(( Work in Progress ))
There's little which could ever hide this one's frame; billowing, leathery wings sprout from between his shoulders.
Scales traverse his body, hugging tight to steel-cord muscle that speaks of an unmistakably epic strength.
They bind his body like chain and plate, gnarled scale and scutes forming talon'd gauntlets.
A tail drags a gouge in the ground behind him, near equal to his own imperious height.
All the while, a gaze like that of a feral predator rakes your form with a hunger.
What is known
However, one cycle nine turns ago saw the sweeping fortress of dragons, half-breeds, and other heralds of the Golden Lady destroyed. Nobody knows what happened, only that when the light rose, it rose not on white marble and a bustling keep, but on a smote ruin loitered with corpses desecrated beyond recognition, beyond recovery. Even as the cycle reached midday, not a single one of the dead rose. Of just over three-hundred, barely ten survived. Only one of them housed the original blood of the pact. Aesgellionidyr Basdhel, fifth of his line. For many winters he went missing, before any canny blood might have picked up rumors of a battle-wyrm blooded cutter in Sigil. Not many of those around, eh...?