Bishop

"Come one, come all - come, if you dare!"

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Name: "The Dragon of █████████", now goes by Bishop

Gender: Menace, it/he/they

Age: at least 50 years of service

Species: Marketed as a beast. Vaguely canine in appearance
Size: Larger than life

Natural fur color: White, black

Eye color:  Black sclera, red iris

Public Occupation: Traveling freak show and carnival ringmaster.

It's magician, fire breather and eater

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Bishop isn't one to share his secrets, their life, or it's interests. Conversation isn't something he's practiced, and there's none they won't talk down to. They aren't one to say anything coherent, really, unless they're working. All that's written here is what's known to the 'public' - the ones who've attended their shows in the past, before they had control over their life. The circus is known to exaggerate and lie to their audience. Take it with a grain of salt.

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Born as three, they had to earn their individual bodies. Triplets who tore and bit and clawed their ways apart from eachothers flesh, so they could have their own. It was a process that left all of them riddled with scars - mental and physical - and malice towards the world that allowed their cursed creation. This hatred bore into their hearts and clouded their minds to such an extent, it took physical form. A weight so heavy, it shown even on their outside.

A scorch mark tickled one chest exposed. The Dragon's pain gave them the ability to breathe fire. turning it all into flame. With preparation as little as a shallow breathe giving way to an eruption of heat, a part of their suffering can finally be expressed. From town to town they went, using threats of destruction to get what they pleased. Many people fell during this time, many villages turned to nothing but rubble.

The siblings learned to harness such emotion in a different way when they were found by a family on wheels. Carts and carriages as far as the eye could see filled the road, each holdining something different yet important to the whole. A silken hand reached out to pull them aboard, and with hesitance they followed. It cupped their cheeks one by one, cold caresses extinguishing their anger. It craddled them until they arrived at a group of tents with music so joyous playing day and night, a smile never left their lips. There they were bathed, fed, and held while they slept for the first time without fear.

Allowed to stay for a while, they learned a few things. Pain doesn't have to show as violent, or scary. It didn't have to be eternal. The scars they carried didn't need to be shared, yet they had already done so much wrong. Begging, they asked the tent owner for help: "How can we use our abilities for good? How can we share the happiness you have given us? How could we ever repay you?"
And so they began to train for shows that the wandering troupe offered. Each of them had a gimmick - some natural, some not - that made crowds smile. The burning desire in a dragons throat could be used for entertainment, instead of watching another village crash down. Through the skies they flew, piercing the darkness with light and laughter. Bring a rose, and watch it slowly catch flame. Look to the stars, then back at the shooting one you can reach with your hands. Many a people did they fascinate with their tricks, few injuries did they cause.

But it seems not everything can really be controlled. Rumor has it the longstanding ringmaster was killed by one of the creatures he paraded as a creep. No one's quite sure where his belongings, or the ensemble, went off to. Only his body was found; burnt, stripped of its posessions, in the empty field where tents used to reach the sky. There was no trace, apart from memories, that there was ever something there.

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"Step one foot in, and you'll never make it out!"