Xhag Duulinithar Obabaiidook
Xhag Duulinithar Obabaiidook carried his lineage the way a seasoned warrior bears plate armor—weighty, perhaps, but forged to serve as both defense and declaration. Each syllable of his sprawling name announced a heritage etched in draconic lightning and Gor-hewn stone, while the errant’s own ambitions crackled louder still. He rode the borders of Varanthia with banner-lance high, lightning breath simmering behind clenched teeth, determined to redefine what an Onyx Knight could be. Where others muttered of shadows and secret blades, Xhag envisioned a vanguard swathed in stormlight, a living embodiment of deterrence whose first strike would end a war before whispers ever found purchase.
Yet drive alone cannot mend the rift between brilliance and belonging, and Xhag walked that fault line like a tightrope above abyssal skepticism. The Onyx Circle saw in him both asset and anomaly: a warrior whose every heartbeat demanded spectacle, whose scales gleamed even through soot and dusk. In the clandestine sanctuaries where recruits were taught to exhale silence, Xhag’s presence felt like an unsheathed blade catching torchlight—impossible to ignore, dangerous to mishandle. Instructors tried to temper him with cautionary tales, but each warning merely added fuel to the furnace of his resolve. He would not clip his wings to fit a narrow doctrine; instead, he studied the shadows, intent on illuminating them from within.
So he forged onward, each sortie a test of creed against creed. Under moon-cast battlements, he tracked Helix signatures like a star-wolf scenting distant prey, launching into the fray with thunder that set stone echoing. Moments later, he’d glide beneath the same moonlight, banner trailing sparks that spelled promise for allies and peril for foes. Whether the Circle ultimately crowns him or casts him out, the realm has already taken notice: Xhag marches as a storm given human form, and storms rarely ask permission before they change the shape of the sky.
Physical Description
Xhag stands just shy of six feet, yet his presence feels larger—his physique a study in streamlined power. Bronze-toned skin flows over lean, well-defined musculature, while sky-blue scales shimmer along his collarbone, shoulders, and the backs of claw-tipped hands, hinting at the storm-blood coiled beneath. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist built for aerial maneuvering, and every motion carries the taut grace of a predator held in check. When his twelve-foot wings unfurl, translucent membranes ripple with living light, completing the portrait of a warrior who is equal parts draconic majesty and relentless human discipline.
Xhag’s physique is a tapestry of mixed lineage: lean human musculature layered with draconic accents and Gor-born robustness. Sky-blue scales form an irregular V-shaped mantle that begins at the sternum, climbs the collarbones, and caps each shoulder like polished pauldrons, then thin into scattered flecks down the biceps before vanishing mid-forearm. Each hand ends in tapered, keratin-black claws—their edges keen enough to etch runes in basalt, yet normally sheathed beneath fingerless leather gauntlets. From behind, subtle ridges trace his spine to a recessed wing-hinge; when summoned, translucent wings unfurl in a crescent, joints filigreed with silver Helix veins that pulse brighter while channeling breath-lightning. A faint draconic frill crowns the nape of his neck, rising instinctively with emotion, and a single lightning-shaped birth-scale sits over his heart—a family tell said to glow moments before he exhales the storm.
Cascading waves of metallic-gold hair fall to Xhag’s mid-back, catching torchlight like molten filigree. He usually binds the mane with an obsidian clasp, yet stubborn strands escape to frame a jaw that looks carved, not grown. High cheekbones lend an almost aristocratic elegance, softened—then undercut—by a roguish half-smirk that suggests he knows the odds and intends to beat them anyway. His nose is straight, ridge firm, hinting at Gor durability beneath draconic grace. But it is his eyes that arrest conversation: slit-pupiled, glowing azure, alive with flecks of inner flame that shift in brightness with his mood. A single glance can mesmerize an ally or cow an adversary, as though each iris carries a caged lightning storm awaiting release.
When Xhag unfurls his wings, the world seems to inhale. Twelve feet from tip to tip, the membranes glow like moonlit glass, threaded with silver-white veins that pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. Each beat sends a ripple of lightning-blue luminescence racing down the span, illuminating the lattice of Helix channels that feed his breath-weapon. The wing-bones—sleek spears of draconic cartilage—catch the light in mirrored flashes, while faint whorls of bronze skin at their bases anchor them to his shoulders like living heraldry. In flight those translucent sails shimmer between storm-cloud gray and sunrise gold, marking him unmistakably even against a crowded sky; at rest they tuck close, traces of inner glow still flickering beneath the folded arcs, a promise that the storm remains only a heartbeat away.
A faint hum of Helix energy threads the air wherever Xhag treads, for his senses sift arcane residue like a hound catching scent on the wind. Invisible currents of spellcraft appear to him as wisps of colour—crimson for blood-runes, violet for shadow-glamours, argent for healing charms—allowing him to stalk mages by the glow of footprints no one else can see. When battle erupts he becomes the storm incarnate: lungs expand, secondary rib cage locks, and he exhales a cataract of lightning wide enough to scour a skirmish line, or narrows the torrent to a lance that melts steel with surgical precision. Each bolt sings with draconic overtones, echoing through his veins and leaving the scent of rain-kissed ozone in its wake.
Xhag favors a custom suit of midnight-lacquered plate that mirrors the Citadel’s field armor yet bears the hush-black accents of the Onyx Circle: articulated pauldrons shaped like stylized dragon wings, a breastplate etched with faint lightning filigree, and a spine-vented backplate that splits to accommodate his own real wings. A deep-crimson half-cloak—inner lining sigiled with the Blood-Oak emblem of Raven—hangs from a stormglass clasp at his collar, its hem weighted so it won’t tangle mid-glide. Over one shoulder he carries a seven-foot banner-lance: ashwood core wrapped in darksteel, spear-point forged from Helix-quenched bronze, and a silk pennon emblazoned with the Onyx Knights’ crimson oak dripping stylized drops of ink-black blood. Leather gauntlets, fingerless to leave claws free, hide tiny obsidian toggles that release collapsible tassets for aerial combat, while a storm-crystal gorget at his throat modulates the crackle of stray lightning when he exhales power. Altogether the ensemble proclaims two truths: he is sworn to Raven’s order—and he intends to wage that oath in full view of any who dare the field.
Mental characteristics
Xhag’s childhood dreams were forged from contradictions. He would sit in the vaulted reading room of Obsidian Spire, tracing ancestral battle-standards while tutors recited tales of the Onyx Circle—operatives who slipped through palace walls like breath through a keyhole. But for every whispered legend, he imagined a different chapter, one where a storm-winged knight crashed through those same walls, banner snapping like thunder, ending the conflict before subterfuge found its footing. By thirteen he had pledged—privately, fervently—that he would become that impossible alloy: a shadow-sworn warrior whose courage blazed bright enough to blind the dark.
The Imperial Vanguard Citadel accepted him as cadet but soon learned he would not be contained by its parade-ground categories. Xhag drilled with the “Edges,” mastering shield-wall resilience until his arms shook like struck bells—then volunteered for double watches with the “Tips,” charging foam-padded battlements until dawn etched silver across his scales. Instructors warned that too much flare drew arrows, but Xhag answered with lightning breath incinerating every straw effigy before the archers could loose. He earned commendations for valor—and reprimands for visibility—in equal measure, yet each clash with protocol hammered his resolve sharper: stealth was a tool, not a shroud, and valor unshown was valor squandered.
Upon graduation he packed only plate, banner, and his mother’s forge-braided saddle reins, riding straight to the Onyx Circle’s most secluded Shadow Sanctuary. At the gate he dismounted, wings half-flared in challenge, and offered a single sentence to the silent sentries: “Teach me to erase footprints—so I may carve pathways no enemy dares follow.” Now, as Errant apprentice, every night mission tests that creed. He stalks rooftops in muted armor, heart drumming to charge—but he waits, counts breaths, learns the cadence of calculated patience. And when release finally comes, it is a bolt of living storm that topples the enemy line in one crackling heartbeat, proving—if only to himself for now—that brilliance need not hide to serve the night.
Xhag thinks of gender the same way he thinks of armor pieces—each forged with purpose, yet only meaningful when worn with conviction. In Varanthia, “masculine” is measured by one’s readiness to shield allies and spearhead assaults, and Xhag embraces that standard without hesitation: he enjoys the weight of plate across broad shoulders and the authority it signals on a battlefield. Still, his parents taught him that steel alone does not define a warrior; discipline, empathy, and calculated restraint matter just as much. So while he identifies firmly as a man and presents in traditional masculine fashion, he respects anyone—regardless of presentation—who can hold the line beside him.
Romantic interest, for Xhag, sparks where admiration meets adrenaline. He is heterosexual, drawn primarily to women whose presence challenges him—whether through martial prowess, sharp wit, or sheer audacity. Compliments on his uniqueness or scales can make him blush and, regrettably, loosen his tongue; he’s learning (slowly) to guard secrets more carefully. While his ambitions leave little room for courtship’s subtleties, he believes partnership should mirror shield-wall combat: stand together, weather the blows, and press forward as one.
Xhag’s first true mentor at the Imperial Vanguard Citadel was Shield-Master Talia Everlore, a tanned Verve-Lumarain whose swirling, multi-coloured tattoos glimmered like shifting constellations across her arms. Everlore’s demeanour was sunshine over steel: laughter rang through the draconic breath-galleries even as she demanded needle-point precision from every cadet. “A lightning blast,” she told Xhag, “should be choreography, not chaos.” She made him hold a charge in his lungs while reciting formation theory, then release it through a ring no wider than a coin. Only after his third singed misfire did she nod approval, bright eyes dancing—the lesson seared into memory and scale alike.
Where Everlore taught control, Spear-Captain Brom Ravelock cultivated momentum. The gravel-voiced cavalry master believed courage began in one’s calves, so dawn found Xhag sprinting Skyforge’s nine hundred steps in lacquered plate, lungs still tingling with static from Everlore’s drills. Brom’s hallmark exercise, the Banner Break, paired Xhag with destriers bred to charge blind chasms; he learned to drive a Blood-Oak pennon into target dummies before hooves touched ground. Brom christened him Thunderpoint after a flawless mid-air strike—proof that polished precision could indeed power a reckless advance.
Evenings belonged to Archivist Seraphis Vale, the silver-haired tactician who ran Midnight War-Table drills. Vale summoned promising students after curfew, laying hex-maps under moonlight and setting impossible defence scenarios. Xhag’s instinct was always to storm forward, but Vale forced him to safeguard supply depots with half the troops he wanted, showing him that unabated glory starves on empty granaries. When Xhag finally devised a plan that cloaked a convoy behind lightning-illusions, Vale awarded him an obsidian feather—symbol that brilliance sometimes wears a mask.
Graduation rerouted his lessons into shadow. As an Errant recruit he entered the tutelage of Whisper-Sister Eiran Crowshade, a Raven priestess who spoke softer than falling ash. She bound tiny bells to his boots and ordered him to cross a courtyard of dry leaves without a sound. Weeks of frustration shaved raw the last of his Citadel bravado, teaching him to leash thunder until the decisive heartbeat. In the crucible forged by Everlore’s control, Ravelock’s momentum, Vale’s strategy, and Crowshade’s silence, Xhag discovered the education he truly sought: to become a storm that flickers unseen—until it remakes the sky with a single, blinding strike.
Personality Characteristics
Xhag lives for the instant when resolve becomes momentum: that heartbeat between stillness and charge when the banner whips forward and the world shrinks to the span of a lance-tip. Ever since he first watched archival holo-crystals of the legendary Black Knight—riding through arrow-storms as though gravity were merely a suggestion—he has hungered to replicate that ferocious clarity. In his mind, the ideal Onyx Knight does not stalk a target from shadows; he proclaims intent in the thunder of hooves, the crackling breath of stormfire, and the crimson oak emblazoned for all foes to see. Each dawn run, every sparring drill, and even his studied silence in Crowshade’s bell tests are bent toward one purpose: to greet battle with a roar that ends doubt before swords can cross.
Yet the banner he wields is more than cloth and sigil; it is an extension of identity—a spear of conviction that cleaves uncertainty the way lightning shears a night sky. Xhag imagines the perfect engagement as choreography: mount surging beneath him, wings aflare, the pennon snapping overhead while his breath-weapon sizzles a corridor through enemy ranks. He wants adversaries to feel the storm’s approach and cower, not from fear of death alone, but from the certainty that resistance is useless against purpose so vividly declared. In becoming that living tempest—half bulwark, half spear—he hopes not only to honour the Black Knight’s legend but to redefine the Onyx Circle itself, proving that a strike delivered in full view can be as surgically decisive as any shadow-bound dagger.
Xhag revels in singularity—the thrill of treading ground no one else has mastered. He collects firsts the way others tally medals: first cadet to weave lightning into a shield-wall, first Errant to land a wing-lance strike during Midnight drills, first to map a mage’s Helix signature in under ten heartbeats. He enjoys forging custom tactics, tinkering with banner-lance counterweights until the weapon pivots exactly as his breath-weapon arcs, and he treasures praise that highlights what only he can do. Quiet evenings often find him cataloguing “impossible” feats scrawled across a private training ledger, each line ending with a box he fully intends to tick.
Conversely, redundancy grates like sand in greased gears. If a comrade mirrors his technique, Xhag’s pride prickles; the maneuver feels tarnished, his accomplishment diluted. He has little patience for rote drills done merely to check a box or for superiors who demand conformity without purpose. The notion of serving as faceless rank-and-file—hidden in shadows where ten others could stand in his stead—fills him with restless irritation. Even casual teasing about someone besting his lightning accuracy can send him to the practice yard past midnight, determined to widen the gap before dawn erases uniqueness.
Xhag’s pride in his uniqueness breeds a vulnerability as glaring as dragon-fire in moonlight: lavish him with praise—or worse, admiration for his scales or feats—and his guard crumbles. Compliments slip past discipline like water through mail links, coaxing him to boast of unfinished plans, secret patrol routes, or the limits of his breath-weapon just to showcase how exceptional he is. Flattery blinds him to subtext; a subtle smile or well-placed question from a silver-tongued courtier can have him revealing mission details he vowed to keep sealed. He recognises the weakness in hindsight, scorched with embarrassment, and swears it will never happen again—until the next deft admirer feeds his hunger to be seen, and the cycle threatens to repeat.
Social
Xhag has ruled nothing grander than a cadet cohort, yet those six months as Acting Edge-Captain left legends in the mess hall. His tenure began when illness sidelined the prior captain; it ended only after final trials concluded, but in that brief span he reorganised training schedules, introduced lightning-shield drills, and led the “Iron Dawn Push” that shattered the faculty’s war-game defenses in record time. Cadets still recount how his banner-charge broke the siege line—and how he stayed behind to carry three wounded recruits to safety before claiming victory.
Xhag’s immediate circle spans both glare and shadow: Shield-Master Talia Everlore (precision mentor), Spear-Captain Brom Ravelock (cavalry instructor), Archivist Seraphis Vale (tactics advisor), and Whisper-Sister Eiran Crowshade (current Onyx handler). He maintains cordial ties with the Imperial Vanguard Alumni Society, sits on the periphery of the Targon Bloodline Legacy Council, and answers directly to Errant leader Dameon Grey for Dance of Shadows missions. Field camaraderie thrives with fellow Errant Kestrel Voidstep—whose stealth offsets his spectacle—while rivalry simmers with Lyra Ashbane, a pyromancer convinced his lightning hogs all the glory.
House Obabaiidook is both bastion and crucible. Father Vaerazith tempers Xhag’s ambition with courtly caution, offering counsel in True Draconic koans, while mother Shavra hammers pride into usefulness during late-night sparring beneath Emberwall’s forges. Maternal uncles from Clan Kael-Gorath visit each solstice, testing his climbing grip on basalt cliffs; paternal aunts send scrolls of dragon-law, reminding him of diplomatic duties he too often forgets. Though Xhag is sole heir, the house elders have made clear: legacy is earned, not inherited—so every lightning-laced charge carries both the weight of ancestral expectation and the promise of a dynasty strengthened by storm.
Previous-Master (Vital)
Towards Xhag Duulinithar Obabaiidook
Previous-Student
Towards Shield-Master Talia Everlore
History
Talia Everlore met Xhag Duulinithar Obabaiidook on his very first dawn inside the Imperial Vanguard Citadel, when the wide-eyed recruit nearly barreled into her shield line during orientation drills. She corrected his footing with a single calm gesture, then spent the next four years watching him grow from overeager cadet to competent graduate, always two steps behind her measured cadence. Throughout his schooling she remained the immovable bastion at every field exercise, while Xhag was the stormcloud struggling to shape itself into purposeful rain. By the time he earned his brevet laurels, she had signed every one of his assessment scrolls, marking each incremental gain with quiet praise. Now, as a freshly minted Errant—the Onyx Circle’s lowest operational rank—Xhag still addresses Talia as “Shield-Master” and seeks her critique before reporting to his own handlers. She, in turn, views his progress as a long-game investment rather than a finished weapon, refusing to let admirers inflate his limited battlefield résumé. Their shared story is therefore defined by seasons of steady mentorship rather than grand exploits, a braided record of patient lessons and small, significant victories. Each knows the hierarchy is lopsided, and each accepts it without resentment, trusting time—and discipline—to decide what the storm will eventually become.
Nicknames & Petnames
Cadets chant “Star-Bastion” whenever Talia’s radiant shield flashes across the yard, but in quieter moments Xhag calls her “Bright-Wall,” honoring the light that steadied him through countless missteps. She answers with “Thunderling,” a playful nod to the sparking breath weapon that still sputters when his nerves fray. Neither name is spoken in formal assemblies; they reserve the epithets for training circles or late-night parapet walks, keeping the warmth private. In official ledgers Talia signs T.E., Defensive Chair, adding a tiny starburst only Xhag seems to notice, while he scrawls Errant X.D. beneath a modest lightning glyph. The contrast reminds both of their stations—unshakable bastion and hopeful initiate—without diminishing the respect each holds for the other. Among peers, whispers of “Thunderling” carry a friendly tease rather than boast, reinforcing that he is still learning to harness the sky. Between them, the nicknames serve as compass points: hers guiding, his aspiring, both framing a relationship built on honest appraisal instead of exaggerated legend.
Relationship Reasoning
Talia values Xhag because his unrefined vigor offers daily proof that disciplined defense can cultivate, not stifle, raw potential; every corrected stance is a living lecture to her cadets. She also sees in him a mirror of the empire’s younger generation—passionate, impulsive, and craving direction—so guiding him sharpens her broader educational philosophy. Xhag respects Talia because she tempers criticism with genuine faith in his future, treating each bungled maneuver as a stepping-stone rather than a failure. Her centuries of service leave no room for rivalry, freeing him to learn without the shadow of comparison. Strategically, she treats him as a yet-to-be-forged spear that will someday complement her shield, while he views her as both measuring rod and safety net. Emotionally, they are united by a shared disdain for empty grandstanding: she disarms arrogance with humor, he counters it with hard work. Their dynamic thrives on that honesty—she never overstates his capability, and he never pretends to be more than a novice. In this balanced clarity they find mutual purpose, each reinforcing the other’s ideals without confusing mentorship for parity.
Commonalities & Shared Interests
Both officers prize relentless practice: Talia perfects shield rotations at dawn, while Xhag echoes her rhythm with breath-control drills a few paces back. They keep fastidious journals—hers charting morale patterns, his sketching miniature battle diagrams—and exchange pages whenever one of them stalls in progress. Stargazing bridges their temperaments: Talia maps constellations for a distant friend named “Sol,” and Xhag traces those same lights to plan aerial assault vectors he hopes to master someday.
As scion of House Obabaiidook, Xhag enjoys a comfortable stipend: access to the family vaults for arms, armour, and travel, plus a modest annual allowance (quickly drained on experimental gear and wyvern feed). Most assets remain in trust until he attains full knighthood, so disposable income is limited to prize bounties earned during Citadel tournaments and Onyx hazard-pay. He keeps no servants of his own, relies on the estate’s quartermaster for armour maintenance, and carries one lingering debt—a loan from the Forge Adepts who custom-balanced his banner-lance, to be repaid in either coin or a future favour.
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