Aristaeus

Aristaeus
He/Him | Parasite
Mate: N/A

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Aristaeus is a walking relic of the Loyalty's history.

Long before the time of any of the current members, an old Loyalty leader treated himself like a king. A monarch of the plaguelands, treating his members as his subjects. Some alive now rumor he was the beginning of the end, heralding the shift in the Loyalty's morals from mild to devastating.

True to form, however, he has Aristaeus as his jester. A king must be humbled, of course. While the old leader's pride was unmatched, and his own cruelty was festering, he had an odd sense of humility that seemed reserved for his fool. Should anyone get an upper hand on him, or manage to call out his nonsense, it would be Aristaeus. He was the only one that got away with such things.
No one was really sure why.

Though some speculated it may have something to do with Aristaeus's abilities. Not that anyone understood those much better.
Aristaeus seemed to be born rather... "gifted." His plague magic was strong, horrific, morbidly effective. As though he was the Wyrmwound come alive in its own vessel, able to conjure his own plague wherever he walked.
While manageable when he was younger, his magic soon grew out of hand. Merely touching him became dangerous, risking a deadly affliction on those foolish enough to do so. If he were to simply breathe on the scales of another dragon, a pustule would be left behind, growing quickly feverish and even spreading depending on how long he'd drawn out the breath.

The only thing that seemed to taper it off, actually, was infecting others with it. Otherwise it would grow impossibly stronger within him; bubbling, festering, burning with illness... To lessen his own suffering, he'd pass it off to others. Infect the nearest dragon. Damn them to death, possibly; but it meant less pain for him in the short term.
Some speculate he dressed himself in jester's garb and took on the role of a fool just to goad dragons into harming him. He'd mock, taunt, and sneer at the easily enraged plague dragons, going off about riddles that no one but himself understood... until someone would get too close. Be that to just get up in his face or to attack him outright.
Whatever the case, doing so would infect that poor dragon on the spot. Honestly, Plaguebringer forbid they attacked him; should their teeth have met his scales, and their mouth be filled with the plague that ran through him...

It was a death sentence.
But it would be a surging relief to Aristaeus.

...Then the years passed. The old leader was replaced. Aristaeus's role was no longer recognized.
Dragons learned to avoid him. Dragons with the worst tempers would always be dragged away from him before they could suffer his curse. He was quickly left to rot, ENCOURAGED to rot; nobody wanted to risk being near him. Maybe, if they let it run its course, and not interfere... the plague would eat him from the inside, killing him.
He knew their plan. And he knew, after years of trying, he would die like this. Not wanting to die somewhere in the open, as he knew nobody would touch his corpse to move him - in fear of him still being contagious after death - he hid away deep within the tunnels of the Loyalty.

And then he, in fact, did not die.
Whatever this curse was, it kept him alive. It boiled to the point of agony, leaving him wishing for death, until he eventually grew used to it. He grew numb to the plague within him, coursing painfully throughout his veins, out into his eyes, dripping from his mouth... It no longer bothered him, after so many years.
But he knew he was at his deadliest, now. Should someone find just the small hole he'd kept himself in, they'd surely die the moment they stepped too close.
So he stayed.

Until he was found.
...And, well, that is exactly what happened.