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A screech. A howl in the dark. A keening cry in the depths of the night. This was all that could be said about the destruction he left in his wake. A name? He had none. Was it important? A strong opponent. This was what he desired. Perhaps somewhere deep down inside, he simple longed to be stopped. But he yearned, and he fought. For what, it didn't matter. Alone as he had always been, he didn't care what became of those he defeated, only that they ended up dead after his passing. If they could not best him, they did not deserve to live. Even now, he stalked through darkness, tracking his next prey. The blood on his claws would not wash off, but he did not want it to. His soul was a cacophony of chaos, and his body an instrument of death. Was it the result of some twisted past? Nay. He enjoyed the killing. He found sport in the shedding of blood. It was he that was twisted, cleaving a path of darkness into the future. He twisted his own past to justify his future. His mother, father, and the rest of the clutch into which he was born had been very caring. As he had grown, he found that, so too, did his resentment of them. When he grew large enough, he attacked his brothers and sisters, tasting their blood for the first time. And he relished the taste. His parents he made quick work of as well. It wasn't enough. He belonged to nothing and no one. He was beholden to none. He was free and he was dangerous. No dragon was safe from his urges. He took no interest in the lives of others; only in their deaths. In this way he lived, fought, and grew, fighting and killing anything that appeared before him. Growing strong feasting on the thrill of each kill.
Description by the amazing Reiraku from Schoolofdragons.com
