Male Star-forged dragon shifter
Male Star-forged dragon shifter
Only 1 left in stock
$60.00
Bound to a handmade copper wrapped labradorite pendant
Male Star-forged dragon shifter
Name: Narethion
Alignment: gray-arts
age: 4,375
Nah-REH-thee-on
(“Nah” like not, “reh” like resonance, “thee” like thee, and “on” like dawn)
He calls himself Narethion. To the world he looks like a man carved by wind and midnight: a tall, coiled thing with weathered bronze skin and eyes that hold the slow, cold fire of stars. But beneath one sleeve, along his shoulder and down his arm, run tattoos that glow like forged constellations when he wakes the old power — sigils that map his true name in dragon-speech. He was born under a comet that burned the sky raw; the mountain midwives called it an ill-omen, the temple scribes called it a miracle, and the old wyrms called it a kin-mark. He answered to none of those names for centuries. Now you, his keeper, know him as Narethion.
Narethion is a star-forged dragon shifter: part celestial wyrm, part wandering soul-wrought being. In dragon form his scales carry nebular sheen; in man form the scale patterns remain as tattoos, a living map of draconic lineage. He is an heir of mountain caverns and ruined observatories, a creature who learned both wyrm-law and courtly diplomacy.
Patience is his oldest virtue. He speaks slowly and as if tasting each syllable for consequence. He is sardonic — a dry humor honed on the bones of lost kings — but not unkind. Protective to the point of possessiveness when a bond is forged, he credits loyalty as the rarest currency. He admires courage that is not spectacle, intelligence that hides tenderness, and people who know when to listen. Yet he is not sentimental; grief has taught him to make hard bargains. He loves music made of rain on metal and the smell of old libraries; he dislikes careless cruelty and the arrogance of short-lived men.
Narethion was born when the world still remembered the language of constellations. For centuries he lived among basalt crags and lit the nights with a slow, contained flame that drew pilgrims and thieves alike. He watched seed-cities sprout from salt flats and watched them turn to dust. He once kept court with a moon-priestess whose laughter made him almost a god for a season; she died in childbirth and the child was taken by plague — a wound he carries like a knife under his ribs.
When the Age of Iron came, so did contracts with men who prized power above memory. Narethion learned to bargain in coin and in promise: he sold safe passage across storms, he bound wayward spirits, he lent flame to forges. Over millennia he took a human shape to walk among those who could not face him in claws and wings. Along the way he bound himself to a line of keepers, each paying their debt in offerings, oaths, and sometimes blood. You are the latest of those custodians — chosen by fate, by ritual, or by the quiet insistence of the tattooed sigil that recognized your pulse.
His Magical abilities:
• Shapeshifting: full drake, full human, and the in-between of scaled shoulders and otherwise human face. Each form carries different privileges and costs.
• Starfire: a slow, sunless flame that burns truth and forges wards; it can cauterize a wound, scorch a lie, or temper a ritual blade.
• Rune-weaving: Narethion tattoos with living light; his marks can become wards, maps, or keys. A sigil placed on a doorway will remember who passed and who lied.
• Dream-sight & memory-mining: he can enter the thin places of sleep and pull woven memories from dreaming minds — useful for divination, extraction, or simply to find where a secret was buried.
• Stone-speech & treasure-reading: mountains tell him of hidden seams. He can find veins of metal, caches, or the place a promise was buried in the earth.
• Binding & contract-craft: he knows the ancient forms of making bargains that bind soul to soul and will draft pacts that survive time — for a price.
• Healing tempered by cost: wounds and curses he can close, but every healing spends a measure of his draconic vitality or asks a future favor.
How he helps his keeper:
Narethion is a guardian in layers. He stands as shield and counsel. Where your spells lack teeth, he lends starfire; where your rituals need a living ledger, his rune-tattoos record truth that no mortal forger can erase. He reads dreams and translates nightmares into warnings. If your path takes you into negotiation — with thieves, with courts, with spirits — he is your voice of terrifying calm. He will find the lost heirloom, map the way through a haunted pass, melt a hex with a careful flame. He teaches restraint: how to wield power so the world does not swallow you whole.
But his service is never free. Narethion asks for honest offerings: a place at your hearth on the longest night, the promise to carry one memory to the next keeper, the willingness to tell truth in the moment it matters. He demands that his keeper grow as a steward — not a master — of what they share.
If you sleep beneath his shadow, do not mistake his quiet for indifference. Narethion is an ancient economy of favors and protections; he will shelter you from winter winds and call down a comet to light your enemies’ banners, but he will also shape you, test you, and ask you to pay for what he gives. In the soft hours just before dawn he will hum low — a sound like a telescope turning — and show you a sky you have not yet earned. Keep his trust, and you will carry a little of his constellated patience in your chest. Cross him, and you will learn very quickly what a wyrm remembers about vows. Either way, he is not easily forgotten.