Harrow

Previously:


The abandoned temple was rarely visited. Tendrils of flesh and pestilence had streaked across the intricate carvings, crushing stone and driving the sacred grounds into ruins. The plague had taken over; there was little left of its former civilisation.

Two silent figures sat amongst the rubble, their words ushered and lowered-- almost secretive. Far outside the clan's boundaries, both guardian and imperial had risked life and limb to reach the ancient grounds.

Skreel, one of the clan's commanding dragons, turns to the silent guardian, his tattered, crimson wings billowing out behind him. He was impatient, aggressive; she'd taken him too far from his homeland. Suspicions of assassination, ambushes-- all flickered through his mind in a tidal wave of paranoia.

Harrow, by contrast, was calm. She finally spoke, her nonchalant words slicing through the atmosphere in an instant. "I've had a vision. A brief flicker of an image, my master."

The imperial pauses, his expression blanching. The prophets, soothsayers, fortune tellers-- they were cursed. Their predictions of boundless accuracy always foretold the worst; a death, a disease, a famine. He grunts, motioning for her to continue with a listless paw.

"There'll be deaths. Countless." Harrow's expression never changes; she's embraced her curse. "Two sources-- both internal and external. Heighten the guard. Keep watch on our prisoners." She bows her head, falling silent. Too early.

Skreel bristles, seemingly unused to the prophet's vague predictions. The imperial scrutinises the dragon through narrowed, disdainful eyes, his maw held half-open-- either in shock, or an intent to interrogate her further. He soon grunts, clamping his mouth closed. There's no point in questioning her; she'll likely reveal no more. He slowly, uneasily turns away before taking flight, thundering towards his territory on red wings without further comment.





The blind guardian listens, waiting for the rumbling beats to fade into the distance. She smirks, her ragged chuckles echoing about the ruins.

"Tusken. He believed me."

The nearby rubble shifts, rocks cascading down a rising lump of spikes, teeth and grins. The ridgeback heard everything; his subterfuge had gone unnoticed. He approaches Harrow, his stoney scales glimmering in the moonlight.

"Of course he did, my dear; the spirits foretold it. Now, we wait."