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For aeons, your lineage ruled the surface world. Your reign was so long that none can say when it started, or how many phases of mystical and technological advancement rose and fell, laying geological strata one over another in layers upon layers of glorious history. Slit pupils watched as gods and kings rose and fell, and the world was shaped to your will. It was not an age of reptiles, but rather multiple ages, such as to make the briefness of the current mammalian reign look like a single flicker of your nictating membrane.
And in that era, that bygone Age of Scales, even kings had kings… The Dragons.
A dragon is no mere overgrown lizard, no treasure-hoarding kidnapper of princesses, as the surface-filth slander them. They were titanic, almost divine—demigodly philosopher kings who blacked out stars with their wingspans and rose over mountains in their majesties. They were wise beyond wisdom, powerful beyond comprehension, totally complete in their dominance. They were kings of the world not by some genealogical dictate, or even by the whims of fate or the weight of pooling battle-blood. They ruled as by default, by self-evident right, by their very nature. To be Dragon IS to be a lord of creation itself.
But the Age of Scales, the Age of Dragons, has passed into myth, legend, and nightmare, and beyond even that remembrance and into the simple, toothless fable which mammals tell their whelps to bring comfort instead of righteous fear. They have forgotten the sight and sound of the ones who once towered over their tallest citadels, shaming their wisest mages and extracting tribute from their fiercest warlords. They no longer remember the Fearsome Presence…
But you will remind them. You are their scion, their legacy made flesh!
Deep beneath the earth, you were hatched: a reptilian champion born from the Fleshweavers’ best efforts to bring forth those lingering dragons of dragonfire in the blood of the Reptilian Nobility, and to thus revive the great kings of old. In many ways, they succeeded—though you are yet young, you loom over most adult males. Your recessive traits have been brought to the fore, granting you a noble and draconic visage and wicked talons meant to crush the morale of foes and rip their tattered pride from their bleeding backs. Your skin is armour, your breath the primordial eruption of a volcano. Even those in the Serpent Priesthood, highest-honoured of your noble Master Race, struggle to hold your gaze.
You were trained from birth for a purpose: to rally the faithful, the loyal, the scattered nations of scalykind; to remind the mammals of the past which shall be future; to carry the banner of the Dark Gods Below and Beyond! Where the hairy, degenerate races of the surface put their faith in their weak and puny ‘Gods of Light’ and their pathetic ‘Paladins’, the Master Race puts its faith in you!
You are a DRAGONBORN ANTIPALADIN!
And in that era, that bygone Age of Scales, even kings had kings… The Dragons.
A dragon is no mere overgrown lizard, no treasure-hoarding kidnapper of princesses, as the surface-filth slander them. They were titanic, almost divine—demigodly philosopher kings who blacked out stars with their wingspans and rose over mountains in their majesties. They were wise beyond wisdom, powerful beyond comprehension, totally complete in their dominance. They were kings of the world not by some genealogical dictate, or even by the whims of fate or the weight of pooling battle-blood. They ruled as by default, by self-evident right, by their very nature. To be Dragon IS to be a lord of creation itself.
But the Age of Scales, the Age of Dragons, has passed into myth, legend, and nightmare, and beyond even that remembrance and into the simple, toothless fable which mammals tell their whelps to bring comfort instead of righteous fear. They have forgotten the sight and sound of the ones who once towered over their tallest citadels, shaming their wisest mages and extracting tribute from their fiercest warlords. They no longer remember the Fearsome Presence…
But you will remind them. You are their scion, their legacy made flesh!
Deep beneath the earth, you were hatched: a reptilian champion born from the Fleshweavers’ best efforts to bring forth those lingering dragons of dragonfire in the blood of the Reptilian Nobility, and to thus revive the great kings of old. In many ways, they succeeded—though you are yet young, you loom over most adult males. Your recessive traits have been brought to the fore, granting you a noble and draconic visage and wicked talons meant to crush the morale of foes and rip their tattered pride from their bleeding backs. Your skin is armour, your breath the primordial eruption of a volcano. Even those in the Serpent Priesthood, highest-honoured of your noble Master Race, struggle to hold your gaze.
You were trained from birth for a purpose: to rally the faithful, the loyal, the scattered nations of scalykind; to remind the mammals of the past which shall be future; to carry the banner of the Dark Gods Below and Beyond! Where the hairy, degenerate races of the surface put their faith in their weak and puny ‘Gods of Light’ and their pathetic ‘Paladins’, the Master Race puts its faith in you!
You are a DRAGONBORN ANTIPALADIN!
