youthful piss and vinegar, and should they intervene, it’s safe to say the apologies he makes at their insistence are unlikely to be genuine. The repeated lectures and punishments may have an effect though, if not entirely the one they would like: he’ll learn how to wear a polite mask and hide his deeper feelings, maintaining cordial - if distant - relations where he must and using his words to more cleverly manipulate others instead of merely rending flesh to force them into line. This is a game in and of itself, and a thrilling one. The art of deception is a fine and difficult craft; the fibers of lies must be weaved quite delicately, twisted and spun just so to create a golden, palatable texture for those for whom it is intended. Who thinks to check for poison in an apple, after all?

Be careful. Emotional entanglements can lead us down very dangerous paths. — Rumplestiltskin

While he holds a low opinion of most, that doesn’t mean he’s uninterested in them; on the contrary, the weak may make fine tools, if properly honed. The fact that he doesn’t actually care about them just means that he’ll have no regrets if he uses them until they break in the service of his schemes. So, he’ll cultivate his relationships with others in whom he thinks he can draw forth some form of utility - whether that’s someone who thinks they’re his friend, or an enemy whom he knows just how to manipulate into doing what he wants. They’re both the same to him, really; it’s a rare creature who rises above useful into friend… and he’ll certainly not be drawing attention to those few he actually does care about - friendship is a weakness, and those you love a target. He’d use and abuse such emotional ties in a heartbeat - and so, he presumes, his enemies would surely do the same.

That in mind, he tends to have rather strong opinions on those Ki’lian might fall in with as well. Nessalyn is cutthroat, for example, and he likes that about her, but Tineangrath… She may prove to be a problem. She’s just so bright, so bubbly, so good - she might well seek to curb you, to curb him through you - in the pursuit of doing ‘the right thing.’ It’s almost inevitable, really, so perhaps it’s best to slowly saw apart the ties that bind you, to keep the pair of them close, but as one might one’s enemies, rather than anything remotely resembling (more-than-)friends.

Once one controls something, one no longer need fear it. — Rumplestiltskin

Once he’s settled into this sense of covert deception, he’ll take to lessons readily enough, learning to control his impatience at the droning instruction and the fumblings of the other weyrlings. The insight that it’s an opportunity to observe their strengths and failings will do much for his attentiveness - though he’ll be careful to avoid betraying too much of his abilities, whether that’s by slipping out at night for extra practice, or simply avoiding displaying his true potential to keep any watchers in the dark about what he can really do. You never know when you might need that extra edge!

Once he’s found the freedom of the skies, however, all that ‘progress’ on his ‘attitude’ will disappear like so many hunks of meat down his gullet. Zyddagath wants to fly - with or without you - and he’ll abandon lessons and rules alike to soar over the oceans, to dart from one island to the next and see what may lie hidden in those coves - or what ships may sail, under whose colors, along the ocean waves of Pern. It’s not that he’ll argue for his freedom, he’ll simply… take it. That's the law of power, after all; if those weyrlingmasters were strong enough to deserve his respect, they could have it - but they aren't, so they don't.

This concept, adolescent arrogance on top of his usual store of blithe self-confidence, may mean that it's all but impossible for anyone to gain his respect. The only law he obeys is that of power. There’s no sense of charity in his heart, no noble urge to care for the weak and helpless. The only authority he recognizes is strength, and for a bronze dragon there can be only one power that calls out to his soul: gold. It will more than likely require the overwhelming force of a golden mind to bear down on his and make him understand that he may be merciless, but a Queen is the one who can launch armadas; a thing greater than any lone ship, no matter how powerful… and he will be among the most powerful, no matter what it takes to get there.

I’m dishonest, and a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It’s the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they’re going to do something incredibly … stupid. — Jack Sparrow

In a way, perhaps, Zyddagath will become one of the most reliable of his siblings, if only because his motivations are simple. Beast of devastation and vengeance that he is, there is one thing that he holds sacred. When he makes a Deal, he will abide by it - faithful to every devil-documented word, true to each clause with all the precision of a wicked djinni ready to twist that contract upon another. They are the source of his true power, these deals - for one dragon’s tooth and claw, no matter how terrifying, cannot hope to match a crew of scoundrels gathered beneath his flag.

He is, of course, a clever beast, one willing to use words and obfuscation to twist and and turn a deal on its head at any - every - opportunity available if it will better serve him in the end. It’s hardly his fault the person entering the other side of this devil’s pact didn’t bother to do their homework, was too desperate or too stupid to be able to accurately articulate their side of the trade in order to protect themselves and their assets; he’s merely allowing things to play out exactly as were contractually expressed, and should things go awry, well… The more’s the better. For him.

Sorry but killing a man with his own sword was just too delicious to pass up. — Rumplestiltskin

While he’s fond of twisting the Deal against others when it suits him, he has no such appreciation for those who do it to him. Betrayal angers him, and he will seek his vengeance on those who do so. One would like to say it would be swift and decisive, but does that really sound like your Zyddagath’s way? No. No it does not. He might well be a sociopath, might border on cruel, but if there’s a way to flog those who betray them for the rest of eternity rather than allowing them their single beating and then their freedom, he will take it every time.

Yet for those who manage to manipulate him while remaining within the letter of the Deal previously struck, there is at least hope for a glimmer of respect - if not mercy. Oh he won’t make their life any easier, won’t rest nor sleep until the pathetic little shards of their life have all been crushed into dust to be drawn away on the following tide, but he’ll at least deign to acknowledge them as he does it. It’s… something?

Once you give in to darkness, it's almost impossible to resist its calling. — Rumplestiltskin

He’s a greedy creature, but while he’ll certainly enjoy fine meats and luxurious surroundings, his true hunger runs deeper. He yearns for freedom; for the sky beneath his wings and the distant horizon of the sea. He wants to be where no man or dragon can stop him - beyond the power of anyone to control him. The treasures he may gain upon those distant shores matter not for their cash value - who can spend such stolen prizes? - but because they show that he is beyond the rule of law, unbound by those restraints that chain others to a life of servile weakness. He is a rogue of the seven seas, make no doubt - and yet every sailor knows that the sea is a her, to be respected if not served. He will be the skeletal claw for the golden treasure of the Weyr, the privateer who sails under a pirate flag but brings his spoils back for his Queens’ hoard.

And just where do you fit in, in all of this? Why, right alongside him, of course, if not always a half of a step behind, as the first mate to his captain. He is as intolerant of your weaknesses as he would be of any ambitious crew - yet for you, it is far more impossible to conceal it. He knows every one of your thoughts, sees each of your failings, and they will be your torment. There is no mutiny that will free you from him, for the Deal that is the dragonbond cannot be broken - perhaps not even by death. A dying rider’s dragon may escape between, but there is no end to the torment for a rider whose dragon is lost - they become a captain without a ship, having known the freedom of the seas but now cast ashore.

My magic comes at a cost, as you know, and I've racked up so much debt I can never be clear of it unless I find a way to change the rules. — Rumplestiltskin

Aboard him - or else under the lash of his tail - you’ll find that the sky itself is no longer your limit, any more than the horizon is. Is there advantage to be had in Ista? You’ll be there. A deal to be made amid the Western Isles? He’ll bring you there, your constant companion in schemes and manipulations. There will always be a thirst, a hunger, a drive, a next - even when you least expect it, when there’s been no mention made of ventures nor adventures either, suddenly he will meld from the shadows at your side, silvered claws raking stone as he informs you of bounty to be had, a plot to be charted, a destination at which to arrive with little indication of from whence this information came. Sometimes he’ll allow Ki’lian in on these Deals, will make him a pawn in the greater machinations of the game, will begrudgingly admit to having respect when he flexes his renegade muscles and contracts a Deal of his own making - other times he will present you with his information and expect you to go along with it in blind, total faith.

Zyddagath has little issue marooning you without his physical aid, should the situation call for it, and no matter whom it might better behoove; there’s many of the more unsavoury sorts who’d be suspicious of a known rider, after all, or for whom a deal would not be intimidating enough without his presence. Sometimes there will be dealings betwixt just him and another of which you should not interfere, and trust us, if that is the case you will not. Others, he will need you to be the cat’s paw, to play things out to the letter. Wherever his body may be, his soul rides with you forever, a constant voice in your mind that sees through your eyes, hears through your ears, and from whose clawed grip you will never be free.

But I'm a villain, and villains don't get happy endings. — Rumplestiltskin


What Darkness Lies Beneath


Zyddagath’s mind is the cold, clammy darkness of an empty night, of a sky left blank of starlight, studded just once, instead, with the hollow shine of a singular moon. It lurks behind mental clouds of thought, casts its ghastly light upon eerily smooth waters that lap, just barely, at the feet of where his mind meets your own.

There’s forever a sense of foreboding in this mind, a permanent trepidation, as though whatever spine-tingling sense of fear as what characterized his egg couldn’t help but spill over into his adult mind. It lurks, hunched, menacing, waiting to slide sharp claws along your thoughts, threatening to rend them in twain no matter how brilliant they might be.

His own dread thoughts are contained in a silvery fog that drifts, presses into your senses, threatens to obfuscate much more than his ill intentions - given half the chance, it might overwhelm everything about you, and for this he would show no regret. It’s your job to contain his mind, not his, and he would rather make a puppet of you than tolerate sharing a mind with someone who would not match him.

Underlining his most menacing thoughts are sharp shrieks and ghostly howls, whipping his mental fog into a whirlwind of hate and fury. Shapes begin to appear in the mist, as gaunt and wraithly as his own person, not quite human, not quite bestial, but instead somewhere in between, the fact of which makes it all the more frightening. They are there and gone again in an instant as he tames his wrath, but the mental image of snarling skeletons and rotting flesh stretched thin upon faces Ki’lian remembers from his past life might well leave an impression no matter how fast they are to fade.

But even this cannot compare to Zyddagath’s mind when he is happy. For that his mind unleashes, veritable floodgates opening to drain the dark sea of his mind, sucking you along with it as frigid, hellish waters race you to the very edge of the world. Here his glee froths and thrashes, kicked up by the rocks of violent amusement and mirth, slashing skywards in victory before plummeting hard, fast to the limitless depths below.

This empty void, this boundless black is his purgatory, and he is more than willing to suspend the both of you in it until the next moonrise of perfect, chaotic thought occurs. This may take mere hours, sometimes full weeks to come again, but never will he cease to thirst for treasure, for power, and thus his mind’s finer details will always come around again. It’s a terrible thing, to lust for fear and fog and anguish, but sometimes anything, anything is better than embracing the void.


Well, there's no polite or gentle way to put it, Ki'lian: your dragon is dead. We're not quite sure how it happened, but at some point, that monstrous egg that sheltered this monstrous beast failed, and your dragon appears to have departed from this world. We want to offer our sincere condolences on your loss and — EGADS. IT'S ALIVE!

For all that your dragon is not quite so hideous, there is nothing about his appearance that might inspire kind words be said about him. From the moment he hatches, the whispers will begin: there's something not quite right about that one. It's as if he's the only dragon to honor those deeply horrific platitudes offered by those innocuous, lonely eggs that they escaped from. Where his siblings seem to have come out vibrant, and kind, and changed, your dragon is a thing of nightmares, a creature who looks as though he's an amalgamation of every terror that came with every touch and just a hint of you. Despite the fact that one cannot call him a runt — even for a bronze — he is certainly not a dragon that one would presume to be in good health upon first, second, even third glance. He's borderline emaciated which makes the broad chest of his ghost-ship body appear hollow. His skin is not a natural hue either — at least, not one that can be recalled by minds old enough to have seen dragons long before his conception; rather it's bronze-green and ghoulish, saved (or perhaps indicted in its wrongness) only by those vibrant flecks of hide that seem to shimmer like glitter when Rukbat hits him just right.

But it's not just that. It's as if hellfire scorched the insides of this egg and burned the occupant irrevocably, changing him forever. It left him a mere shadow of a dragon, a skeletal reanimation of what kind of bronze he could have been if he had not, perhaps, found the lines and connections of a more sinister making and latched his soul onto you. Worry not, Ki'lian. He is a sturdy dragon, physically fit and certainly capable. He is lethal even in his youth, dangerously agile, deceptively strong, and clever enough to make up for whatever physical ailments those dragonhealers might suspect he's victim of upon his birthing.

Unfortunately his macabre, grotesque appearance will always remain so, and this fact will bring him neither humility nor dismay. No, that grisly mein serves a purpose towards just what it is that you two aspire to, and it prevents anybody from looking too close — to either of you. After all: we often fear what we do not understand.

The thing about your Zyddagath that will change as he ages will be the mannerisms that he adopts in the company of those he is forced into association with — and just what it is that he wants from them. He is bold, he is ruthless, commanding an air of intimidating presence when speaking to somebody over which he has command (and we don't necessarily mean within the ranks of wings); alternatively, he will approach those with authority (or more specifically, those who can grant him those impossible favors he desires) almost deceptively: low and unctuous, attempting the impossible feat of making himself seem less a threat even if he never quite goes so far as to make himself appear subservient. He will exercise his charm and his wit almost to excess (but with remarkable acuity), aiming to walk away with the prize no matter the stakes — and another victory. See, it is still a game for him, Ki'lian. It will always be a game for him.

To everybody else, his manner will be in total complement of yours, though he errs more towards a devilish cocksurity as opposed to suave and unattached. His posture will remain refined and aloof, of course, but added to it will be the distinct swagger of one who has accepted their horrific lot in life, and worse, has embraced it as the best possible outcome no matter how wrong others might find it to be.


You fell in love with me because I was a man and a beast. Neither exists without the other. — Rumplestiltskin

This swagger, as well as this willingness to bend and to bribe in order for means to meet an end is not limited only to everyday dealings: it applies to things like love and lust as well. That begrudging, borderline forced respect for golds will become something of an obsession, particularly those in weyrs he frequents for his dealings. He will gather information all his life on a queen’s particular likes and dislikes, and will use them to his very best advantage in order to win her over during flights, whether by luring them off on their own to better ensure her capture, or otherwise garner their favoritism through manipulation and bribery. Zyddagath is only too willing to lean into and play along with Leirith’s bombast, will indulge Tinean her delusions of ‘true love,’ will court and woo a foreign queen with the finest treasures he’s ever come upon, all in the pursuit of power. It’s not children to care for nor a family to raise that he’s after, it’s the reputation of a legacy, of the spread of his progeny, of having multitudes - everywhere - that are bound by familial ties, who are in his debt and whom will be forced to give him their time and deference when he wishes to be heard.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate. — Jack Sparrow

With this in mind, greens will be more a practice for him, rather than a real pursuit, and will be entirely a thing of convenience - he will not halt a venture, will not pause a Deal for a green, not at first. Their purpose is to hone his skills, develop his talents, test the waters, if you will, to determine how much is too much, or perhaps even too little, how much it takes to irritate a female mind whether through the deployment of overattention, or the revocation of nearly enough. It is amusing, then, that he may well one day find himself falling for a green over a gold as only a chaotic neutral being can, which is to say totally inadvisably and with many, many relationship troubles to come when he does something that benefits him - her - them - with no regard as to what she will feel on the matter. He might love, your Zyddagath, truly and with what little tattered scraps he has, but it will be a world-ending day indeed when he willingly gives someone his heart.


Ki'lian! First of all, welcome to weyrlinghood! Second of all (on behalf of all of us here on your SearchCo team), congratulations!!! YOU MADE IT! YOU DID IT! Now you just gotta GET THROUGH ALL THOSE LESSONS AND YOU'LL BE A FREE MAN.

The theme for this search cycle was two-line horror stories! Your particular egg's story was: “Growing up with cats and dogs, I got used to the sound of scratching my door while I slept. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling.” and it was written by our fantastic greenie, Ty'rian!

His name, Zyddagath, comes from ‘Czernobog,’ the black god, and ‘Addanc,’ a crocodilian lake monster from Arthurian legend. Siobhan thought this was a particularly amusing reference to Ki’lian play-by’s take on Rumplestiltskin in the show ‘Once Upon a Time’ and couldn’t resist making use of it. We’ve been pronouncing it Zid-a-gath, with a nickname of Zyd to give him something to offer strangers to call him without revealing his full name Rumplestiltskin-style.

Alas, dear Ki’lian, you’ve asked for a chaotic neutral dragon and that is just what you have received! While we too agree that there’s little such thing as an evil dragon, your bronze toes that line as adeptly as he might, might well stick every single claw over it whilst blithely shouting that his toes are not over. He will be reigned in - by you or by a queen - because he will have to be, because he will not do it for himself. He likes who he is, revels in being his own man (er, dragon) in the ways that only characters like Jack Sparrow and Rumplestiltskin can truly define. He is as treasure-obsessed as any good pirate, as much an agent of chaos as any true Dark One, and we can only hope we’ve done justice to what you wanted to appear in your dragon!

— Siobhan, D’lei & Risali


Name Zyddagath
Dam Leirith
Sire Garouth
Created By D'lei, Siobhan, and Risali
Impressee Ki'lian (Kaellian)
Hatched November 30, 2018
Xanadu Weyr
PernWorld MUSH

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