Eulogy » Lair » Unnamed

Unnamed

(#58134907)

Come to dance among the ashes?

Familiar

Sword Spider

Energy: 0/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

3.03 m

Wingspan

2.59 m

Weight

92.5 kg

Genetics

Cyan
Swirl

Mint
Noxtide

Silver
Capsule

Hatchday

Jan 01, 2020
(4 years)

Breed

Adult
Spiral

Eye Type

Arcane
Uncommon

Level 1 Spiral

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

Unnamed
"Come to dance among the ashes my dear?"

You might have had delusions of grandeur before. And really now, who hasn’t? But in your wildest dreams or your most depraved nightmares, you never thought of attaining leadership like this. It starts with a hysterical grenadier weeping against you and screaming that the Captain’s gone. And the major above him. And the colonel...
“So that’s where they went,” you murmur, as you rub the ash off your cheek. It clings stubbornly to your wings and face, making delicate patterns of pale gray dust. Despite—or perhaps because of—the horror all around, you can’t help but notice that it is eerily pretty.
“Yep, those were the officers. Always striving to make their underlings look good. The salt of the earth!” you say, gesturing to the parade ground, “—Quite literally, now.”
There’s something comforting about numbers. The mundane predictability of them, one followed by two followed by three. You do a headcount today; you’ll do another headcount tomorrow. You go to sleep that night, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow, the numbers will be the same.
Except that they’re not.
Twenty-one dwindles to eighteen, then eighteen to seventeen. After that, it’s fifteen. And then there are eleven.
They look expectantly at you. You must do something. “Looks like we won’t have much trouble rationing!” is what you choose to say.
Two days after that, only a half-dozen of you remain. The last group of deserters left just before dawn. You tell the guard not to bother following them. “It’s always nice,” you reassure her, “when the garbage takes itself out.”
The Pearlcatcher comes to the outpost one morning, searching for someone named Gwyndolen. “Is there a Gwyndolen here?” you call out to your merry band, knowing full well that there isn’t.
You tell her that this is Crossfire, where the party never stops. But even before the last word leaves your tongue, the messenger is flying away.
“There’s a better joke in there. Crossfire,” you mutter; and your mind is briefly filled with memories of strangled screams and the stench of burning scales....
“Hey, now, come back! The joke’s not so bad! It’s not really that bad...is it?” You grin after the messenger’s retreating form, well aware that it is.
It will get worse before it gets better. But you don’t know when that will be.
Among the Captain’s manuscripts, you find primers for magical spells. Fireballs, desiccating heatwaves, and so on. “I can’t wait to try these out!” you declare, and you rope your subordinates into it, because it’s time you all had some fun.
Everyone makes progress in leaps and bounds. There are so many things to practice on. Old dummies. Empty sacks of cloth. Vacant-eyed, misshapen husks shambling just beyond the walls.
—“I swear that one looked just like Greg.”
—“Didn’t you feel bad when he got torched?”
—“Hell, no! I never liked that gasbag! He’s way more agreeable with his jaws rotted away like that.”
—“Oh, but sir...he’s getting up.”
—“You mean I have to burn him to a crisp again? Excellent news!”
The crate is at the back of a storeroom, and you had hoped it was food. The words along its sides—DANGER: Flammable—quash that hope immediately.
Still, you look on the bright side: “We’ve got fireworks, everybody!”
The others cheer, and that night, the contents of the crate go up in flames. They shoot up to the heavens, shining with lurid red light, and then drift downwards like dandelion seeds.
You wonder if anyone will see the distress flares. You wonder if they will come. You wonder if you’ll see anything else ever again, beyond the outposts, the dead, the smoke. You hope the spells will continue working and that tomorrow, when you wake up, the headcount will still be the same.
You know how it all started. You don’t want to think about how it will all end.
But for now, you can pretend this is a party. Even the distress flares look just like fireworks—but only if you squint.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
Art by nummy
all edits by other users

If you feel that this content violates our Rules & Policies, or Terms of Use, you can send a report to our Flight Rising support team using this window.

Please keep in mind that for player privacy reasons, we will not personally respond to you for this report, but it will be sent to us for review.

0/1000

Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.

Exalting Unnamed to the service of the Flamecaller will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.

Do you wish to continue?

Name

Names must be longer than 2 characters.
Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
Names can only contain letters.

Name

Names must be no longer than 16 characters.
Names can only contain letters.