Shim

SHIM, CLAN BESERKER

The only warning Weep gets is the rasp of scalemail on scale. It's slammed by a massive weight, claws rending into its flesh, teeth on its neck.
"Weep!" Phaeton cries. There's a frigid blast, launching the attacker off it. Weep is immediately on its feet, wings held tight to its body, low and ready to attack.
The assailant, however, stays prone. Weep thinks they're unconscious until a contamination green eye opens. Then another, and another, and another.
Plague in the Wastes, it marvels, a mutated one. Weep sinks onto its belly.
"What are you doing? That thing's gonna kill you!" Phaeton shouts. They're readying up another bolt of ice when Weep hisses.
"Cease the attack. We are of audience to a dezien of the Wyrmwound," it tells the Skydancer. It turns to the dragon shaped pile of muscle and infection. "I would hear your decree, Vessel, should you decide me worthy."
There is a long silence. The sun beats heavy, the breeze nonexistant. An enternity seems to pass.
There's a noise, like breath from a punctured lung. "You fight so valiantly, Puss Of The Wound, Weeping Flesh. And yet you have not killed me, devoured me, returned me to the Contagion."
The Mirror tilts its head. "Shall I?"
"No." The voice is final. "I have sought you out, and now I find you worthy. The Plaguebearer has seen you, Weeping Flesh, and sent me. I will guide you to the Wyrmwound."
Phaeton moves as if to speak, and the stare Weep gives them silences their thought.
"What is your price?" Weep asks.
"Only that, when we reach the Cauldron, you destroy me."
The Mirror considers. The pile of rot arises, only barely recognizable as the mutated form of what was once a Bogsneak. "This vessel's soul rots. I do not know how much time it has before the remains of our mind rots away with it."
A mercy killing, then. Weep nods.
"I would ask your name, and in exchange, I will escort you to your end."
The once Bogsneak gives an oozing curtsy. "I am Shim."