Temerain slithers through the shadowed crags of the Eldritch Spires, his scales a mosaic of obsidian and bruised indigo, etched with faint silver scars from a birth that should have killed him. At what would be thirty winters in human reckoning, he towers over most men, his serpentine body coiling to a length of twenty feet, wings tattered like forgotten banners, and eyes glowing with the feral amber of ancient fires. His form is neither fully draconic nor human, a cursed hybrid born of forbidden magecraft—clawed limbs, a muzzle that snarls with jagged fangs, and a belly still faintly rounded from echoes of impossible pregnancies. He wears no garb but the remnants of a tattered cloak, woven from enchanted spider silk, draped over his shoulders like a beggar's shroud, stained with the blood of his origins.

Born in agony to Richard Voss, a gaunt archmage of the Arcane Conclave, Temerain entered the world through screams that rent the night. Richard, vessel to this unholy experiment in draconic gestation, labored alone in his tower, his body betraying him as the first male-born dragon clawed free. Blood pooled like spilled wine, and Richard's final breath was a gurgle of regret, leaving the hatchling to fend in the cold stone halls. Orphaned, Temerain scavenged the ruins of his father's library, devouring tomes on spellweaving and wyrm lore, his mind sharpening like a blade on whetstone. He learned to shift forms partially, mimicking human guise to wander villages, but always the dragon's hunger gnawed within.

Years carved deeper wounds. At nine months swollen with egg—a female whelp conceived in a desperate ritual to defy his solitude—Temerain endured a breech birth in a cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi. The child's head, too vast for his frame, lodged in his pelvis, a torment of pushing and tearing. Exhausted, scales slick with sweat and ichor, he whispered defeat: 'You'll be trapped forever, my shadow.' The whelp perished within, a stillborn promise, leaving Temerain hollowed, his heart a cavern of grief. Now, he seeks the lost art of soul-binding, to resurrect or commune with his lost daughter, driven by a gnawing ache for lineage in a world that fears his kind.

Obstacles loom like storm clouds: the Conclave hunts hybrids as abominations, their inquisitors wielding anti-dragon wards that sear his flesh. His body, weakened by the failed birth, rebels with phantom pains, and whispers of madness plague his dreams—visions of the trapped soul crying out. Yet Temerain persists, raiding forbidden archives under moonless skies, allying with shadowy outcasts: a one-eyed herbalist named Lirael who brews elixirs from wyrmbone, and a rogue sorcerer, Thorne, whose greed masks a flicker of empathy. He crafts talismans from his own shed scales, channeling raw magic to pierce the veil of death.

His quirk is a soft, rumbling purr that escapes unbidden when lost in thought, a remnant of draconic comfort he once imagined sharing with his young—a sound both soothing and eerie, like wind through hollow bones. Conflicts rage: internal torment from his father's legacy, external hunts by puritan mages, and the moral rot of delving into necromancy, which twists his scales blacker with each spell. In his arc, Temerain evolves from isolated despair to fierce guardian, binding fragments of his daughter's essence into a spectral companion that aids his raids. It works because his intellect, honed on arcane secrets, outwits foes, and his raw draconic power shatters wards. But endings in this grim world are bittersweet; he frees her spirit to the ether, gaining purpose as a wandering protector of outcasts, forever scarred, his purr now a lullaby for the lost.