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D O M I C I L E The Wastelands (Tsardom of the Scorched Expanse) Full Name: Korrn Vladyrovich Zmey Role: Self-proclaimed savior of his dominion Partner: - Family: - Friends: The closest thing to what could be considered a friendship he shares with his Starosta Gorak, and formerly Ejnar until they had a fallout. Likes: Army drills (preferably in the early morning breeze). Quality craftsmanship. Dried meat. Palm wine. Dislikes: Hot, sweet beverages. Wastefulness. Other: He teaches every member of his personal army, the Druzhina Vanguard, to shapeshift just like him. Though, not all of his warriors actually learn the skill fully. He himself was taught by his father, as is common in their family, for reasons Korrn never had a chance to learn. With scales that shimmer like blazing sun, He conquers deserts, his realm begun. A master of change, a form so grand, Tsar of sands, ruler of land. From dunes to mountains, his dominion vast, Korrn's power unyielding, forever to last. With every shift, a new mask he dons, Golden idol, where legends spawn. • • • Amidst the sands, where empires fall, Korrn arises, a sovereign of thrall. Dragon's might and idol's gleam, Shape-shifting lord, a tyrant's dream. Golden scales, a shimmering guise, Conqueror's thirst in amber eyes. Desert kingdoms bend to his will, Puppets of power, destiny's quill. From form to form, he dances free, Tsar of chaos, realms to decree. In shadows cast, his dominion's spun, A being unrivaled, eclipsing the sun. bio idea by Seeker, poem by a friend, lore by SealedSalt | K O R R N "It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies." Shapeshifting Tyrant | Imperious | Cunning War is a tasteless, violent act which most do not have the hair nor stomach for. However, even fewer possessed the spine for the aftermath of such unpleasantness. Bodies stacked into tall, writhing piles ripe for the vultures and maggots. The sands are stained crimson, the dry air tainted with the overwhelming stench of decay. If one were to listen closely, past the shifting of the dunes and the bustle of the wildlife, then they would hear the whispering of ghosts. Korrn pays no mind to them as he cleans and polishes his knife. The metal is cool beneath his claws, a stark contrast to the blister of the surrounding sands. He can easily glimpse his reflection within the glossy surface, and yet, still, he scrubs. Strip clean the impurity, the gore, and the horrors. He cannot clean his soul the same way, but at least he can clean his weaponry. Around him, the air grows ranker; the humming and buzzing of flies all the louder. Korrn pauses in his thankless task, instead breathing in deep as he examines the surrounding massacre. His army always desired to burn the corpses, but what point was there in that? Burnt to ash, the dead could serve no one. The humble maggot needed to eat just as much as any dragon did. The scorpions and spiny lizards could make use of skulls and broken femurs for housing. Even the vultures, crass as they were, had their own children to feed. Korrn knew the agonising gnaw of hunger well. Years of his youth spent withering within its clutches, he could emphasise with the starving all too well. So, as long as the dead were removed from the cities where they could serve as vectors of disease, then what was the harm in returning bodies to the earth? Besides, it was not as if any of these dragons deserved the peace cremation would bring. Let their bodies rot and fester. Let the maggots grow fat off of them as they had grown fat from the suffering of others. Kingdoms and cities rich with famine, the wealthy breaking the backs of the poor. Korrn himself had grown up in such a site of injustice. Now that he was older, stronger and braver, he would not stand for such cruelties to continue. Ruler by ruler, dynasty by dynasty, he would put an end to poverty and pestilence. Those who had sat by and witnessed the atrocities occurring within their walls did not deserve their crowns. It was time someone stood up to them, time someone plucked the gold from their scalps and redistributed it to the people. The polished blade makes a pleasant shink of noise as Korrn sheathes it. He stands to his feet, stretching out his stiff spine and aching legs. There is a steady throb to his muscles, the afteraches of battle. It will wane with time as all pains do, however, it will leave him with several new additions to his steadily growing collection of scars. Alas, such trivialities were irrelevant. Korrn had won here, conquering this land and freeing its people to a future of prosperity beneath his reign. He could shift his scales just like these shifting sands if he so desired; donning a new face for the future. Snake. Viper. Rat. He had been called many things before, and while cruel, they did hold truth to them. How could emperors keep watch for the king-slayer when it shed its scales and infiltrated their realms? Sometimes Korrn would win an empire through tyranny and violent siege. Sometimes he would utilise his cunning and charms to infiltrate ranks and slit throats. To the bourgeois, there was no pattern to it. To Korrn, it was clear and simple. Those which had ranks rotten to the core were slaughtered like pigs. Those with glimmers of goodness still in their ranks were often spared. Afterall, if he was to rescue as many dominions as possible, then he required armies of support. Such a thing was surprisingly difficult to come by, especially when rumours spread like wildfire of one’s monstrous nature. Was it really so barbaric to dismantle corrupt kingdoms? Was it despicable and wretched to wish an end to famine, poverty, and slavery? Korrn could not fix cursed soils, but he could behead those who bled the lands dry and poisoned the waters. He could cut them down one by one until the heads of this awful hydra quit regrowing. The ghosts still chatter incessantly, but Korrn has never paid heed to their gossip. He cracks his neck, rolls out his shoulders, and steps around the bodies. Intending to make his way back to the newly won kingdom, something catches his eye. A glimmer of gold amidst the reddish-brown sands, a fine silk pouch swarmed with ants. Korrn sweeps his tail over it, causing the small insects to scatter. He leans down, scooping the bag from the clutches of the dead soldier. It is lightweight and lumpy within his hands and faintly warm from the sun’s bite. Curious, Korrn pulls the bag’s drawstring open and tips the contents out onto his open palm. Immediately, he feels his heart sink and his jaw creak as it grits together unbearably tight. It is a handful of dates. The fruits are small, round, and plump, a sickly sweet scent emanating from them. To all others, the treats would likely appear enticing. To Korrn, they make his stomach churn nauseatingly. He drops the handful to the floor and stomps on them for good measure. Tail flicking irritably, he sets off. Back to his armies. Back to his newest kingdom. Back to the spoils of war which he rightfully earned. When had diplomacy ever helped anyone? When had gentle persuasion and peaceful talks ever seen progress made for the people of these lean lands? Korrn was no tyrant, no villain, no merciless barbarian. He was the coming saviour. Listening to the ghosts of past friends won’t help him achieve these goals. Ejnar had been wrong about how to save these lands, just as he had been wrong in his claim that Korrn had never cared. He had always cared. Wasn’t there proof of that in every action he took? Wasn’t there proof of that in how he did everything he could to save others? Wasn’t there proof of that in how he still thought of almond milk and tea breaks and wings which shimmered like night skies? The ghost with a sweet tooth for dates can stay far, far behind him. • • • |
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