Marlusine

Glass Petals

The Wildclaw’s eyes ran over the bloom in his claws. It had a light pink tone, its silken petals caressing his scales. Its colour was just starting to come in, displaying its elegant pastel tones. It curled against him, so small, so fragile. If left alone, it might die, condemned to wither in the oppressive sun, and roaring winds.

Yet Marlusine had always known, never to judge just by what the eyes could see. There was potential in all things, so much more, that get ignored like a dandelion in the cracks. Behind the sweet aroma of pollen, he could sense its distinct sickly-sweet scent. As just a light taste on the tongue, it would be pleasant, a sugary flavor for food and drink, to bring a smile to one’s face. But with the right amount, a dragon could be frozen in that smile for eternity.

He ignored the thin lines of red on his palm, as his captive resisted his grip. A crystal vial was produced, as the bloom was dried out. Its sticky, clear sap was extracted, distilled into another clear, syrupy mixture. To anybody else, it would seem like a vial of sugar water. It was just as well, for he did not need many questions. As the lifeless corpse fluttered to the ground, Marlusine added another tool to his repertoire.

His day would move in earnest, for anybody looking in. He might arrange a few bouquets for customers, or blow a little rain cloud, to feed the thirsty ground. He would smile, make the small talk as he usually did. Sometimes, when the hatchlings came to visit, he would allow a bit of sunlight to pass through the crystalline drops, refracting into shining prismatic colours. They would gasp in awe, chasing the brilliant, beautiful lights. Their noises would occasionally grate on him, but at least they would not touch his elegant garden. Beauty was to be admired, but never touched, is what he would say.

He would almost seem like a plant himself, peacefully living a carefree life on the surface. But, a dragon needs to eat, and Marlusine would always have a customer for his trade. He would approach in that eccentric manner, just another strange peddler of blooms and living art. He might offer a taste, or a smell, a medicine for the ails of body and mind. Drink, drink, he would say, insisting to breathe deep those wonderful vapors. Sometimes that would do it on its own. Sometimes he would take a more direct route in introducing his guest to an eternal sleep.

Only once, did he ever feel panic. She woke, her eyes of red piercing his facade. She slammed his wrist holding the knife against the floor, snapping it like a dried twig. She roared with rage, immune to the alluring scents and taste of death. With her scales of ebony, and the white bone pattern on her scales, she looked an agent of death herself, coming to wreak her bloody vengeance. Hunter became the hunted, and the Wildclaw’s heart thundered in his chest, jumping like a jackrabbit.

He had barely escaped her grasping, razor claws, which ran across his belly. His wounds covered by poultices, he could only hide, as his hunter lashed at the trees and ground in rage. Yet, he could not simply leave, for she saw his face. He could not let such a threat continue to walk. He would have to find another way.

Carefully, he left a trail, winding and crossing, always just a little ahead of his pursuer. It was easy to tell where she was, for her heavy breath pressed onto him. He clambered over logs, and through the underbrush. He knew the plants well, but his legs were weak. Only when he reached his destination, a dark, many voiced cave, did he stop to breathe.

The hunter came, and shouted at him and the grey walls. She paced inside, determined to slay the quarry that insulted her so. Like clockwork, his plan fell into place. A stone in the crack. A thunderous crash. And the clambering of hundreds of beastclan warriors, eager to descend on the intruder. It was a shame, however, that he could not collect the reward for his assignment. There wouldn’t be anything left after they were done with her.

And so it would be. As long as nobody would ask questions, he would continue his every day affairs. He liked his peaceful life, that ticked along like the cycle of the plants he grew. Things would remain whole, and life would go on, a vitality reaped from fertile death.