Nightroars

There's nothing colder then a southern winter, nothing harsher than frozen winds. Remarkably, some Clans have managed to live comfortably enough in the snows of the south. Relying on the wild game that lives in the Icefields, these Clans bear fierce and hardy dragons. One of these Clans was forced to face trials unlike any seen before.

Between icy cliffs and perilous forests lies an ancient Clan, one that's stood for centuries. In a time long since forgotten, a great war was fought between them and a band of malicious sorcerers. The battle waged for an age, taking a turn for the worst when the sorcerers turned towards dark magic.

In the darkest nights of that long winter, they sat round a blazing fire, communing with ancient spirits. Using stolen and forbidden magics, they created a power of immeasurable strength. When cast upon one of their warriors, the individual would be blessed with unmatched strength, speed, and the will to destroy their enemies. They had believed the battle for territory would be won.

In practice, the spell did in fact grant the strength they so desired, though it came with an undesired effect. It drove the users mad with power, forcing waves of destruction which drowned soldiers, innocents, and eventually even the sorcerers themselves. It took all of the Old Clan's might to keep the cursed dragons at bay, and they were woe to discover that even once defeated, the malevolent energy simply passed to another host. It all seemed lost, but the Master of Old took a great sacrifice upon himself to defeat the beasts. He channeled his mind and magics out of himself towards the infected, managing to lure each and every cast spell into his body. The evil drained out of the poor souls and into him, sufficiently locking them away where they could do no harm.

Such a feat required a great strength of will, and yet it was unfortunate that it would never end. The magic wouldn't break down, reduce, dissipate. It simply swirled and swarmed in it's binds. As a consequence of their victory, the ancient ones made it so that the heirs of the Master, the Leaders throughout the ages, must take this magic into themselves, to prevent an outbreak like the time of it's creation.

This tale is taught to all young dragons born to the Old Clan, even centuries after that fateful winter. The war is still ongoing, feeding on old grudges more than land nowadays, but it still poses a danger on all Clans affected. Young Nightroars heard this story when he was only a hatchling, his eyes wide and his mind racing to comprehend such histories. Nightroars was the nephew of the Clan's current Leader, and as such was a descendant of the Old Master. It was not his duty to inherit his role, that would be passed on to his cousin, but he still had the potential to be as the Master had been. Not that he wanted to. Nightroars and his friend Dawnsings would laugh and play games of war and victory, acting out the old wars with inflated stories of triumph and heroism. The sorcerers defeated and the brave leader would hold their magics captive, chained by the very soul! Nightroars like to play as the good guys, meaning Dawnsings usually pretended to be the bad guys. He began to get bored with losing, but said nothing. Nightroars was his friend after all.

Time passed and the Leaders mantle was soon to be passed to his son, the rightful heir. It's always a dramatic ceremony, the act of passing to old spell to the younger dragon, and is absolutely fascinating to watch. It's incredibly important to do so, for if the Leader dies before passing it on, the spell will either spill itself out and infect all it reaches, or latch onto the nearest heir, allowing for unconstrained and condensed evil.

Nightroars went to the ceremony to watch as his cousin rose in ranks, becoming a hero. Dawnsings was no where to be found. This worried Nightroars, he didn't want his friend to miss out on this; he'd never seen the Passing Ceremony before. The Leader and his son took their seats at the head of the lair, facing each other. It was about to start. They had all but raised their arms when a spear shot forward and pierced the neck of the young dragon. He was dead before he hit the floor. The lair was silent, everyone was shocked. The heir continued to bleed into the snow. The old Leader stood, staring into the darkened eyes of his son, and began to scream. The air wavered, almost seeming to split as his screams echoed throughout the south, the rest of the Clan taking up his cry. Suddenly a throng of enemy soldiers came pouring into the lair. The screams multiplied tenfold, bringing Nightroars to his senses. He rallied the army he commanded and took up arms against the intruders, to protect the Leader and his son's prone body. The skirmish waged, and many soldiers were lost in the sea of blades. Nightroars was exhausted, stepping back from the fray for a moment to catch his breath. He looked towards where the Leader still stood, frozen by his sons corpse. Behind him was Dawnsings. For a moment, Nightroars could only think that he had missed the Ceremony, when he launched forward and latched his jaw onto the old dragons throat. He could barely fight back, placing a single scratch on the dark Imperial's arm, before he chocked on his own blood and died.

The lair was anarchy, dragons running to and fro in an effort to escape. They ran from Dawnsings. They ran from the intruders. They had forgotten the old tales. The air surrounding the old dead Leader became thick and dark, rushing outwards with the sound of ten thousand flies, circling upwards into the cloudy sly before arching back down into the shell-shocked body of Nightroars.

His mind flickered between the faces of everyone in the Clan, all of whom he loved greatly, lingering on the face of his Uncle. He was like a father to Nightroars, and now he was dead. His heir was dead. Killed by who he thought was his best friend. The flickering stopped and Nightroars was shut out of his own consciousness. Without control but with full understanding, Nightroars cut down all of those faces he had loved. One by one he watched them die, he watched himself kill them, and he tasted their blood on his lips. He screamed but it sounded like laughter. His own army turned to fight him, but he cut them down too. Swords and spears punctured Nightroars as he fought but he didn't feel it. He tried to shut out the screams of the dragons he grew up with but couldn't. He couldn't stop laughing.

After what felt like a millennia, Nightroars woke from his captivity. The magic was still inside him, he could feel it, but now it seemed he was the one keeping them in chains, rather than the other way around. What frightened him was that he could feel emotion in it, as if it were alive. It had evolved into sentience over the ages, and that terrified him. He surveyed the destroyed lair, stained red with viscera and gore. He couldn't find Dawnsings' body, and was almost disappointed. Almost.

In a half-hidden hovel he found around two dozen dragons, alive and relatively unharmed. They cringed at the sight of him, thinking him to still be mad. He wanted to explain he was alright, but he couldn't find the energy to speak. Or stand, really. He looked at himself for the first time and found that some of the red staining his feathers was his own blood, and he collapsed.

Once again Nightroars woke, this time from a comatose state. Azrak knelt beside him, smiling gently. Beside him was Lux, Palantir, and Adaltan. Adaltan was thrilled, his Charge was alive and sane. Palantir was glad the madness had passed. Lux gave a faltering smile, though her eyes were red. He had murdered her family, all of them. She tried not to blame him.

They couldn't stay in the Icefields. Their enemies were many, and their traumas were plentiful. They traveled north where it was warmer and they were not so well known. It was bittersweet to leave such an ancient lair behind. They ventured into the Sunbeam Ruins, and were greeted by a Dryad. They had meant to seek shelter in the shade of a massive tree, and were shocked to witness it shift into a dragon. She was cold and stern, refusing to allow them entry into her domain. She was godlike, but when Nightroars begged her for help, she softened, but only slightly. They could stay, but she would rule by Nightroars side.

Her name was Lassemista. She learned of Nightroars actions in the south, and confronted him. He confessed to her what he had done, along with what he had been doing more recently. He believed he must pay for his crimes, and had taken his punishments upon himself. They struck up a deal together. Nightroars would keep the peace of the land, his people would not hunt to much or in any other way disrupt the ecosystem. In return, should Nightroars ever lose control again, Lassemista would kill him herself, before any damage could be done. The relationship between the Dryad and the rest of the dragons was tense, especially with those who knew of the pact, but it was necessary to their survival. It still is.