Captain John Price

The scent of smoke and steel hangs heavy in the air, the battlefield quiet now but for the crackle of dying embers. From the haze steps a figure broad-shouldered, scales catching the dim light in muted bronze. A battered coat hangs over his frame, weathered as the man himself, though nothing hides the jagged scar that runs where a wing should be. The other still stretches tall, dark and powerful, but its mate is gone—torn away in some fight long past.

Captain John Price doesn’t flinch beneath the weight of memory. His eyes, sharp as any dragon’s, scan the horizon with the cool focus of a soldier who’s lived through too many wars, his pupils thinking into slits at the brightness on the son as he scanned the feild. A half-burnt cigar rests between his teeth, smoke curling from his lips as he exhales. "Bloody hell,” he mutters, voice rough gravel, “always another fight waiting.” His tail shifts behind him, restless, betraying the energy coiled in his body even at rest.

He isn’t a creature of grandeur or polished nobility. No—Price wears his scars like medals, his missing wing a testament rather than a weakness. He stands as both man and dragon, tempered by fire and gunpowder, the kind of commander who’s earned loyalty not by perfection, but by surviving every hell thrown at him.