Scripa

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Scripa knows power.

It is in her runes, a humming she can always hear, louder than her heartbeat. She has lost most of her memories, a result of a wish granted by the Ravenghast. It is a small price to pay for the power she now wields.

Scripa keeps a journal that details her entire day - what she hears, what she feels, what she sees. The power she has keeps her awake in the night, and fuels her through most of the day. She sleeps very little, and her missing memories don't matter at all - she has nothing she needs to remember that she has not already written down.

And if she clutches the fake pearl to her chest tight enough, no one will notice anything different about her.



The First Nest



Scripa was secretly pleased that her first clutch yielded only failures.

To her, it meant that her power - a power she had received from the Ravenghast, a creature of legend - was hers alone. It could not be shared, and more importantly, it could not be stolen. She cast a sidelong glance at her mate, but the brick runed male seemed as unperturbed as she did.

Maybe he was not as bad as her journal had said. Yes, the colour of his runes meant that he was inferior to her in every way, but he was still a Scribe. He could still create, even if his creations were only fit for the weakest of the Bloodletters.

Everyone, she thought, contributed. She looked back at the hatchlings staring up at her solemnly. They would be given to the Shadowbinder, there was nothing for them here. And even if they weren't true Scribes, there was no way she was risking the outside world knowing of the Scribes - and definitely not of her powers, as slim as the chance might be that someone would find out.

"They will have to train with the Hard Bloodletters," her mate noted.

"If they survive it," Scripa said, and that was that.

If truth be told, she had known her first clutch would be a disappointment. Perhaps her second clutch would not be the same.



The Second Nest



Scripa curled her claws around her fake pearl, watching the two hatchlings carefully. Their lack of power was like an itch she couldn't scratch, something that made her own power recoil. The idea that these weak creatures had come from her was mildly unsettling.

She wondered if this was how her power grew. Perhaps it took from others, drained them of their own power to enhance hers. Perhaps that was why her hatchlings were so disappointing.

"Would you like me to tell Demona?" Notane asked, waiting at her back.

With a flick of her tail, Scripa rose. "No," she replied, turning her back on the hatchlings. "I will tell her myself."

Notane nodded. "Would you like me to accompany you?"

"If you like."

The truth was, she hadn't wanted this nest to fail. Demona was adamant that Scripa's power be passed on, for it to become part of the Bloodletter's power. Demona had no idea of what Scripa had done, what she had sacrificed. She thought Scripa's power was some sort of mutation, a concentration of all the power passed down from Scribe to Scribe.

If this nest hadn't failed, Scripa would have been free to continue working on her rituals and spells. Instead, she knew she was walking towards a Demona who would demand her to keep trying until there was a success.

"Scripa," Notane said from behind her. She looked over her should, tucking her wing out of the way to see him better. The brick runed male had a thoughtful look on his face. "Why don't you tell her you don't want to do this?"

"Because I don't think her ideals are in the wrong place. The betterment of the Bloodletters should be the goal of every one of us."

"Yes, but..." He hesitated, then picked his way so that he was standing at her side. "You can't share your power, can you?"

Scripa regarded the smaller male silently. "That remains to be seen," she replied neutrally.



The Third Nest



Scripa's power snarled in disgust whenever she looked at the latest hatchlings, coiling inside her like an angry snake waiting to strike. She didn't mind it, idly stroking her fake pearl. She'd found that her power worked best when it was riled. Her rituals were stronger, more concentrated and better suited for the Bloodletters who could survive them.

Although, that number was getting less and less. Her spells, too, were being accepted by fewer and fewer individuals. Maybe it had something to do with the power not being of Bloodletter origin, but there was also the possibility of Scripa just having too much power.

It was difficult to funnel just enough power into her spells and rituals. Just using her Scribe abilities beckoned the Ravenghast power coiled in her runes, and she was still learning how to push it back. It didn't like that - it liked to be used and it yearned to be useful.

"Scripa?"

She turned to regard the Scribe approaching her. If she were any other Bloodletter, the sight of the crimson-runed Ridgeback would have sent a twitch of fear through her core. But Scripa gazed at Demona with mild interest, her own power snarling the Ridgeback's into submission.

Demona broke eye contact first, her attention shifting to the two hatchlings rolling on the ground. Her eyes narrowed, and with a forceful huff she looked away from them.

"More failures?"

"So it would seem."

Demona's eyes flashed. "Scripa, this is no joking matter. If you can't produce what I want you to produce - "

"You've already said," Scripa interrupted, not moving from her position seated on the floor. "I understand the position you've found yourself in, but it's hardly my fault the hatchlings aren't what you want."

"Don't interrupt me," Demona snapped, her nostrils flared. Her power flashed out, but Scripa's easily pushed it away. A fly, swatted. Demona took a small step back, her eyes narrowing. "As a Scribe, you should know it is our duty to our ancestors to keep our power strong. We absorb what we can, and we always get stronger. This power of yours - "

"Is mine," Scripa said. She watched the Ridgeback stiffen. "You can't take it from me, and it may never be reproduced. You shouldn't let yourself lose sight of the true objective."

"I told you not to interrupt me. If it is not your fault, is it your mate's fault? Should I have him killed and find you another, more worthy mate?"

Scripa rose to her paws, her power spilling from her runes in a dark shadow around her. Demona could see it, she knew - the Ridgeback's eyes widened in alarm for a split second before she gained control of her expression.

"How long has it been since you created a spell?" Scripa asked. "Or a ritual? I am not the only one who has noticed your fixation with me and my hatchlings, And let me tell you, many are unhappy. A decree to sacrifice one of a nest until there is success in mine?"

Demona took another step back. "You know why I did that."

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps, this once, such a heavy handed approach wouldn't be successful?"

"It has worked in the past - "

"Why did you think it would work now?" Scripa hissed. "How many perfectly good Bloodletters have you given to the Shadowbinder? Devouria must have had some issue with this, at the very least."

Demona turned to leave. "This conversation is over."

"Yes," Scripa agreed, turning her back on Demona. "It is."



The Fourth Nest





Another disappointment. Notane watched her as she stood over the newly hatched failures, saying nothing as she nodded to herself and walked out.

Her power lashed out, sending a fine spiderweb of glistening red and black veins that echoed with silent screams.



The Fifth Nest





"She is perfect," Notane said quietly, his eyes bright as he studied their hatchling.

Scripa agreed silently. The little blood-runed Pearlcatcher was happily scratching in the dirt, unaware as Scripa reached out with her power to touch.

She pulled away with a small frown. The hatchling turned to look at her, wide purple eyes darkening for just a moment before she blinked.

Just a touch, a spark of the Ravenghast's power echoed in her blood. Scripa herself did not feel any different.

She and her mate both heard the heavy steps of the Ridegback approaching. Notane scooped up the hatchling and set her onto his shoulder, where she immediately buried into his mane. Scripa turned to face the entrance.

"Where is the hatchling?" Demona demanded, sweeping into their space. The Scattered Bloodletters, Shaoro and Pleo, paused outside, their eyes locking on the red and black veins that spiderwebbed around the entrance.

"Leave," Scripa said, her tone leaving no room for an argument.

The Ridgeback, however, ignored her. "Where is the Scribe, Notane?" There was a wild, triumphant look in her eyes. "I will be taking the Scribe."

Notane bristled. "My mate has already asked you to leave," he replied.

The crimson-runed Ridgeback sneered, her eyes flitting to Scripa for a moment before dismissing her entirely. "Give me the Scribe, Notane."

Scripa rose to her feet, an inkling of understanding making a disbelieving smile crawl across her face. "Leave," she said again, and again the Ridgeback ignored her.

Notane looked to her searchingly as their hatchling poked out from his mane. Demona, perhaps forgetting herself, perhaps unable to resist the temptation of finally being able to have her hands on Scripa's power, lunged.

There was a thud, a roar of pain, and the shadows in their den lengthened, darkened. They whispered with a million voices as Scripa stepped in front of Demona.

"You will not touch her," she said serenely. The Ridgeback was on the floor, splayed in different directions as though she'd slipped on ice. Scripa's smile was positively malicious.

Demona scrambled to her feet, shaking out her wings. "You hold no power -" she began, but Scripa lashed out, freezing the Ridgeback. The larger dragon strained against the hold, wings flared and muscles locked.

"I hold all the power," Scripa said. "That is my hatchling, not yours. This," she indicated the bindings holding Demona with a sharp talon, "is my power, not yours.

"And so," she continued, stepping closer to the Ridgeback, "I will tell you one more time. Leave."



The Last Nest





She could not take her eyes off them.

Out of three hatchlings, there had been no successes. None like Ravorah, her power thick like blood, with a gentle caress like a feather.

But two... Two were something other. Both had bright, eye catching runes, brighter even than the proud Demona. The vivid red runes were too bright to be Bloodletter, and Scripa did not need to reach out with her power to know that she would feel something that would make her clutch for her pearl.

They were not Bloodletter... But Scripa knew, somehow, they would stay. And no one would be able to make them leave.

"What will we do?" Notane asked. One of the red runed hatchlings, her eyes the darkest purple Scripa had ever seen, looked to him curiously. The other red runed hatchling stared at the third hatchling, the outcast. Scripa and Notane both watched as the outcast began to tremble, purple eyes flaring wide in panic.

"They will stay," Scripa sighed. "They will not leave us."

"They are not Bloodletter," Notane said.

Scripa shook her head. "No." She reached over and gently picked up the second red runed hatchling, turning her around so that she could see the hatchling's eyes. Eerie mirrors stared back at her, their faceted surfaces reflecting Scripa's pale, icy eyes.

Scripa snorted when she felt the faintest brush, the faintest pull. "None of that," she chided. Ravorah, perched with her books scattered around her, looked up with interest. "I am your mother - you should not use such tricks on me."

Her eldest daughter put down her book, moving closer. "Mother, her eyes," Ravorah said, her voice low. "They are strong."

Both adults were used to Ravorah's odd phrasing, knowing her well enough to interpret what she really meant. "They are indeed." Scripa placed the hatchling back on the ground. "They are indeed."