Sargeras

Tiny white teeth shine out from between obsidian lips as Sargeras smirks, watching his clanmates go about their business. There were voices he could hear in the back of his little skull. Whispering voices that were always there, muttering of things to come; some of which were good, some that were bad, but all things that were necessary. With blood-red eyes staring out at the passing dragons, the hatchling huffed softly to himself.

Poor souls. One that was going to lose a loved one. One who was going to receive a gift. A very fine balance of life and loss, giving and taking. And he saw it all.

Sometimes he told the others what the voices whispered, the visions he saw swimming before him. They, of course, initially wrote them off as the delusions of a hatchling. But Sargeras paid them no mind. He was small, yes, and it was likely he would remain this way for the rest of his life, but if telling themselves a child's words were nonsense helped them sleep better at night, he wasn't going to tell them otherwise.

One by one his foretellings came to pass, however, and his clanmates began to grow more and more wary of him. They avoided him like the plague, lowered their gaze when they saw him pass. Sometimes one would seek him out of desperation, but seldom were his words kind.

Sargeras blinks slowly as another dragon hurries by, shielding their eyes. He laughs under his breath; as if avoiding him so changes their fate. One of the voices rises in pitch, hissing violently to catch his attention. As always, he closes his eyes, shuts out the rest of the world as he listens.

His parents hold many of the same gifts as Sargeras, but unlike them, he did not linger in the Scarred Wasteland. Many of their hatchlings were sent off into the world, or sent to serve their deity, the Plaguebringer. At first, Sargeras remained close by, his parents enthralled with the child who spoke with the voice of an Ancient Dragon, as if within his diminutive frame was held a very, very old soul. In fact, his own clan revered him as such. A great Old One fallen and rebirthed as a hatchling. Once he was old enough to forage for himself, though, his parents all but abandoned him, returning to their old ways and craft.

It wasn't long, though, before Sargeras' gift began to usher himself elsewhere. As the voices grew more numerous within, he felt the urge to walk. Walk without stopping. And that was what he did, following the directions of his internal guides as they directed his path. Eventually he came to settle here, at the behest of the voices, and here Sargeras remains.

Here, where he watches his fellow dragons, issues his prophecies when they ask for them, and remains silent when they do not. But he is never truly silent. Not when the ghosts or spirits or souls of the past are always murmuring their council within.

by dadminkestler