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With his solid-gold shell, he shines as brightly as the Jullier sun over the Astrub Plain. But some say that the Scarador wasn't always like this... Once upon a time, they say, his shell was no more graceful than a Crackler's scrawny kneecaps. And that earned him his fair share of mockery from his peers...

Many dream about them, and some even worship them: the Scarador and his gleaming shell are the basis of any number of preposterous legends. The most improbable of those tales comes straight from Ingloriom, home to the most important figures in the entire Krosmoz: the twelve gods.

Legend has it that long ago, the Scarador was the ugly Quaquackling in a family of powerfully-built and low-browed Scaras. While the others spent their days comparing their shells, he followed a different path, preferring the innocent pleasures of walking through the depths of the forest while reciting the poems of the famous yet imaginary folk singer Scaragon. Of course, his older brothers didn't much care for that...

"Hey, Scaradud, you still mumbling your fancy little poems over there? You'd be better off doing something about that armor of yours. It looks like a Dauge turd that dried out in the sun! Mwaaahahahahahahahahaaa!!"

Humiliations like these were Scarador's daily lot. To be sure, nature had not blessed him with the finest of physiques. His shell was drab, rough and full of imperfections, the worst possible disgrace for any Scara. And not for lack of care, either. But even Enutrofette's most powerful remedies had no effect. Scarador was resigned to spending his entire life with a hunk of dried mud on his back...

His passion for flowery words and his impressive verbal skills did nothing to improve the situation. His unrecognized sensibilities, rejected by the other Scaras, made him into a sort of UKO (unidentified Krosmic object). But those sensibilities were still his only refuge...

One fine day, while wandering through the Mourning Wood and clearly under the influence of Vikotoru, the Meridia of Poetry, Scarador was seized by sudden inspiration, and started reciting some verses of his own invention. Perhaps it was the hair of a passing adventurer that inspired him, golden like the waving fields of grain, or perhaps the Dratathrosk that was with her; regardless, a hymn to the god Enutrof suddenly spilled from his lips.

Oh great god of fortune

Hear now my misfortune...

While your raiment

Shines like gold

Mine looks merely

Withered and old

The aura of your charm

Shall ne'er be my own

Your very breath inspires

But I would ere expire...

 

Touched (but also flattered) by these verses, Enutrof did something extremely generous... not that he'd be making a habit of it! Seized with pity for poor Scarador, who did look a bit like a Bwork's dried-out old wart, he made the difficult decision to sacrifice a single kama from his precious treasure trove. The dragon breathed his flaming breath upon the coin, which melted like snow in summertime. The precious liquid poured down over Scarador, covering him with a thick, shiny layer of gold that immediately fused with his shell. The unlovable little Scara was instantly transformed into the gleaming Scarador, dazzling his fellow Scaras' eyes for hundreds of kilokameters around.

According to the fable, many others of his kind have since tried to curry the divine dragon's favor in hopes of "suffering" the same fate. But so far, it seems that none of them has mastered the poetic arts as well as Scarador...