All know that dragons do not exist. All know they are long extinct. Thousands of years ago, Ill grant you, they ruled the earth, survivors of the First Wake and harbingers of the End of Days. Rearing at once both foul and majestic serpentine maws, unfurling their Eldred wings, taking flight and spewing forth their fiery contagion and opulent largesse, in equal measures, like wanton engines of destruction and sophisticated poet-sages, preaching only the greatest of wisdoms, while laying waste to the rapidly multiplying Lesser Races, all at once, terrible and magnificent to behold!
Opening passage from his famous work, Devolved Remnants of True-Wyrms and Dragon-Kinde
Only children, delusional knights, and myopic wizards yet cling to the hope that the Great Beasts still survive among us. Yet we are forever fascinated with Wyrm-Kinde are we not? And we yet fascinate them in turn, ever so rarely. Few of these noble and archaic creatures would ever stoop to interaction with mankind, despite what you may have read in other more fanciful tomes, but occasionally, a true Wyrm was known to conduct truck with members of the softer-skinned, younger races. One such despicable creature deserves a passage in this text, brief as I dare to be.
A runt, if ever there was one, a revolting weakling and mongrel clot, Moleskin was one such Dragon, who not only associated with humans, but went on to ingratiate himself into their pathetic ranks permanently. A True Wyrm, this author shall not call him, nor shall I pronounce his True Name, but Moleskin was as closely related to one of the Eldred Worms by blood as a twisted serpent dared to be. After all, he was an ancestor of Mighty Oblivion, and one of the Eleven Sons of The Spitting Fume. Unfortunately for Moleskin, he was the Eleventh Son.
Moleskin should have been mercilessly slain at birth, as all Last-Born runts in any litter should. An unwanted pup, he was fit to be tied in a sack and flung into a roaring river. A miserable, indolent albino from birth, one third the size of his egg-mates, twisted of limb and soul, a meek, desiccated, shivering parasite, Moleskin would have been surely devoured by his superior kin-brood, but whatever might and splendor he lacked, he made up for with a relentless guile, and an inextinguishable instinct to survive and thrive. The milksop lived, and caused the deaths of several of his sibling rivals in his stead, by whispering insidious words of discord, and stoking his kins jealousies.
Four of Eleven wyrms crawled forth from the Birthing Den that night, and Moleskin the Wretch was one of them. They all dispersed, four ways into the world, and of the other three nothing was heard from again.
Moleskin soon grew into his full size, no larger than a common mare, and no thicker than the thickest python, white as mammal milk, with fur instead of scales of the softest silk! He discovered that his pinkish eyes suffered from the harsh suns light. He quickly learned that his teeth were soft and brittle, when he pursued his first hart. When he first attempted to spew his fiery detritus, only blood, bile and pus came forth. And when he first attempted to soar to fulfill his birthright, Moleskin failed, his palsied wings betraying him. The wretch realized that in order to survive, he would have to manipulate those around him, more so than any dragon had done before him. He decided to be among humankind.
And so the feeble wretch lived, though less than nothing is known of the first two centuries of his blighted existence. Even this relentless researcher could not ascertain the worms movements, though rumors, both those with a grain of truth, and those most likely spread by the depraved whisperer himself exist in olden texts. There is some evidence in my possession that Saltwight the Pirate-Wyrme, that notorious creature which was never seen, but often heard from, along the Apaldian coast between the years 1080 TE-1140 TE was Moleskin in one of his many twisted incarnations. The creature supposedly advised and served those famous brigand brothers, Artog and Beleg Seven-Flies, contributing to the duos vice-like grip on the shipping lanes of the Apaldian Kingdom.
Years later, a wyrmling calling itself Rot, helped cause the downfall of the entire kingdom of Daranesse, at the behest of the queen of a rival country. There is good reason to believe that this was Moleskin as well, and little reason to doubt it.
Yet another two centuries unaccounted for, but then Moleskin, using his own, original, vile epithet for the first time in four hundred years, emerged in the tragically doomed kingdom of Lodwer-Ynsid, like a languid maggot wriggling forth from a rotted pear.
And so has it remained there, the bleak worm, coddled and hidden below the high, granite walls of the Grande Dyyvaretz, the royal palace of King Leudigrande, or Leudi the Great, and Queen Wenosanjia. There, deep beneath the innumerable stones of the Keep, in the macabre Donjon, does Moleskin to this day, writhe and whisper.
For the last three hundred years, Moleskin has subsisted inside the castle walls. Ever since the Drakeling first arrived and began murmuring his venomous schemes and sycophantic flatteries into the ear of Kaltigrosse, or Kalti the Fat, then King of Lodwer-Ynsid, the royal family has kept the Prized Adviser sated and coddled. Few of the peasant-folk knew of Moleskins existence, as the royal heirs and scions kept the milk-livered Whisperer, a well-kept secret over the centuries. Nevertheless words spread, as words often do, and it followed, that during the reign of Glebberauld, or Gleb the Tree, the flag of Lodwer-Ynsid came to bear the snaking White Wyrm as its standard, while the common folk could only gossip and rumormonger as to the inspiration.
Lacking the talent of shape-changing as well as the gift of flight, Moleskin rarely emerges from his self-imposed tomb. The servants that tend to his daily requirements, appointed by the King himself, and often, but not always, blinded or de-tongued during, or soon after the appointment, ably serve the wyrmlings needs. Little does it require in nourishment. Fattened, spawning, salmon from the kingdoms rivers, unborn fetuses of kid and mare, and milk. Most of all, the mewling abomination craved human milk. Once a year, every year, twelve milkmaids, or nursing midwives were chosen by the Palace Mistress of Ceremonies and sent below, to the Prized Adviser. Such was the agreement struck between Moleskin and Kaltigrosse all those years ago, and so it has been followed to the present day, a tradition the royal siblings now find mundane, the horror and abuse of the chosens destiny, lost on their decadent psyches.
What foul and unspeakable fates the woman suffer at the cloying, silky-skinned weaklings grasping, withered claws and stained brittle teeth, this author does not know, but when they emerge anew, they are drained of their life-giving fluids, pallid and languid, able to continue with their lives, but spiritually broken, unable and dismissive of the idea of having children or sharing their lives with mates ever again.
The weakling draws further sustenance from sewing dissonance. Even without physical nourishment, legends claim Moleskin can survive on discord alone and by simply feeding on the baser emotions of humans, emanating like gooey drops of honey from the pinkish flesh of its masters.
Moleskin serves as the adviser to the royal brood. It advises each royal in turn, King Leudigrande on his conquests and holdings, Queen Wenosanjia on her palace politics and policies, Prince Tyggoverich, or Tygg the Truthful, on his ambitions and schemes and the Princess Vollisanta, on her amorous trysts and calculated romances.
And so the Blighted thrive, when surrounded by deluded toadies and parasites.
So ends my entry on Moleskin, an accursed blot on Dragon Kinde. The gods of Serpentdom failed their collective, mighty broods, when they allowed this foul, near-stillborn runt to live.
Morkoel Rasher, author of the above entry, one of many from his expansive grimoire of work, Devolved Remnants of True-Wyrms and Dragon-Kinde, is himself rumored to be a dragon in human guise. Though sages and whisperers can prove nothing, it is further speculated by them, that Morkoel Rasher was indeed even a fellow brood-kin of Moleskin, one of the surviving sons of the Spitting Fume! This theory lends credence to the speculations behind the derisive, scathing tone, Morkoel Rasher takes on, in his highly informative but mocking review of the Albino Worm he calls Moleskin.
? Golden (9 voters / 9 votes)
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? Responses (23)-22
This is the most vile and disgusting beast I have ever concidered using in a game, and I assure you...I will.
Splendid! A white, furry dragon runt! It kind of makes you feel soiled just reading about him!
A dragon with a huge difference-one that depends on humans to survive.
What a base and dissolute wretch, to so meekly live behind the aegis of humanity, so fawn at the feet of mortal kings and petty despots...yet mayhap Moleskin will be one of those wyrms to reach the end of their years not by blade or claw, but by the slow tread of time.
You literally sound Shakespearean here. Wow, words!
A suitably repulsive manipulator that just begs to be used and killed by some noble hero. (Though Scrasamax may be right on the matter of his death.)
A wretched creature that survives by manipulating the humans around it.
Creepy. I like it.
The character is very well developed and the story is original but what impresses me the most the is the way that it is narrated, excellent submission.
For some reason, this brings to mind the Homonculous in the Dr. Who epsiode...
In any case, this is the most original take on a dragon I've ever seen.
Kudos and a 5/5 from me on this one!
Creepy. (and Very cool.) immediate favorite!
I am always looking for more flavor and such in my games. I like this a lot
Oh, hell yes. I already like this horrific creature more han almost anything else I've ever seen. However, in a way, the concept, although innovative, has still been done before. Think about it: Moleskin is a horrific monster, and yet is a dragon- supposedly the greatest and noblest creatures in history; an essentially evil character who was supposed to be noble and proud. It reeks of being like Macbeth (I subscribe to the theory that Macbeth was always and evil jackass of the highest caliber)! However, I like the whole personality you've given him, and how it's rubbed off on the kingdom he's chosen to dwell in, like a viral infection really (I'm a big zombie fan, so the virus comparison is inevitable). You mind if I maybe use him in a story sometime? It'll probably involve some boys from our time (common theme in my plots) or some guys from another realm I've made up winding up in YOUR realm, in its lair, and having to kill it, thus pissing off the royals and forcing them to fight their way to safety.
Be my guest, angryone :) And sure, i guess you could say this is a tad shakespearean. I'll take that "done before" every day of the week! lol
MacBeth meets Homonculous in the Dr. Who epsiode O_o Perfect, love it, i could not have planned it better myself :p
Yikes! That business with human milk was... unpleasant... Strangely, though, he comes across as partially sympathetic (or at least pathetic). I like it!
I thought this concept was exceptional. Just the basic character is exploitable even before the suggested history. This is one of my favorite entries in the citadel!
How could I have missed this?
Amazing. Well told. In order to be so completely prized by the kingdom in which Moleskin lives, his advice must never be wrong... at least not visibly wrong. It makes me wonder what terrible resources are at this abomination's disposal.
All he wants is his earthly pleasures and, if satisfied, he will gladly dole out advice to those that maintain him. I was wondering how he would have a lot of information from the outside to be able to be informed enough to give advice about managing lands and such. At first I thought some kind of second sight that allowed him to travel in other ways but then I realized...he probably doesn't really care. If he gives the wrong advice and the kingdom falls or changes hands...who really cares. He moves on or offers his service to the next...after removing those that actually knew he was there that is.
He is in a great position and takes advantage of it!
Eugh. A horridly splendid submission, though I wish I hadn't read it before lunch. It's the little things -- the excellent narration, the fact that Moleskin doesn't kill the women sent to him but does arguably much worse, the fur instead of the scales . . . it all comes together brilliantly to create a thoroughly repulsive villain. I wonder if he has a greater plan, coming slowly together over the centuries. Perhaps further fratricide? Killing off the rest of the healthy brood seems like the sort of petty activity he'd engage in. Well done!
A perfect gem of the citadel!
5/5 Hoh too, Perfect scores in art and usefullness, makes my sub look like used toilet paper.
Damn that is good. I love the tone you set and the consistent cord struck by all your metaphors. Plus, having a piece written with an in-game voice makes the world all the richer. Wish you wrote more things.