Sparkle

For years, this Imperial was nothing special to look at - dull, flecked plumage and mottled scales. But beauty was never a venerated trait in the plaguelands, and so she toiled in modesty and served her clan, even if she harbored a quiet jealousy for those wanderers of other flights, so bright and exotic and garishly patterned. She trained hatchlings to serve their goddess, and one by one her students, beautiful all, took their place at the Wyrmwound's lip.

Then one day, she fell ill.

Her purple scales turned darker and flaked away. Her feathers molted, and only when they fell withered upon the ground did she realize how very blue they were, for all their muddy patterning. Bare skin swelled and split and bled, and ridges of scars formed along her neck and back, knotted in whorls that almost looked fanciful to her wavering delirium. She lay immobile, scaleless, stricken with fever and shedding color, and bowed her head.

And yet...

She healed. It was not an easy convalescence, but the clan tended to her as she had tended to it, and eventually the heat leached from her skin. She rested, and new scales began to emerge - but these ones were newer, richer, with swirling discolorations thrown into vivid relief when she finally emerged from the dimness of the healing-den. Her scars darkened and hardened, and there was a strange sheen to be found on them, as if they not only belonged to her hide but enriched it. When her feathers at last grew in, they were glossy with the vigor of new growth, and each pinion shone a rainbow of oily colors in the light.

Some say the Plaguebringer never gives, but Sparkle knows better. The Plaguebringer tests, and those that survive her trials emerge brighter than ever. And that's a kind of beauty in its own right.


Previously