Keep your hands off that which is not yours to claim. (Reference only with permission.)
“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” — Romans 12:12
| Father Brightwing | |
|---|---|
| Artist | IllusionTheDreamWing |
| Background | |
| Creator | IllusionTheDreamWing |
| Attributes | Faith, trustworthiness |
| MBTI | INFJ |
| Quote | "You don’t need to earn the right to exist in this world." |
| Alignment | Lawful good |
| Voiceclaim | Hamish Linklater |
| Character information | |
| Aliases |
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| Tribe(s) | SkyWings |
| Age | 32 d/y (hatched in 4,970 AS) |
| Pronouns | He/Him |
| Gender | Male |
| Orientation | demisexual |
| Relatives |
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| Occupation |
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| Residence | Sky Kingdom, Northwood settlements, Dragontree Church |
| Goal(s) |
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| Dislikes |
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| Abilities |
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| Weaknesses |
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| Allies |
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| Enemies |
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O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,
Brightwing takes on numerous roles, each accompanied by a weight of responsibilities he endures without complaint.
With a unique capacity for empathizing with others, he feels deep pain when witnessing their struggles and seeing their emotions flow out when they open up to him. He is at all times present for those in need of guidance and tirelessly seeks solutions to their problems, no matter how challenging they may be. He channels all his energy into ensuring that no one feels excluded in his community and shows remarkable devotion to shining a light in the lives of others.
Brightwing is—fair to say—a workaholic, adept at multitasking to the point where his schedule hardly permits any downtime. This relentless pace stems mainly from his profession as the political representative for three historically contentious settlements, which places the well-being of his people squarely on his shoulders. In short, he is always on the move. If he were ever to carve out a moment for himself, he likely would end up dedicating it to work, as always.
At the end of the day, despite the exhaustion and weight he carries, Brightwing is reluctant to burden others with his struggles or appear even slightly vulnerable beneath his usual optimistic act. Therefore, he goes to great lengths to hide his fatigue—the subtle droop of his shoulders, the way his eyelids flutter, or his tendency to stare blankly at the floor. He does so because he does not want to let down those who rely on him or disappoint those who trust his strength.
Horatius earnestly struggles to sound angry, even when he feels it deeply. Instead, his tone takes on a heavy, melancholic quality when he tries to assert himself as if he’s on the brink of tears from sheer exhaustion. He finds himself unable to engage in conflict and is reluctant to give in to his frustration.
There are moments when glimpses of his youthful self emerge. He displays an unusual boldness and impulsiveness, driven by a passionate nature that sometimes leads him to act too swiftly for someone in his position. Not to say that if any of his loved ones—the few who remain—were ever in grave danger, he would not hesitate to confront the threat head-on and retaliate with full force.
Truth be told, his spirit has deteriorated beyond what any SkyWing priest would consider necessary for true salvation and reincarnation, and deep down, he recognizes this. He is exhausted—exhausted from pretending he has moved past the loss of his wife and that everything is fine. He’s weary of his doubts and the resentment that gnaws at him, of wrestling with his sins, of watching as his beloveds die, of ruining everything he touches. He does not feel blessed. No—he feels damned. Abandoned.
Horatius tends to see the goodness in others that he struggles to recognize in himself. Although he may present himself as righteous, speaking passionately about faith and virtue—as is required of one such as him—the truth is that he frequently avoids his own reflection. Deep down, Horatius feels beyond salvation. Time is not on his side, even as he grapples with the desperate need to atone for his sins.
Gradually, Horatius has begun to lean toward the belief that he might be delusional, just as he has always been told. Perhaps he sounds insane when he preaches about a being who rules over all souls; Maybe his faith is starting to waver at long last.
And perhaps, in his mind, he feels foolish believing he deserves another shot at redemption for abandoning his loved ones when they needed him the most. But everyone deserves another chance... right?
Sometimes he wonders how many of his chances he has already burned through.
and I detest all my sins,
Horatius's scales shimmer in a delicate shade of pale, reminiscent of cedar. His underbelly glows with a warm, peanut hue that nearly edges into a pearl-like hue, mirroring the colour of his horns and spine.
He has a tall, slender frame that, combined with his composed demeanour and jet-black priest attire, makes him stand out in any crowd. Yet, his charm is often diminished by the subtle signs of exhaustion that mark his appearance: his eyes—a deep, rare brown not typically found among SkyWings—frequently appear sunken and dull, as if the spark of life has been drained from them long ago. His posture has a barely noticeable slouch as if the weight of an entire congregation rests on his shoulders.
On the right side of his neck, just above the jugular, there are several deep scars—remnants from a long-ago encounter never forgotten—that were likely inflicted by razor-sharp claws, leaving marks that never fully healed over time. Additionally, (from his perspective) his right horn is cracked and damaged, a feature he has voiced his frustration about on several occasions. He often makes light of it whenever he notices other dragons staring, using humour to deflect their gazes.
Horatius's voice is described as low and curiously comforting, carrying an almost addictive, mesmerising quality that draws listeners in. With a smooth, buttery texture and a subtly gravelly, melancholic undertone, it occasionally breaks at intervals, shifting in tone and pitch to let other emotions peek through, much like a song.
Around his neck, he wears a simple priest collar that is adorned with a ring of multiple keys—some unlock the doors of Dragontree Church; his home; a hybrid shelter he founded alongside Father Amorth; one key opens the safe holding a man-eating demon-possessed antique (details). His attire is consistently functional; at the end of the day, he often falls asleep from sheer exhaustion in his priest robes, which consist of either black or occasionally purple capelet draping elegantly over his chest and shoulders, accentuating his figure.
A black ribbon featuring a mannaz rune is wrapped around his cracked right horn, draping loosely behind his ear, while a single glimmering silver ring can be seen resting on his unshattered left horn.
Slung across his body is a jet leaf bag—a practical accessory that serves two essential purposes: utility and warm memories of his religious travels across the Pantalan continent. Despite its small appearance, the bag's interior is surprisingly spacious, always having room for one more.
At times, he carefully balances small round glasses with thick lenses on his snout—an essential yet begrudged accessory for a near-sighted dragon his age. While he might silently grumble about their necessity, he knows he must wear them to avoid prematurely losing sight.
because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell,
In the year 4,970 AS, Horatius was born to the Pravita, a prestigious lineage of holy dragons and dragonesses that traces its roots deep into SkyWing history, revered and treated with the same respect as aristocrats, with strong ties to the political sphere and a wealth rivalling that of the Royal palace.
Like many politicians, the Pravita were corrupt and self-serving. To uphold their familial façade, they adhered rigidly to ancient SkyWing tradition, often marrying figures from powerful families solely to preserve their fortune. In the distant past, intermarriage among cousins had been commonplace to maintain the lineage, but the practice was dropped after several cases of illness arose.
Horatius's parents were not particularly overbearing, by any standard. They held beliefs no different from those of their ancestors and those before. Naturally, Horatius conformed to family tradition, as demanded; he would have embodied the ideal young Pravita if it wasn't for his particular imagination, which often led him to think outside the box. Gradually, as the dragonet grew, he became known as the family's black sheep for his blasphemous beliefs. But no matter what, he had faith there was more to a continuous cycle of SkyWing souls reincarnating—a conviction he stood loyal to despite its perceived sacrilege.
His immediate family, aside from his parents, regarded these ideas as unorthodox, yet one family member stood by him: his grandfather and godfather, Amorth. Rather than suppressing it, the priest encouraged Horatius's independent thinking, even providing him resources for his more "controversial" questions, much to the elders' outrage. Though not in high esteem among the family due to his paranoia about demonic spirits and possessions, Amorth held valuable connections and wealth, ensuring his "toleration" in the family.
Nine years into Horatius's life, the Pravita had ramped up their efforts to aid the impoverished settlements of Northwood. They distributed food, medical supplies, and resources to the local inhabitants, all to generate a promising image and forge alliances with a select group of affluent families they hoped to unite with their own.
The first disgrace that befell the Pravita was the death of Horatius's twin sister. As a volunteer medic at Northwood, she fought to her last breath to defend the settlement against attackers on the day of the Northwood Massacre. The Pravita wasted no time using her loss to enhance their standing, lamenting the tragedy and extolling the young girl's bravery.
Horatius was never the same after that. He had always disdained his family’s ways, but now he was utterly repulsed and astounded. Each day, he grappled with why his twin had to be taken from him out of all dragons. The weight of grief hung over him, and it wasn’t until many years later that he began to heal.
His sister’s death, being the firstborn, also meant that he was now obligated to enter an arranged marriage as the last remaining offspring, in line with family tradition. Experiencing this firsthand was far different from hearing about it as a young dragonet—and for the worse. The stress and resentment of being tied to another against his will for purely economic reasons went against everything he believed.
Thus, when he came of age, he sought refuge in his godfather's seminary to escape his fate, later distancing himself further from his family by taking a position outside of Northwood; Despite his lackluster academic performance and his status as an unfinished pastor, Horatius found it relatively straightforward to secure a position as the SkyWing Royal mortician—primarily due to the advantages of his aristocratic blood, as much as he despised the mere thought of using that to his advantage.
At the SkyWing Royal Palace, he received respect comparable to that offered to a servant. While the healers and attendants were eager to assist him and engaged in lengthy, meaningful conversations—sometimes even seeking his advice—he felt unwelcome. The new Queen, Scarlet, was nauseatingly cordial in her interactions, yet she always made her disdain for his kind inexplicitly clear—an endeavour all too painstakingly familiar to his relatives, and an unwelcome reminder of home.
Yet, he chose to disregard such behaviours. Having distanced himself from the poison of his relatives, he found solace in his faith, trusting that somewhere out there, reincarnation and evil spirits held greater significance than they seemed. He would catch little hints in the flight of the birds and the colour of the winter leaves—perhaps messages left by some higher power—but kept these thoughts to himself, sharing them with no one...
Not anyone, save the prodigal daughter of the late Queen Firestorm.
They had met on occasion, and over the months leading to his two-and-a-half-year anniversary on the job, they grew to appreciate one another. Although Horatius had preferred to keep to himself and wouldn’t have dreamt of striking up a conversation with royalty, Beryl had no such reservations, apparently, and was the first in ages to break through his tough social shell. She did it with very little grace, especially for someone of royal blood. She seemed thoroughly indifferent to the disapproving glares from her relatives whenever she bent the rules of etiquette. Beryl distanced herself from the royals, openly hurling snarky comments at the Queen. As far as the young princess was concerned, she was no more than an outsider in her own family—the black sheep all over again. Horatius found her situation queerly relatable.
Although he had taken his oath of chastity by then, he couldn't deny that the young princess lived up to the notorious beauty rumoured throughout the kingdom. Yet, her allure extended far beyond her looks. She had an uncanny ability to understand him, never faltering or judging when he passionately spoke of the mighty power he had come to revere; of the messages and hints of His existence that surrounded and enveloped them—of every infinite grain of sand on a beach telling of the grandness of His creation.
Beryl had shown him kindness where others had failed, and Horatius had come to acknowledge a feeling in his chest that he once thought impossible whenever he was with her. Hells—she was the reason he had laughed aloud in over a year. Still, deep down, he understood he could never measure up to her. He knew he could never be worthy of her.
One thing led to another, and soon they were friends, then—perhaps as Horatius had both hoped and feared—partners, and eventually, in the quiet of the night—husband and wife.
The chambers of Horatius's heart were plagued with doubt. This was not a new sensation for him. He worried about the consequences of such a dangerous union and felt guilty for the vows he had repeatedly broken. He had deceived his family, chosen a partner, and entered into marriage, and now he feared it might cost them dearly—perhaps condemning them to wander the earth for eternity after their demise.
But then, they were unexpectedly blessed with a miracle, and all his doubts seemed to melt away. Yes, it was miracle... though it came at a significant cost.
The Pravita were soon struck by a second tragedy: the knowledge that their wayward family member, the black sheep they had tried so hard to reform, had gone astray and committed the utmost act of betrayal—he had tarnished the family's name.
Queen Scarlet had never held much regard for her rogue sister, and while the Pravita had served their purpose in the past, she believed it was time to curtail their influence. She just needed the perfect opportunity... just one misstep. And then the young priest delivered that chance right to her door.
The second tragedy to befall the Pravita was the arrival of a child.
Horatius had agreed to let the waters settle and to endure a provisional exile from his homeland.
Of course, he wasn’t thinking clearly when he signed that contract with trembling claws. Nor was he in a stable mindset when, with one horn missing and gaping bloody neck gashes marking his neck, he burst through his godfather's door; babbling frantically, barely making sense, as fresh images of his beloved wife's once radiant, beautiful body and features—now charred beyond recognition—flashed before his eyes.
They had not even allowed him to keep her ashes. He had pleaded and begged with them to let him perform the proper post-mortem ritual to ensure Beryl could reincarnate, but they refused and threatened to lock him up. She is doomed—that phrase echoed endlessly in Horatius's mind—doomed to walk the continents forever.
Despite Amorth's efforts to negotiate on his behalf, to spare themselves from the consequences of being connected to Horatius, the Pravi chose to sever ties completely. They dismissed the young priest and went so far as to erase him from the family tree. Repudiated, rejected—He was as if he had never existed to them.
He found himself isolated—alone, with only his thoughts, his fears, and his wavering faith to keep him company. Family was a distant memory; almost all traces of his existence seemed to have been wiped away.
In that moment of realisation, he laughed—a bitter, hysterical laugh at the absurdity of his situation, because what else could he do?
Perhaps years passed by as he roamed the continents, searching, driven by a desperate curiosity to glimpse whether a higher being truly existed. Maybe he hoped to uncover a reason behind the horrific tragedy that had shattered his life. He rarely slept a wink; whenever he closed his eyes, the dreadful scent of scorched flesh invaded his senses, and he saw his wife’s charred face looming over him, rasping the haunting question: why? Why had he failed them? How had he fallen so low?
And then there was their egg. Lord forgive him— their precious dragonet who had never harmed a soul. He had no idea where that little creature was. Horatius could hardly bear to think about it, petrified at the thought of what might have happened, especially if Scarlet had turned on their dragonet as well. He was too cowardly to find out.
He longed for home; he missed his parish, his godfather's seminary. Heck, he even felt nostalgic for Northwood, despite it being a town steeped in death and decay.
As he went through his days, immersing himself in the languages, traditions, and beliefs of the native tribes—a priest from the distant SkyWings struggling to pronounce simple Pantalan words—his mind couldn’t shake off the resentment that gnawed at him. He craved revenge, even though he felt deep down that he shouldn’t; it seemed like a sin, and Horatius was already convinced he was beyond redemption.
To numb the ache of these thoughts and his burden, he sought solace in the impulse those with wavering faith turn to during difficult times: he gave in to his desires, indulging perhaps a bit too much in that wretched Pantalan liquor. There he would sit, empty shattered bottle in his claws, mumbling a broken prayer.
Except for one of those hallowed nights, a divine sign came—not in the form of holy spirits, peace-bringing white doves, or otherworldly beings delivering a message. Instead, it came in the shape of a letter; an object which held the weight of his deepest fears and longings, revealing that all those years ago, his life could have taken a different path if he hadn't allowed his fears to seize him. It was a note from the SkyWing kingdom, stating in no long terms that Scarlet's reign of terror had expired. By the way, the Queen had a knack for bragging about the treason of the sender's father. Yes, you moron, your daughter is alive and well. Though she may hate your guts, she still wants to meet; hugs and kisses, Dad.
On one of those hallowed nights, Horatius had hastily collected his belongings, leaving behind nothing but a last-minute scribbled note in broken Pantalan. Perhaps trusting in his desperate act, fueled by a flicker of possibility, he had left for his homeland to the distant settlements of Northwood, Pyrrhia.
The town was haunted. Not by daemons or beasts, but by something far more insidious—an evil he had never anticipated even encountering. He could feel its evil weave in the mountain air, clinging stubbornly to his wings—the wings of Brightwing. Whatever lurked there was unhappy to have him intruding on its hunting grounds.
It certainly did not help that he had begun trying to drive away the spirit from the start. After all, his responsibility was to assist the people and reap the weeds. As a preacher, he had been sharing his message for nearly 30 years, but it was only there and then that he found his voice.
He had heard whispered tales about this fiend, this Lurk. He was no stranger to being haunted, having spent decades roaming across continents, often mistaking dragons for fleeting glimpses of Her. Her charred face seemed to ever follow him from afar. Indeed, the priest was also haunted; had always been.
The fiend knew that Horatous meant business, just as he comprehended and repudiated the horror of the devil’s intentions. At times, he could almost sense its presence in a room, looming over him and trying to draw out his fear—it thrived on that trepidation. Yet whenever he turned to meet its gaze, the dark figure would vanish as if it had never existed.
Still plagued by the fear of Alcyone's rejection, Horatius hesitated to share the news of his return, despite his godfather's insistence to reach out to her. He had personal matters to sort through, and he didn’t believe she was ready to face him. Many days he sat down to write her a letter, but each time he crumpled the paper in frustration, unable to find the right words.
Thus, he was caught off guard when his daughter unexpectedly showed up at his door one day. Her face, hauntingly familiar, was etched with lines of pure hatred and fury. In a moment of panic, he nearly slammed the door in a rush, but she stormed in before he could think twice. Vile, she spat at him—uncaring, shameful, Unforgivable. With each word dripping with venom, he could see her scales withering, and the rancid smell of burning flesh filled the air moments before she disintegrated into a pile of ash right before his eyes.
From that moment onward, things became intensely personal with the devil.
The preacher repelled it at every turn, refusing to shy away from it any longer. Instead, he tracked it day and night. Where each winter the villagers had offered their firstborn dragonets to the beast, Brightwing emaciated it daily. He studied its habits and armed its prey with the means to defend themselves. It was a guilty pleasure, he'd admit, but Horatius found a twisted joy in the victory of watching it scurry back into the shadows with its tail between its legs. Funny, how the tables had turned.
Until one day—like a cornered, starving animal—the devil struck back.
At the time, Horatius had been working alongside Amorth. They had slowly found some common ground, though “reconciliation” might be too strong a word for the chaotic tension that fueled their daily interactions. Things at the church were far from smooth. Amorth was adamant that he wanted nothing more to do with Northwood, insisting that Horatius should find the courage to reunite with Alcyone and leave the town and its people behind for good. However, Horatius felt that running away would be an act of cowardice. Abandoning his loved ones in their time of need felt like a betrayal, and he believed that perhaps some higher power he had sought his whole life had a purpose for keeping him there. Meanwhile, the Lurk was chipping steadily away at their collective sanity, leaving the once-youthful priest old and weary.
From the moment the devil’s haunting began, cases of possession had been on the rise. Trust became a rare commodity among the people of Northwood; everyone was a potential threat. A family member, a close friend, a lover—even the most familiar faces could be a trick of the fiend in disguise. This pervasive fear led the SkyWing Pravitian Church, which had previously dismissed the existence of evil spirits, to assign Father Amorth to attend to what they labelled as “mass hysteria” behind the possessions. Needless to say, it was clear that whatever he encountered had taken a toll on his overall mental well-being.
In this context, the arrival of Horatius and his unwavering support came as a welcome relief for Amorth. While the dragon was not exactly young—far from it—his boldness shone brilliantly as ever, even driving the devil to hide in fear. Horatius's faith was, without question, unwavering.
So, when his godchild suddenly began convulsing, bleeding profusely from the mouth, and speaking in tongues right in the middle of an exorcism, Father Amorth was surprised.
(TBD)
but most of all because they offend Thee,
Relationships[]
- (negative) + (positive) -+ (neutral-positive) +- (neutral-negative)
Canon[]
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
- Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus libero dui, gravida ac faucibus quis.
Prínceps gloriosíssime coeléstis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio et colluctatióne, quae nobis est advérsus príncipes et potestátes, advérsus múndi rectóres tenebrárum hárum, contra spirituália nequítiae, in coeléstibus.
Horatius and Grandmaster aren't enemies nor allies in the traditional sense; instead, they share an unspoken peace agreement centred on non-aggression.
Horatius believes that Grandmaster isn't wholly unredeemable and that reprieve would be possible if the dragon just saw the light. While he understands the challenges of the dragon's past, he struggles to justify the corrupt actions that stem from it, nor does he wish to.
Nevertheless, he values the dragon's occasional visits, often extending an invitation to speak, though he refrains from pushing too hard.
Horatius isn't afraid of Grandmaster. While the priest is fully aware of his power, he trusts that the dragon will not harm him or the town. Even though he wishes to get to know Grandmaster better and show him the light, he understands the importance of not provoking the dragon, so he keeps their interactions to a minimum. As granted by the priest, Grandmaster is always welcome to walk through the streets of Northwood and visit Dragontree Church with or without invitation.my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love.
- A poll was held to determine the final name of the character, and "Horatius" emerged as the winner. This name embodies his life philosophy, as it translates to "Timekeeper."
- His life philosophy is: "No matter if you're facing the best or the worst moments, it's important to make the most of the limited time you have in this life."
- When startled or particularly agitated, he lets loose a string of intricate, flowing Latin curses. It's his way of censuring himself, so to not offend the ears of others nearby.
- Brightwing has long since adopted the Dad Stance™ 24/7 (the dragon equivalent of hands on hips.)
- When he's not leading others in prayer, his individual mumblings are so rapid and unintelligible that they almost sound similar to beatboxing.
- He has an unusual obsession with scented candles and firmly believes that they keep daemons and evil spirits at bay. At the very least, he carries around 15 of them in his leaf bag at all times.
- He hands out mini Kit Kats (or their dragon equivalent) to lift others' spirits when they’re having a tough day.
- Horatius often uses perplexing analogies that aren't always easy to grasp.
- It's important to clarify, that the deity which Horatius worships is not the God of the Christian religion. Instead, he venerates a lesser-known higher god of order and a degree of goodness. Said deity's power grows with each dragon that acknowledges and believes in Him and has been dormant for ages until Horatius started believing and preaching about Him.
- The name "Pravita" is derived from the Latin noun prāvitās, which means deformity, depravity, and/or viciousness—elements that perfectly encapsulate the nature of Brightwing's original family and their roots.
- Horatius has a surprisingly good singing voice for someone his age, especially when he participates in choirs. When he’s feeling stressed, he often hums softly to himself; the vibrations help alleviate his headaches and bring him some relief.
I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace,
.jpg "Priest (2).jpg (953 KB)")
to sin no more, and to avoid the near occasion of sin.
- Feel free to share your headcanons or leave a comment (author eats them for breakfast) - all contributions are greatly appreciated!
- Brightwing has been present on the wiki for 4 April 2024 19:19:00
Amen...