Dr. Gowher Clawdigan

Male. Lives in Appaloosa, Equestria. Born on March 15

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Race

Griffin

Roleplay Availability

OPEN

Roleplay Universe

Canon

Roleplay Type

Narrative

User Achievements

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Dr. Gowher Clawdigan

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Dr. Gowher Clawdigan

October 29, 2025 3:07 pm

After 3 tries, I've FINALLY managed to draw him ; Dr Gowher Clawdigan, a primary care physician, specifically a family medicine doctor who treats all ages of patients, and he has experience in the ER... View More

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Dr. Norman Reiner

"Doctor." He would tip his hat.

Like October 29, 2025

Sunshine Serenade (Mods)

Dr. Norman Reiner requested: /roll 1d20
1 roll(s) of D20 dice
Roll results: 17 = 17

This is an automated bot message.

Like November 19, 2025

Dr. Norman Reiner

Norman would grip his beak but his fast acting would allow him to shrink his head slightly but stick his arm in his jaw. Norman would expand it to the size of an arm rest on a couch and it kept getting bigger until he could slide out. Norman adjusted his hat and said, "Alright... You wanna fight? I... View MoreNorman would grip his beak but his fast acting would allow him to shrink his head slightly but stick his arm in his jaw. Norman would expand it to the size of an arm rest on a couch and it kept getting bigger until he could slide out. Norman adjusted his hat and said, "Alright... You wanna fight? I'll hurt you, I will!" Norman would tilt his head down as he would sigh and came back up to the raise his gun. He would then proceed to point it at himself and shot himself size time, every bullet entering by not leaving. No blood was to be had. No tears. No pain. Just gain. He felt it, the bullets contain doses that could completely take down a bulls entire nervous system with several bullets. These nonlethal Hollow Bullets were his bread and butter. Unfortunately, his bullets were better spent dumping it into his stomach. To normal sorts, this was incredibly stupid but this was Norman Reiner, He works to win. Norman would react to the Hollow rounds expanding onto his skin, the black flesh enveloping his body. He would fall back to his knees as he would turn into a slimy puddle from this. It would remain like that for several minutes until the ground around them would start to grow incredibly fast. Flowers of many kinds grew around the puddle, which also grew in size. The puddle would be the size of a small pond and then a large pond before... The slime would rise as it would create a sculpture of flesh that would tower Gowher. Don't worry, Reiner. Your pal has your back. Your teacher and friend... The features of this giant would be made as his arms nearly reached the floor, his hands weren't like paws but like giant lanky hands. These fingers came at a point, sharp as scalpels. His hat would cover nearly 20 inches in diameter and his outfit was surprisingly the same as Norman's. This giant was nearly the size of an apartment complex in height and the width of a medium size car, horizontally. His legs bent slightly as if that was his resting position, finally, he had a long grin on his face that spanned cheek to cheek. The beast opened its eyes to reveal his eyes were bloodshot and intensely. He had no pupils or iris, only the stare of a scary sort. Veins and the whites being covered by said veins like vines. He would have a large bag with him as he said, "Hello, young man. I just spoke with you a second ago. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Dr. Whizbanger. I am the person his draws his strength from." Whizbang would grin as he opened his back to drop it. "You on the other hand, my glorious patient... Are sick, sticky, nasty... Allow me to show what happens with those Hollowed." Whizbanger would shot his arm out to crash it into Gowher 's chest, extending his giant arm like a missile.

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Like November 19, 2025

Dr. Gowher Clawdigan

In the fractured theater of his mind, Gowher is a worker behind glass—watching the outside world a blurred, distant film while something vast and ravenous pilots the body he once called his own. He lunges for the main brake: a single iron lever slick with sweat and blood. He wrenches it toward his c... View MoreIn the fractured theater of his mind, Gowher is a worker behind glass—watching the outside world a blurred, distant film while something vast and ravenous pilots the body he once called his own. He lunges for the main brake: a single iron lever slick with sweat and blood. He wrenches it toward his chest with everything he has left, vulpine paws slamming against the console for leverage. Metal shrieks, bends, and finally.. “COME ON—COME ON, GODDAMN YOU—” .. the lever shatters with a sound like a bone breaking in slow motion. His black talons, now lacquered crimson from the strain, clutch only splinters. He plummets backward into darkness, shards of the broken brake still clenched in his fists. Through the cracked porthole of his own eyes, he watches in helpless horror as the devil within him takes the wheel completely. He screams until his throat tears, but the sound never reaches the air. He pounds on the visions of Reiner and his new incarnation until his fists bleed, but no one turns to look. Hunger—ancient, bottomless, not his—gnaws at the walls of his prison, and there is nothing here to feed it except himself. Awaiting him, is death. Outside, the body that was once a honest, proper Dr Gowher Clawdigan, is hurled hundreds of meters back by Reiner's new, hellish form. As it gets back up, a shattered breastbone—fragile in a himself unlike a normal griffin—protrudes in jagged white spears from his chest. Blood mats the dark feathers on his chest into wet ropes. Claws scrape furrows in the earth as the thing wearing him drags itself forward, breastbone grinding a raw red trail through dirt and stone. His neck cranes at a nauseating angle, beak gaping toward the sky because lowering it would drive the broken bone deeper. Inside, the real Gowher drowns. Each lurch forward is a fresh crucifixion; soil and thorns and splinters tunnel into the open wound like worms into carrion. He begs the pain to paralyze the body, to grant him one final mercy and freeze the limbs. It doesn’t listen. Pain is only fuel now. The creature drags its ruined chest another body-length, skin flaying away in wet ribbons, and fixes on the wrong prey. Licorice Twist lies motionless, coat charred to charcoal along her back, the sweet scent of burnt sugar replaced by acrid smoke. The savage griffin speeds towards her. His beak—Gowher’s beak—yawns wide, splits around her shoulder, and clamps down. Teeth grind against cold blue flesh with the patient, mechanical hunger of something feeding on a week-old carcass. Flesh pale, grey, and blood candy-blue, wells between the seams of his jaws. Inside his mind, Gowher howls in intense agony, until even the howl forgets its own description.

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