Ouriel

Surely this was a mistake? Some type of error in rostering assignments or- no, no it wouldn’t have been that. Apsinthos knew each dragon in his clan personally and familiarised himself with the unique skill-sets and field of expertise for all. He was too good of a leader to allow a mixup of this gravity to occur, so clearly deep thought had gone into this reassignment

“Accompanying you will be The Thirteenth Wormwood Heir, Sepharael; a Dominion, Camille; the-”

A nephilim and a helper angel? So this was rather serious, then. Ouriel was still lost, struggling to straighten out the jangled puzzle of why exactly it was him who had been called forth for such a task. He lacked the gentle, nurturing touch required to encourage greenery forth from barren, grey soils. His mind was sharp, but it was filled with battle tactics and knowledge of the corrupt, not of weather charts and water salinity levels.

How in all of Sornieth was he supposed to continue repaying the Wormwood Clan for all that they’d done for him? He was utterly out of his depth. Establishing a new settlement was a daunting task which required the utmost delicacy and care. Ouriel had never been clumsy on his feet, but said limbs had certainly never seen use in sculpting new life before. He had always been best suited to the spillage of blood; his talons familiarised with the sing of battle and the smooth glide of sharp metal across knuckles. What did Ouriel and his claws know of curating fresh beginnings? His knowledge was in endings and honourable mercies.

It wasn’t that he dared think to refuse this task, or heavens forbid, to believe it below his station. It was rather just that Ouriel thought there were other dragons far more befitting what his Liege was currently asking of him. How was he to report progress on topics he knew pitifully little about? How was he to defend the Wormwood Clan from those beasts which stalked the unrealities of dreams if he were no longer present within this homeland? The Fear of Pollution was a rotted, vile thing, and the mere thought of leaving it unattended filled Ouriel with indescribable dread.

Still, he forced himself to swallow all of this treachery and doubt back down, for Ouriel was no traitor. Never once had he doubted Apsinthos’ guidance or grandeur before, so why was he allowing his mind to fester with such thoughts now?

For millennia now, Apsinthos had been preparing his clan for the world’s upheaval, so of course he’d take such extreme precautions to ensure this new settlement’s success. After all, how was it intended to flourish away from the Gladekeeper’s nurturing eye if capable, experienced dragons were not responsible for it? Sun-bleached soils and crusted earth laced thick with tapestries of drought-induced cracks. It was going to be a truly arduous effort. Unforgiving. Dangerous.

Ouriel was used to dangerous, so no wonder he was to accompany those less hardened and battle capable. Although it would be a jarring change from his usual responsibilities, this reassignment was still an opportunity to continue repaying his debts to Lyre and serving his clan. He should feel truly honoured to be one of the selected few cementing their names in history for carrying out such a monumental task.

Honoured. Honoured. Honoured.

Ouriel’s tail tip twitched and his whiskers pulled taught across his face. His thoughts continued to betray him to treachery and heresy.

***

Wicked talons catch in the harsh desert light and glitter like polished onyx. Ouriel weaves to the side, feeling the whistle of air as claws slide harmlessly past him. He whirls around, toes nimble and tail lashing, and his teeth snap audibly in the air. The harpy dances away with a furious screech, and Ouriel curses to himself. Too slow. He does not have the time spare to berate himself, for the beast is already advancing again. She jabs at him with a cruel, curved beak and whips the air into furious eddies which carry the stench of something potent and revolting. A tang of stagnating water and the bite of festering boils. It is the smell of the Shade Touched.

Ouriel ducks, and the harpy sails over his head once more. Her feathers are dull and blemished with stress barring, splatters of something dark and viscous clinging amidst the powdery down. The substance clumps thickest around her mouth and dribbles down from her hollowed, blank eyes. She is unquestionably and without a doubt, contaminated by the Shade. Thoughts and lucidity eroded away to mush, now nothing more than primordial instincts and suffering-induced fury.

It is always dreadfully sad to witness. Despite how many times Ouriel has fulfilled this duty, he still much prefers culling those shade-touched animals to those contaminating the beastclans. Animals will always behave as animals, but it is never not disquieting to see the husk of what was once a being he could have conversed with.

At least she will be at peace once this mercy is done.

At least her family will know she is no longer suffering.

At least Ouriel can reassure himself of these things as he continues to work alongside the local harpy beastclans populating this desert to purge the rot stealing away their sons and daughters.

The air rattles and vibrates as the harpy shrieks, and then she is diving for him again. Ouriel allows the muscles in his shoulders and back to tense as he shifts his stance into something wider and better braced. As the harpy careens into him, talons sinking into scaled hide, Ouriel whips his hindquarters around and brings his tail down hard. The crunch of bone is booming. Once the harpy’s body hits the dusty floor, it is already spasming with the throes of death.

Ouriel allows himself a moment to regain his breath. In, out, in, out. Steady the pulse to his heart and the roaring of blood in his ears. In, out, in, out. His throat is parched and his skin prickles from the ever-present bite of the sun. It is a hot day, and he finds the weather here dreadful at times, especially when the hours are whittled away by tasks requiring physical labour. Still, he prefers this to his other duties, the ones he will have to begin again soon if he hopes to have them compiled in time.

Inactivity has never sat well with Ouriel, he’s always been a dragon of action. Seated by the desk within his new accommodations, papers and notes illuminated by flickering torchlight, Ouriel struggles with a battle he knows not how to conquer. The pen is a capable and mighty tool when wielded by the right hands, but Ouriel bemoans having to trade his sword in for such an instrument. What does he know of corralling written words into a semblance of order? Previous reports Apsinthos had requested of him were always given verbally. Debriefs, topographical locations, strategic planning and the creeping spread of the shade. Ouriel is now asked to draw these details from his mind and commit them to paper. It is a struggle, not because he is incapable of it, but because the act of filling a blank page is always daunting.

It is especially difficult because the topics of relevance are so foreign to Ouriel. When debriefing, he was commenting on areas of his expertise, so it came far more naturally to himself. Now, his brain jumbles with botanical terms and schedules for rotational plantings. He does enjoy learning, and there has been no shortage of that, but it all just feels so… much. A job reassignment was a dramatic enough change, but combine that with a complete move of locality too? Ouriel is not too prideful to admit he’s struggling somewhat with the adjustment of it all.

He’ll get through it, though. This reassignment is not nearly as terrible as those poisoned thoughts his traitorous mind had whispered of. He finds his companions' company amendable, there is never a shortage of busyness for his days, and it is satisfying to see the progress being made towards restoration of these sun ravaged lands. Ouriel had even found an earthworm the other day, nestled snugly amidst the humid, damp soil freshly prepared for a plantation of saplings. He’d perhaps committed a minor felony by allowing Mr Owl to excitedly guzzle it down.

It feels like a sign, the first earthworm spelling good things soon to come. Success, victory, and rejuvenation for this bleached bone of a land.

Hope and pride fill Ouriel’s chest.

They will make the Wormwood Clan proud.