A loner who prowls the swamps and foothills of the Isle, Skraa has become a legend among both clans of the island. Darkscales revere him, Silverscales fear him, yet both have seen his unbridled rage in moments of mindbroken anger. Few know his tragic past, yet the scars that grace his hulking form tell the story of a dragon who has seen loss unmourned: family’s slaughtered, loved ones tortured until their spirit can no longer carry on. All this he carries upon his back and in his heart, and in the quiet moments, they shatter him.
These are the moments, however, that also fuel him. The emotions that he conjures up in the what of the battle, that drive him to frenzy. A flurry of swords he will unleash upon his foes, with the strength of a giant and the speed of a cheetah, his eyes roll back into jet-black orbs as his body begins to take over, cutting down any that stand in front of him. Oftentimes his regained senses treat him to the eviscerated corpses of his enemies, though seldom they can curse him with the corpse of an ally who was dealt a glancing blow in the bloodshed. As such, Skraa rarely makes friends or allies, keeping to himself as he prowls the swamplands, searching for any Silverscales who dare tread in his land.
With the coming war, he has volunteered his services to Sovram, in hopes he will be sent to the frontline. Though he might not find the death he seeks there, lest he is fortunate, he will at least create plenty for the Silverscales, as he piles their corpses higher than Dragonmaw’s peak. Though he knows the bloodshed won’t bring them back, he just knows it will bring him some sense of closure before he can warmly embrace his end.
A loner who prowls the swamps and foothills of the Isle, Skraa has become a legend among both clans of the island. Darkscales revere him, Silverscales fear him, yet both have seen his unbridled rage in moments of mindbroken anger. Few know his tragic past, yet the scars that grace his hulking form tell the story of a dragon who has seen loss unmourned: family’s slaughtered, loved ones tortured until their spirit can no longer carry on. All this he carries upon his back and in his heart, and in the quiet moments, they shatter him.
These are the moments, however, that also fuel him. The emotions that he conjures up in the what of the battle, that drive him to frenzy. A flurry of swords he will unleash upon his foes, with the strength of a giant and the speed of a cheetah, his eyes roll back into jet-black orbs as his body begins to take over, cutting down any that stand in front of him. Oftentimes his regained senses treat him to the eviscerated corpses of his enemies, though seldom they can curse him with the corpse of an ally who was dealt a glancing blow in the bloodshed. As such, Skraa rarely makes friends or allies, keeping to himself as he prowls the swamplands, searching for any Silverscales who dare tread in his land.
With the coming war, he has volunteered his services to Sovram, in hopes he will be sent to the frontline. Though he might not find the death he seeks there, lest he is fortunate, he will at least create plenty for the Silverscales, as he piles their corpses higher than Dragonmaw’s peak. Though he knows the bloodshed won’t bring them back, he just knows it will bring him some sense of closure before he can warmly embrace his end.
