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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
4.02 m
Wingspan
6.54 m
Weight
811.16 kg
Genetics
Thistle
Ripple
Ripple
Purple
Basic
Basic
Ice
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Skydancer
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
5
DEF
9
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
5
Biography
| __._ |
Tales for Heinous Hatchlings __________________________________ ______________ chapter 3 
“Go ahead,” Venice goaded, teeth bared in a sneer. She held out her foreleg, presenting it to the ridgeback with her claws loosely splayed, almost as if asking to clasp their own. She leaned in, shoving her face up close to the other soldier’s. “Just try.” The ridgeback snarled and slashed claws down on Venice—not on her offered target, but aimed rather for the skydancer’s head. But Venice, hardly surprised, jerked her head to the side, moving smoothly away so the strike thumped hard into the packed dirt of the campground instead. Dust poofed up around their claws as the soldier staggered, off-balanced, and coarse laughter and mockery exploded from the crowd quickly gathering around the two. Venice stalked around the ridgeback, making them whirl to keep her in sight, and sniggered to see them already angry, frustrated and flushed in humiliation from the crowd’s jaunts. She bowed like a playful puppy, stretching out her limbs in relish, ridicule in her every motion. “You thought this was a game?” she asked, wide-eyed. They lunged and Venice hopped to her feet, ramping up to meet them. Claws flashed and teeth shone as they traded blows, each blocking or dodging before the other could land the hit, and Venice was starting to enjoy herself when the ridgeback broke away. Just a few seconds had passed, but they panted hard, eyes narrowed and tail lashing as they backed up a few steps. Venice dropped to the ground, irritated. “Is that all?” she scorned. “I told you to at least try.” With a roar, the ridgeback threw themself back in, and Venice leapt forward to meet them. And now she was annoyed, because here this dragon was, who’d overheard her boasting and challenged it, scoffing that no one could win every battle—and now they couldn’t even prove their claim. Well, Venice would show them. Teach them something special—she bashed away their clumsy attack and grabbed their wing joint, sinking her claws in. The ridgeback gasped in pain as first blood was drawn. Which should have been the end of the spar. But Venice. Wasn’t. Finished. Yet. Tightening her grip, she twisted the soldier’s wing joint, nearly snapping the bone, and they howled in pain. She swept her tail under their feet and used their stumble to flip them onto their back, then released the wing and dove for their neck. She gripped them tight, closing off their air supply, and hissed in their ear as they bucked and writhed helplessly underneath her, “I am the strongest soldier in Plaguebringer’s army, and what they say about me is true—You cannot. Make. Me. Bleed.” The hungry mob’s voice had risen into a chant, all crying, “Bleed! Bleed! Bleed! Bleed!” She raised her claws, gleaming in the sunlight. “But how about you?” ~ Two days later, when Venice was released from the brig for her “unscrupulous behavior not befitting a warrior sworn to the Plaguebringer”, she stepped out into the sun and stretched, unruffled by it all. This happened every couple moons or so—some upstart new recruit would hear the rumors about her, they’d get in a fight, she’d win, and when she was punished for it . . . was it really punishment? She was always let out. The army needed her—Plaguebringer needed her! How couldn’t She? Venice was the best. She sauntered through camp, heading for the mess to fill both her complaining stomach and starved mind. Her circle of admirers would be eager to let her in on all the latest gossip, as well as listen raptly to her retelling of her fight with the ridgeback. The ridgeback . . . what was their name again? She’d heard it, certainly, but hadn’t bothered to remember. “Lieutenant?” Venice’s tail tip twitched at the reminder of her rank, but she turned anyway. “Yes—Oh, you.” Venice curled her lip. “One lesson wasn’t enough, worm? You need a refresher?” The same soldier stood a few strides away, covered in bandages, barely looking able to stand. Had the medics released them so soon? And Venice had thought she’d put them in recovery for a quartermoon at least. They met her abrasive stare levelly with a cool green gaze of their own. All the anger from two days prior was gone, replaced with an odd . . . stillness. They just looked at her. “What?” she snapped. “If it’s not a second beating you’re after, then—” “No,” they said. “No, Lieutenant, I came . . . to apologize.” Venice blinked in surprise, but that was quickly swept away in a rush of heady delight. A soldier she’d humiliated, groveling? She looked quickly around for spectators, and saw a few squads nearby. Excellent. Raising her voice, she said scathingly, “What use is an apology from a pathetic scrap like you, worm?” “Please, I must,” they said, taking a few hobbling steps closer, their eyes still on hers. “I did grave error in insulting a fine soldier such as yourself—the best fighter in the army. I . . . deserved what happened to me.” “I suppose you did,” Venice mused, carelessly, but hungering for more. “Well, you can make it up to me.” A side-glance confirmed the scene had caught the attention of one of the squads, who appeared to have been hauling some sort of cargo. The soldiers moved closer, a craving in their eyes, clearly itching for something. Perfect. The ridgeback nodded eagerly. “Anything.” Venice had to bare her teeth. “Kneel.” They paused. “What?” She stepped closer, looming over them despite her smaller frame. They cringed away from her; a thrilling sight. “Grovel like the worm you are,” she growled. “Prove just how much lower you are, when compared to me.” She tossed her head, and was gratified to see the ridgeback hesitate a moment longer, then slowly, painfully begin to lower themself to the ground, stretching themself out before her. “Faster,” she snapped, smacking them with her wing. “I don’t have all day for worms.” The ridgeback hurriedly bowed their head, and Venice stepped even closer, enamored by the sight. This. . . this was right, this was how things should be. She deserved to honored, respected, feared. She should be the one standing at the head of the army, above them all, with every last soldier knowing she was the best. She lifted the same forefoot she’d offered to the ridgeback at their spar and placed it atop their head, forcing their head down further and grinding it into the dirt. “That’s better,” she hissed in satisfaction. The ridgeback mumbled something inaudible. Venice’s eyes narrowed and she leaned down. “What are you mewling about?” “I said,” the soldier, tasting spit-speckled dust, repeated, “I agree.” And they lunged for her. She dodged their attack easily, of course, her honed reflexes making her aware of the danger without any actual thought. They had barely the strength to resist her foot on their head, and their injuries prevented free range of motion in their limbs as their claws arced sloppily through the air. But as Venice dodged back, she realized she’d forgotten— The squad of soldiers. They’d circled up behind her. And at a closer look, she could see they wore the same numbered patch as on the ridgeback’s uniform. They were from the same unit. That was all she had time to think before claws closed around her, pinning her wings, and bright pain ripped through her tail right before she was whipped suddenly up into the air, dangling upside-down in the air from the jaws of a guardian bigger than her and the ridgeback both. “You can’t hurt me!” she screeched, thrashing pointlessly as she swung harmlessly through the air. “I’m Lieutenant Venice, your superior officer, the One Who Will Not Bleed—” An amused chuckle rumbled from the guardian’s chest. “Oh, we know,” they said in a purr, their teeth slicing painfully into her tail as they spoke around it. “Which is why—” A tomato lobbed from below sailed towards them, and the guardian jerked their head, swinging Venice directly into its path. The rotten fruit splattered against Venice’s chest, darkening the pale fur in a blast of sticky red juice. The next one smashed against her head, making her gasp. Twisting around, she saw that the one who’d chucked it had been the ridgeback, who now sat smugly amongst the circle of their friends—and others. Another crowd had gathered, of all the soldiers making their way to and fro mess, and those whose appetites had not yet been quenched found baskets of old food conveniently scattered about . . . “No!” Venice shrieked, fighting the guardian’s grip all the more. “NO!” “You may not bleed red like the rest of us,” the ridgeback called from below, hefting another projectile. “But . . . we can fix that!” The crowd cheered, and the fruit began to fly in earnest alongside the soldiers’ jaunts and jeers. “Make her a rainbow!” “This is for my cousin!” “You’ll never see a bruise in this shade again!” Pelted from all angles, vision spinning as her mind dizzied in both the physical and mental assault of being humiliated like this, Venice scrambled to retain a semblance of control. She was the strongest— An apple smacked her wing and ricocheted back into the mob, only to be caught and gleefully thrown back— Not one dared injure her pride— A nocturne flew up and dumped an entire bucket of blackberry juice down her body, staining her a darker purple— She was Plaguebringer’s chosen— Venice caught sight of one dragon in particular in the crowd. She gaped, unable to believe her eyes—until a fig slammed into her open jaws, splattering the remains like rain below. Her own squad, her fawners and followers . . . they not only watched the abasement, not lifting a claw to stop it, but they joined in. Was she so hated? Despised? Could it be that she, Venice, the One Who Would Not Bleed, was not actually the best? Unable to bear it any longer, she leaped for the guardian’s head and slapped claws close to their eye. They merely scraped scales, but the soldier released her anyway, tossing her up into the air as easily as a hatchling did with a scrap of their dinner. The crowd hooted and yelled as she spun wildly a moment, then figured out her wings and oriented herself in the air before she could slam down to the dirt. “Come back!” soldiers yelled. “We’re not done yet!” But Venice was already flying far away, her pride bled from her as surely as a stuck pig. She fled the battlefield that day as she never done had before, abandoning the army and Deity she’d sworn herself to. And while the army lost the most skilled and powerful warrior they’d ever known before . . . they soon discovered, really, they weren’t missing out on very much at all.
| ___ |
lore by TETRAHEDR0N #542682
code & assets by Archaic #19153
code & assets by Archaic #19153
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