Shirelle

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Xilonen was not sure what to do with the child. The nesting grounds had been empty for some time. Feathers lay scattered across the den floor, kicked into corners after being left unattended. His clan took pride in constructing elaborate bone sculptures over their nests for shelter and luck, but even those had been left to fall apart. If he had been given an egg, Xilonen would need to prepare a spot for it, digging in the soft clay ground until warm liquid seeped through his claws. He could simply keep it warm, a job he was well prepared for. Instead, a hatchling cowered before him, crying and trembling. The Seasons were beginning to change. Warm air blew in from the West, creating swirling dust storms in the infertile wasteland. The Sea’s border withered away as tides rose, and soon there would be flooding. Harsh bursts of arcane energy flowed in unpredictable ways, further mutating the wildlife that struggled to survive there. It was summer in the Plaguelands, and with it came buzzing, rotting heat, the smell of blood caked clay, and if they were lucky, death.

The last time Xilonen had ventured above ground, he knew it would be the last of the year. His wind heritage bestowed him with breeze-sense, and in the tips of his feathers the Coatl knew that they had reached their peak hunting conditions. It was all downhill from here. The plague-born must have their own senses too, as they had wisely decided now was not a good time for extra mouths to feed.

Why, then, was he being handed a Shadow child?

Xilonen took a deep breath, fanning out his colorful crest of feathers in a show of friendliness. It was not his place to question the Matriarch’s wisdom. He would care for the child as if it were his own, as he had done for those before.

“Don’t be afraid, darling. You’re safe here. There’s no one else around except us, and I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

The hatchling whimpered, but continued to shield herself with her wings. Her stature was distinctly that of a Guardian, though she was rather small for the breed. The wings themselves offered little protection, a thin blue membrane that glittered like translucent diamond. Due to her bright purple coloring and distinctive stripes, she wouldn’t blend in well with the environment either, and would need to learn to defend herself quickly to survive. That would come in time, however. Right now, she needed to feel safe, even if that was a lie.

“My name is Xilonen. My favorite game is tag. I’m not very good at it, though. I can’t move my tail very well, so my clanmates always grab it and get me right away. Have you ever had a Mirror bite your tail?” Xilonen made an exaggerated face and started hopping around the den as if he had been bitten, the bells strapped to his tail jingling with the movement. “Ouch! That’s no fair!”

The Guardian child did not laugh, but she seemed to have stopped crying, and moved her wings aside. Her eyes were still firmly closed.

“What’s your name?” Xilonen asked, stepping a little closer to her now. “Is there a game you would like to play with me?”

“Shirelle,” she mumbled. “I want to go home.”

“I don’t know if you can, darling.” Something must have happened to her. Perhaps her egg was stolen or moved, and she had hatched without her parents nearby. Dragon eggs were hardy, and known to survive on faint magical energies for long stretches of time without incubation, but they couldn’t hatch without an adult dragon’s energy to borrow from. Although, magic had been acting strangely these days. Maybe her clan had lost a battle, and left her behind, or they had died, or something in those dark woods had taken them. Who could say?

“Did I do something wrong?” The little Guardian lowered herself to the floor, tears dripping down her face. “I was playing in the briar patch, and then someone grabbed me… they smelled gross, like old prey. There was fighting, I think. Blood, and someone shouting. And then it got cold. It’s cold in here. Where are we?”

It occurred to Xilonen, then, that the hatchling was likely blind. That, or she had been injured in the battle she spoke of. At least his bells would be a good indication of his movements, so he wasn’t likely to startle her. Xilonen was always easy to find.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He said soothingly, scooping up some nearby feathers and making a decent nest around her. “I’m sorry if it’s colder than you’re used to. We’re in a cave, so we’re safe from anyone grabbing you. Do you want me to lay next to you?”

Shirelle did not object, but she had grown quiet. She was an odd child. Quiet and sad. Xilonen was used to having rambunctious mirror pups to wrangle, overexcited and aggressive. They loved to play with his tail, which is why he had taken to attaching bells and streamers to it, dragging it limply behind him as part of a game. He could adapt, however. Xilonen curled his body around her, draping a wing over the hatchling and covering her completely. She was far too small, but at least she was healthy.

While he laid there, Xilonen thought about the day’s events. A hunting pack had left early in the morning, before the sun had risen to its full height. Though he rarely left the den, Xilonen could tell the time of day from the smell of the air as it traveled through the tunnels. He knew at least a few of the pack bragged about sneaking into the Shadowlands to hunt in territory that was not theirs. No one complained when they brought back their bounty, but now he had to wonder if it had gone poorly after all. The scouts and warriors hardly returned to the lair, so Xilonen didn’t know their whereabouts at any given time, and he couldn’t imagine a battle that didn’t involve them. And yet, something about Shirelle’s story bothered him. The hunters wore their kills as trophies, and more than any other plague dragon they would smell like prey. But what would his clan want with a hatchling, another mouth to feed?

He assumed the girl had fallen asleep. She had been through a lot, and with the absence of clan members at the moment, it was quiet. There would be other dragons around if he looked for them, of course. Sakura never left her map room. Kada and the other Coatls were busy preparing the newest tunnel into a proper sleeping chamber. Ruvey had probably snuck off to a secluded area to get some reading in while he was free, and would only offer a glare if he was disturbed. But Xilonen still felt alone with the shadow hatchling, laying in the middle of an abandoned nest.

“What happened to your tail?” Shirelle asked, startling him a bit.

“I moved here from the Windswept Plateau,” he replied, lifting a wing to check on her. “On the way, I got attacked by Harpies. They hurt my tail, and it never really healed. It doesn’t bother me, though. I just can’t steer when I fly, so I look really silly.”

“Oh,” she said. “Why did you move?”

“My old clan wasn’t where I belonged,” Xilonen explained. He wasn’t sure how to tell a hatchling this young about it. “Here, everyone loves me the way I am. They take care of me, and I take care of hatchlings. I’m happy that I can help in some way, that I’m… wanted. There’s a lot of us that feel that way, Shirelle. If you decide to stay, I’m sure you’ll feel at home.”

“No I won’t.”

Her reply was so abrupt Xilonen wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Why is that?”

“I don’t belong here. Someone took me. And one day, someone will take me back.”

Xilonen lifted his wing and turned to look at Shirelle, the strange girl that did not belong. He didn’t understand what she was saying, even as he watched her open her dark, sightless eyes, black goo dripping down her face like streaks of tears. He didn’t understand why she was taken, when she was small and hungry and a target.

It was summer in the Plaguelands, but Xilonen felt a chill run up his spine, from the base of his broken tail. It didn’t matter how the seasons changed, how the swells of magic had warped the land. Here, summer meant death.

Black Pawn Trinkets A small piece with incredible potential. Collect the whole set! 25

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