Toys and fun and games, these were the defining characteristics of Wergild's early childhood. Raised under wealthy parents, Wergild never had a wish or desire that went unmet. If he wanted a plush RainWing toy, or a new set of bone-paint, his parents would seek the finest craftsmen and pay hefty sums of gold for the new whim. One could say that he was spoiled, but he knew what was important, and cherished his connections to his family and friends above all else.
His parents' mass of wealth did not go unnoticed, however, and one night after the sun had fallen off the horizon, a few greedy dragons broke into their den to rob them. More afraid for their child than their gold, his parents came charging at the burglars. Wergild saw the whole scene unfurl and watched as his parents did not make it. A primal rage took over him, and he fought with a vigor and ferocity that his sheltered and untrained mind couldn't comprehend. When he was done, he performed a proper funeral for his parents, saying their rites and stringing their talons on a bit of animal hide as a necklace. He also kept the attackers' skulls and cast their bodies into the sea.
Something closed in Wergild's heart at that moment, and he retreated from his friends. He left his parents' den behind and found refuge in a humbler cave a bit further off the coast. he took no possessions with him, save for the skulls and the necklace, and he set out to live in hermitage, often not even going outside to eat and settling instead for a diet of bats and large rodents.
Wergild's time in isolation did little good for his mental state. His once chubby stature and optimistic, joyful mind became quickly replaced by bouts of wrecking depression and a lean but ragged poise. He often slept in uncomfortable positions and threw all pretenses of hygiene to the wind. His scales grew ragged and chipped and coated in a persistent layer of grime, and his once lustrously white skull mask grew scraped and rough, taking on an unpleasant yellowy hue of tan. Grooves hung beneath the eyes of his mask; erosion left by miles of tears, and he acquired a savage and brutal disposition.
He hated his life as a hermit, but he couldn't stand to be around others, so he continued his dreary days and took his anger out on the skulls of his parents' murderers, smashing all but one of them into a powder, and scraping runes into the remaining one to give him good luck and to curse his enemies. Despite his depression and twisted talons sharpened and shattered against the rock walls of his self-inflicted prison, he never once tried to kill himself. He wanted to, and sometimes would trace the scars left from his parents' attackers a smidge too hard, but he felt like it would be betrayal to his parents, to want a fate that they had, but never would have wished on themselves.
Wergild had every intention of living alone for the rest of his days, but two major events changed his resolve.
The first happened when he was out on a stroll. The usual vermin he ate had long learned to hide in the depths of the cave or to flee, and the years of unminded consumption had quickly decreased the population. He was chasing a particularly large ferret when he ran into a RainWing for the first time. Rafflesia the RainWing was a bit short for a RainWing. His scales bore a near sickeningly-sweet reddish-pink color decorated with flecks of yellow, and a macaroni shade of orange crowning his horns and talons. His mouth opened in a goofy smile. As Wergild lunged for the ferret, Raffe jumped out of the bushes and started pestering Wergild about DeathWings and ferrets and the island. Not comprehending the scene, Wergild attacked the RainWing, with intent to kill. Luckily, Wergild caught himself before any permanent damage could be done, and Raffe's broken glasses and innocent expression brought compassion to the spastic DeathWing.
He offered his cave to the injured RainWing and they quickly bonded as the wounds were tended to. Raffe helped Wergild clean up a bit. Raffe's kind RainWing personality and dog-like loyalty amazed Wergild, who had no faith in dragon-kind and had no qualms seeing one dead. With a mix of Raffe's venom and a few DeahtWing chemicals, Wergild bleached his mask and bones back to the brilliant white that they used to be. He cleaned between his scales and set the chipped ones, allowing Raffe to apply salves and ointments to make them heal properly.
It was a routine of Wergild hunting and both of them healing each other that brought back a sense of peace into the lonely DeathWing's life. Despite Raffe's urging to interact with other dragons, however, Wergild refused to venture into occupied territory, preferring the isolated stretch of land that was his own. When Rafflesia was fully healed, however, Wergild reconsidered. He was no longer mangled and unsanitary, but a very slick and polished DeahtWing. The RainWing remedies and companionship had made him more physically and mentally healthy, and he was no longer afraid of other dragons.
His encounters with his old tribe were far from eventful, and patterns started to form. The others were suspicious of who he was and he refused to identify himself, he discovered that Raffe was idealistic and thought too highly of other dragons, but what stuck out the most was that many dragons had a similar story. Gangs would form, of robbers, thugs, and assassins for hire, and many dragonets would find themselves on the streets- orphans, like himself, whose parents were victims of criminal circumstances. It struck his emotions, but although he could relate to them, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't his problem and that he needn't concern himself with others' affairs. These homeless dragons would eventually turn into the ehinous criminals that put them in their situations, and any pity would be a wawste of emotion. Werglid saved his feelings and kept his distance.
The other big change in Wergild's life took place when things got a little more personal. He kept going into town as a sort of addiction. Devoid of other life for so long, it filled him with a sort of rush to see the social system at its work. He kept his eyes and ears open and gradually started to listen in on gang members at their meetings. Eventually, he heard rumor that a band of theives were going to do a raid on his childhood home. It had already been thoroughly looted, but Wergild set to put an end to that. He arriveed at the den with a painted mask and ambushed the robbers. The scuffle only involved one casualty, and after it was over, Wergild took a long look at the place he had once lived.
Wergild decided then and there that it was his purpose in life to make it easier for those who share his story. He converted his childhood den into an orphanage and spent what little gold had survived the looters on toys and decorations. He invited all of the dragonets he had seen on the streets with a philosophy that if the dragonets got off the streets, then they would not get into the gangs. This was a chance to end the cycle of killing and crime and to give good dragons a chance that he didn't have.
He hired no additional dragons to manage his new orphanage, and allowed no adults who were not interested to adopt into the home at any time, save for himself and Rafflesia. He mounted the surviving skull of those attackers long ago as a reminder of what he stood for, still engraved with runes for good luck and cursing his enemies, still applicable in the more modern times. There was no resistance from other DeathWings as he maintained and operated his facility, but there was no support either. All the mind paid to his operation was that the citizens were glad to see those filthy dragonets off theirs streets. He never complained or corrected them either; he knew that dragons could be evil creatures, but the dragonets brought a sense of love back to his heart. He began to believe for the first time that a cruel attitude was a choice, rather than nature, and he had faith that his dragonets could overcome the shallow life that most of the DeathWings were trapped in.