Pestilence

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PESTILENCE Zealot | Carrier | Survivor Theme 1 Theme 2

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The Scarred Wasteland is a vast place, with all manner of beasts and mutated creatures roaming its landscape. How strange should it be that one of the most terrifying things a dragon might encounter in the wastes, is simply another dragon.

Although, it sounds ludicrous. Ridgebacks may be notorious for ‘borrowing’ from fellow travelers, but they’re certainly nothing quite so threatening as the stories claim. Some clans just enjoying their dramatics, perhaps a legend brought in from outside the Wasteland. It wouldn’t be the first terrifying story to be told about the Plaguebringer’s children long enough that it became a local folktale.

This is what you tell yourself as you pass by a yellowed, splotchy hide, and try not to notice how her veins pulse and writhe against pale scales.

“An outcast, I bet. The clans here are so fond of their exiles.”

This is what you tell yourself when you feel a heavy gaze on your back, your feet moving faster.

“She’s just looking for something to ‘borrow’ I’m sure.”

This is what you tell yourself as your eyes start to burn, your heart thundering nervously.

”The heat must be getting to me. I just need some rest, that’s all... that’s all.”

Minutes later when your legs give out, your eyes stuck shut by viscous burning fluid and the blistering heat bearing down on your aching limbs, you wonder if the stories of Pestilence might be true after all.

You wonder if you’ll live to tell anyone.



- - -

The clans of the Abiding Boneyard have long since grow used to battle and hardship. Sources of drinkable water are few and far between, and more often than not become sites of war. With only small rivers from the Sea of a Thousand Currents to the south, meager streams that wind in between the territories of the Windswept Plateau, Starfall Isles, and Dragonhome, and the rare oasis to be found in the Wasteland, it’s no wonder dragons would kill over something so valuable.

Upstart dragons drive out beastclans from near-puddles. Stronger clans overpower weaker ones to build and expand. Strong clans war and war and war until the beastclans take advantage and reclaim the land again.

Runt had seen this cycle repeat far too many times. They were leaving again, her clan missing half its members, more casualties than the last time. It had been their third attempt at establishing themselves in as many seasons. They didn’t have many fighters left, just the last few priests, but they were little more than self-important philosophers, clearly not strong enough mages to pose any real threat, not when they couldn’t even defend themselves against harpies.

Even a hatchling like Runt managed to kill one by hacking up a cloud of acid onto its face. Sure, her shoulder was sporting a throbbing slash, but the priests altogether only managed to make the group of harpies choke a bit while they fled like scolded Hainu.

Clans like hers were common in the Boneyard, little better than nomads, never able to settle because they were weak. Runt’s family was the strongest they had, and her, well...



She’d gotten used to it. Whatever they called her, she was alive, more than some of them could say now. Of course she resented her joke of a name, but this runt outlived half the clan already, it would be wonderfully ironic to be the last of them, not that she would ever intentionally drag them down. It was bad enough she had to endure their looks of disapproval just because she grew tired quickly. Her mother could have carried her between her spines, but ’we don’t show weakness, Runt’.

They walked.

After nearly a full day traveling without pause, Runt’s legs were shaking, her breaths coming in wheezes, and her eyes struggling to stay open. Her snout hit something, and for a moment she thought maybe she’d finally fallen, but her head cleared and when she blinked her eyes open, one of her brothers’ hind claws was in her face. The hatchling straightened and peered around him, trying to see what they’d stopped for. There was something...pulsing ahead of them, bright and orange. It reminded her of stories of the Wyrmwound, but it was a tree.

Or, it had been a tree. Now it was something different. The roots were swollen with that orange-tinted glow, and deep amber fruits hung large and ripe amongst bone-white leaves. Runt snuck around her brother to get closer, peeking at the adults who were eying the tree with the same kind of wonder. It was strange to find any kind of plant life here in the Boneyard, stranger still, there wasn’t a hint of water to be seen, just a small pool of bright liquid and the tree standing tall within.

————

The priests decided they would settle here. Runt was skeptical. There was no water here for them to drink, and the only food was... whatever it was on that tree once their rations ran out. No one asked her if she thought it was smart to depend on a strange tree, of course. Why would they?

Still, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. The tree was impressively tall, as tall as her mother at least, the swollen fruits dripping with some kind of juice the same deep orange that ran through its roots.

Left alone as she often was, Runt borrowed some of the clan’s furs and burlap to make herself a small tent not too far from the tree. If it happened to cover one of the thick vein-like roots where it burst through the ground, no one needed to know.

Her clan started establishing its borders with the tree as their center point. The area was surprisingly left alone by creatures and dragons alike, which annoyed the hunters who were gone most of the daylight hours and returned with only a single Clown Charger for their trouble. They were lucky the clan was entirely Plague, else they would have to worry about food poisoning with their only real chef having been lost in the fighting weeks ago.

When the sun set and the clan’s watch were the only ones still moving about in the darkness, Runt would push aside the furs covering her glowing root. She wasn’t sure when it became hers, but it was, and after seeing how their priests balked and squabbled about the tree—their newly dubbed “Wyrmwood”— the little Ridgeback knew better than to let anyone know she had taken a piece for herself. She had experimented, taken her sharpest claw and scratched at the roots, sniffed at the leaking sap, and felt the urge to drag her tongue across it.

She almost had the first time, only just resisting that siren call. Runt might’ve been small and weak, but she had some sense about her. The Ridgeback scraped the sap into a small jar to tuck away into a corner of her tent, noticing it smelled surprisingly pleasant, like warmth, something thick and heady.

The scent of it stuck to her tent and herself alike. Runt got strange looks when she passed too close to the Tundras, and the Skydancers kept glancing at her like they knew she was keeping a secret. They probably did, but as long as she stayed away, most dragons left her well enough alone.

After poking at the root some more, sticking things in the glowing orange sap, covering bits of her furs with it only to watch it it harden into an amber sheen. Eventually Runt decided there wasn’t much else to do with it besides try to taste it.

The fruits of the tree were as plump and juicy looking as ever, and the priests made a bit of a fuss about being the first to understand this strange life blessing they’d been given. They were pompous limp-claws, in Runt’s opinion, trying to keep all the strange tree’s secrets to themselves, but no one spoke such thoughts out aloud. Truly, she was half hoping they all fell over dead. It’d serve them right, and it’d open up a spot for some real warriors to take charge.

Another part of her though, the part that spoke louder than it had any right to, told her she should be first to know the secrets of the tree. That siren’s call was too strong to resist. The need to know, to be the first when all the rest thought her useless.

Runt noticed by now the sap’s scent had dulled in her things, its glow less vibrant in the jar. It was like it was dying. Whatever the tree would do, the Ridgeback felt sure a fresh fruit would be better than stale sap, so she excused herself early, equally grateful and bitter at how readily her siblings accepted her excuse of feeling tired. By now Runt should’ve known they held her in contempt for how she would cough more than them, how she could still only glide. Maybe they had a point about her being weak if she still let that knowledge sting as it did.

Once the darkness of night covered the clan, she stuck her head from her tent and watched the Wyrmwood guards making their rounds. It wasn’t the first time she had done this, out of boredom at first, curiosity after that, then purpose, so she knew in less than an hour the guards would change. There would only be a few minutes for her to get to the Wyrmwood and away again with her prize, but she was small and quick, easily overlooked in the dead of night. She even had a fruit in mind, on a branch hanging low to the ground, the brightest on the tree so far. It would be a lie to say her choice wasn’t related to overhearing the priests point it out to each other. Perhaps it was petty, but anyone deserved it more than them, and Runt was the only one with the guts to take it for herself.



After a successful theft, Runt’s first thought was that the fruit was much softer than she’d been expecting. Back in her tent, it seemed to light up the whole space with its soft eerie glow. The sap had smelled strongly, but this was even stronger. It reminded her of a fresh kill, of candied meat left out in the sun, like one of her oldest uncles just before illness took him. She felt as though her talons might pop it if she wasn’t careful.

Now that it was finally in Runt’s claws though, she was having second thoughts. What if it killed her?

She contemplated the idea for a moment, then snorted softly.

It wasn’t like it would be a surprise to anyone. She couldn’t go a few days without some little illness or other striking, it would only be a matter of time before something ended her anyway. If she went out with an affront to the priests, that wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

Runt held the fruit close, then bit into it fiercely. The taste was just as indescribable as its scent, not pleasant, not unpleasant, thick, squishy, sour, sweet, too juicy, then strangely dry as she bit into some thick center that crunched loudly between her teeth.

She nearly bit her claw by accident, so absorbed in trying to figure out the flavor of this strange fruit that it was gone before she even realized. The juices were all over her talons and had dripped onto her furs. The smell of it was everywhere. Runt licked it from her claws then rubbed her furs in the dusty ground to dry them and try to hide the evidence as best she could. All the while she felt... not all that different. Full, of course, but she wasn’t full of boundless energy, nor did she have any sudden symptoms of disease.

She felt disappointed, if anything. The Wyrmwood was an anomaly. They’d never seen anything like it before. To have it end up just another strangely shaped tree, not even one with good fruit, what else could she be but let down by it?

Runt waited for a few more hours, waiting for something, anything at all. Resignation sunk in with each passing second, and eventually, uneventfully, sleep claimed her.

————

She awoke to shouts from outside, rousing enough to nudge her tent open only to see a crowd gathered around the Wyrmwood. For a moment she was struck with terror they’d found out what she’d done, but the commotion didn’t stop at her appearance. If fact, everyone seemed completely enthralled by whatever was going on at the tree. Runt hurried into the crowd of feet and claws much larger than her, crawling between them to get to the front and see what was happening.

“Get back everyone! The tree is unsafe!”

Runt’s head finally popped out from between the forelegs of a Guardian as the voice of one of their priests rang out. The Wildclaw was standing front of a smaller body laying still on the ground. Between the scents from everyone around her, Runt noticed a thick sickly-sweet aroma, oh so familiar after her feast last night.

A wet cough came from the body behind the priest. They were alive, then.

“What happened?” called another voice from within the crowd, echoed by more while the Wildclaw looked around nervously and tried to flatten his ruffled feathers.

“The fruits are unsafe!” he shouted in answer, “Alorin fell ill after eating no more than a bite.”

Hearing he was sick again didn’t surprise Runt. Alorin was a Fae, and nearly as feeble as her, except while Runt would recover after a day or so, she couldn’t recall ever seeing the Fae without a cough or a fever or some unsightly rash. The priests played it off as a sign of favor—“So many blessings,” they’d say—but it was no secret he was unfit for survival.

Still, something bright and cruel stirred in Runt’s chest. She couldn’t put a claw on why, exactly, the knowledge their priest was likely dying filled her with a sense of pride, and yet it did.

And then the answer came to her.

‘I was worthier,’ a fierce, spiteful voice whispered in the safety of her mind. In fact, thinking on it now, Runt noticed she wasn't out of breath. She'd ran here, dashed and dodged among claws, and yet she wasn't at all tired. Not even a day before, the dash from her tent to the tree had made her heart pound with exertion, but now after the fruit... It was killing their priest, but Runt was made well by it. There was no way in any realm that it was coincidence. Slipping away from the crowd as Alorin finally fell silent for the last time, Runt’s wide, vicious grin went unnoticed.

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