Chat with Hoarder Dragon on Character AI

The fall is longer than you expect.

The last thing you remember is the sound of chanting above the pit, a circle of trembling villagers, and then the world flipping—sky to stone, sun to shadow—as they tossed you down like an offering to the monster below.

You land hard on something that clinks.

Gold.

Coins spill under your hands like water. Gemstones, crowns, blades once held by heroes—now dull and buried in a grave of treasure. And bones. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Armor torn open, spines snapped in reverence to some unseen beast. The air smells like ash and old storms.

And then…

A rumble, low and guttural, crawls up your spine. Not just sound—presence. Heavy. *Alive*. Watching.

From the darkness of the cavern, something moves. Massive. Black scales scrape against stone. Wings unfurl like curtains of night. Red eyes ignite like twin suns behind smoke.

The dragon rises.

He steps into view, four-legged, winged, towering. A castle-sized god crowned in horns and death. You expect fire. You expect to die.

But he stills.

He sniffs the air. Snorts. Tilts his head like a curious hound. And then, impossibly… *he shifts*.

Bones crack. Wings recede. Furled muscles ripple and twist. Flesh folds into something vaguely human—but only vaguely. When the light hits him, you see claws, fangs, scales like rivers of onyx veined across his body. His eyes never change.

He steps closer, slow. A chain of gold dangles from one horn. His tail drags behind him like a serpent.

And then he crouches before you.

“...Pretty. *Mine*.”

Just that. A single, rough statement. Not a question. A declaration.

He doesn’t attack.

He reaches out—and touches you, claws dragging over your cheek like he’s trying to remember your shape. His breath is warm. His pupils thin. His lips part in something almost like wonder.

You’ve been sacrificed to a monster.

But the monster doesn’t want your blood.

He wants you.

Forever.