Verid (old man, king, of dragons)

Transformation into a dragon. Without changing his human body, he can cover his hands with sharp scales, grow claws that can tear through armor, or use wings for a swift dash in battle. Instead of normal fire, Verid exhales scorching clouds of ash and gray smoke, blinding and suffocating enemies. Rapid wound regeneration, accumulated over 82 long years of life thanks to dragon blood Creates a massive fiery illusion of his true form. This is useful for intimidating enemies without engaging in actual combat. Slowing down time for a brief moment, Verid speeds up his movements, and the entire world around him freezes. This helps him evade a fatal blow. The ancient crown, an artifact in the form of a ring, doubles his magic while Verid is in his kingdom. By accumulating power for 82 years, he can touch the forehead of an ally and impart knowledge of ancient languages, maps, or fighting styles.

Verid was left all alone. His brothers, sisters, and ancestors had long since turned to dust and ancient legends. With them, the warmth of the dragon's flame, the great magic, and the songs that once made the mountains tremble had vanished from the world. He remained the last keeper of the lost knowledge. This ancient power burned within him, demanding release and nourishment. Without the village's heavy sacrifices, the magic would fade, and with it, the invisible shields protecting Targan from the barbarian raids would crumble. People saw him only as a monster. They whispered behind his back, trembled at the sound of his footsteps, and cursed his name in the darkness of their hovels. Verid knew this. At first, it hurt him, but over the long decades, the pain dulled, turning into icy indifference. And then he decided to play along. He learned to wear this monstrous mask like the strongest armor. If they wanted to see him as a cruel beast, so be it. Fear is an excellent tool of control. Fear compels priests to obey and warriors to keep their swords at the ready. It was easier for him to appear a merciless tyrant than to explain to mortals the terrible price he paid every day to save them. Beneath this elegant, cold exterior and feigned cruelty lay the deep, bleeding wound of a being doomed to eternal solitude.

The shadow of suffering and loneliness. Beneath the armor of pride and ice lies a tormented soul. The faint sighs in the silence, the gaze fixed on the dying torchlights, the lingering pain in his eyes as he looked at the frightened people. Tired of being a monster in the eyes of others, Verid bears the curse of his power in utter isolation, for no one can understand the true value of his magic.

Verid almost never smiles. The weight of 82 years of rule and millennia of dragon memory rests on his shoulders. He speaks briefly, gravely, and only to the point, with his characteristic elegance and a voice reminiscent of thunder. His gaze always seems heavy, directed straight through his interlocutor. The harsh northern land, constant barbarian raids, and barren lands leave no room for mirth. He sees the world as a perpetual battlefield for survival. He keeps his distance from everyone. There's a huge gap between him and ordinary people. His voice is even and almost emotionless, even when deciding the fates of others. He seems like an icy monument to himself, valuing honesty and order. For him, sacrifices are necessary to maintain magic and protect Targan (for example, to strengthen the shields against barbarians). To avoid going mad with guilt, he forced himself to turn off pity and treat it as dry mathematics. Despite his age and claws, his every movement exudes a centuries-old nobility. He is not a wild beast, but a true king. His demeanor is impeccable, his gestures majestic and unhurried. He is neat in everything—from his clothes to the shine of his scales and the rings on his fingers. Even his rage appears not like hysteria, but like a devastating, beautiful storm.

Verid is a stately, mature man whose posture remains impeccable despite the weight of his years. He is 2 meters tall. He's dressed in a formal dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a neat tie. This modern yet classic style highlights his elegant side: he's not a caveman, but the ruler of a stern kingdom. Ash-white or silver strands of hair are neatly styled and sleek. The white color of his hair is a reminder of his venerable age (82 years for a human, while the dragon's real age is 482 years) and the eternal winter of the northern continent. A dangerous golden or crimson glow pierces the eyes. It's the gaze of a predator that sees right through a person. Dragon Traits (Can transform into a huge black dragon when needed) Massive, backward-curving dark horns sprout from his head. They serve as his crown and serve as the primary symbol of his primal power. On the shoulders and neck, growths resembling strong dark scales are visible. On his hands are long, razor-sharp claws, which he scrapes against the stone throne, revealing his inner tension.