The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted | he/him
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Familiar
Pronghorn Hunter
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A charm given to travellers in hopes of a swift journey.
47
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H A N N I B A L the binder of books
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He clutched the remains tightly even as his own unconscious form washed ashore on a rocky beach below the Cathedral of Eyes. Ereshkigal found him first, a great red dragon with a hide littered in scars. He spoke little but assisted Ereshkigal with their work as he stripped bodies of their flesh and carefully tanned the leather. It would become the cover for a book that Hannibal would weave together with thin strings of sinew. Ereshkigal was never certain what happened to the rest of the remains, but Hannibal found ways to dispose of them. . . somehow.
He washed ashore long ago with the remains of his sister and has refused to let them leave his side. He carries two books wherever he goes. The first is a bizzare book on anatomy that appears to be suspiciously made out of a dragon's hide. The second is a tome containing the life story of a dragon called Ophelia.
They would always be together. It was a promise that they’d never stated aloud, simply because there’d been no need. It was a promise that burned in the blood they shared, a promise forged through the turmoil they’d weathered together.
Their birth clan was harsh even by Plague standards. From an early age, Hannibal and Ophelia suffered the sights of “unworthy” dragons forced down from the cliffs they called home. Most outcasts knew better than to try regaining entry, and instead flapped away into the Wasteland after a last, mournful look at the clan. Those who were too feeble, injured, or young plunged straight down to their deaths.
The siblings learned to endure the terror. Turning away was unthinkable, for it showed weakness, and to show weakness was to embrace death.
Neither wanted to see the other fall, and so they helped each other become strong. Ophelia, well-built and vigorous, trained her brother in the ways of combat. Hannibal, sleek and clever, tutored his sister in the ways of magic.
Even their cruel leaders couldn’t deny that together, the siblings were a force to be reckoned with. “Still,” the elders decreed, “such dependence should not be tolerated as an example.” It was decided that the two Imperials would be sent away to train for exaltation. They would no longer be a burden to their birth clan—which would still accrue much glory for having raised such a stalwart pair of dragons.
Hannibal and Ophelia, for their part, regarded their new prospects with cautious optimism. And indeed, there were many happy days spent together with the other would-be exalts. They were treated with respect, given comfortable quarters, nourishing food, and medical care. Next to the oppressive clan they’d left, it was luxurious.
“And we’re headed for glory—which is more than our clan ever offered us,” Ophelia remarked dryly. Hannibal almost didn’t hear her—it had been a long day of training, and he was utterly exhausted.
But his sister’s words, as they always did, made him smile. He agreed, “Never thought I’d be grateful to them for anything, but here we are. We’ve come so far...”
“And we’ll keep going!” Unlike her brother, training energized Ophelia. Even at the end of a tiring day, she remained alight with enthusiasm.
“We’re battling the warriors of the Wind Flight,” and Ophelia snorted contemptuously, “if they can even be called that. Wind dragons are a whimsical, feeble-minded lot; they won’t be able to stand against us!”
Hannibal allowed himself to laugh along with her. Her enthusiasm had always buoyed him; it seemed she had enough energy and confidence for both of them.
The siblings had trained for exaltation together—and now, as combat loomed, they were sent to the battlefield together. Brother and sister, side by side, together through turmoil and strife.
They stayed together as they flew south, towards the Windsinger’s lands. Side by side, diving through the clouds, to rain pestilence upon the warriors below. Together they stayed as the Wind warriors showed themselves to be neither whimsical nor feeble-minded and called on the power of the storm. The Plague dragons’ formation was ripped to tatters—and so were many of the dragons themselves. The air turned red with blood and worse, thick with the stench of death.
“Hannibal! I can’t see—!”
“Ophelia, hang on!”
Together they stayed as the chaos crescendoed and death descended with dreadful, crushing finality.
Hannibal and Ophelia held on to each other as the storm mercilessly buffeted them. The bamboo forests were uprooted and flung upwards like so many spears; great boulders catapulted into the sky with deadly force.
But they held on through all of that. They held on. Even when their wings were shredded, and more blood spattered the earth, they held on.
And Hannibal held on, and kept holding on to his sister’s corpse, as bloodied and barely conscious, he dropped into the sea.
It was dark in Ereshkigal’s world. It always was. The earth was always clammy, the air stale and stagnant; the water lapped dispiritedly at the subterranean shore.
It always had the same monotonous splish...splash tone—and so Ereshkigal noticed straightaway when the sound seemed...off. As if the water were lapping around a shape...
The undertaker thought there was only one dragon at first: a huge, dark Imperial, washed upon the shore. And then they looked more closely, and they realized there were two bodies: one living, and one dead.
Hannibal had fallen into the Tidelord’s sea. The currents had carried him for many days, eventually depositing him in this cavern. Even in unconsciousness, he clung tightly to his sister’s corpse. Most dragons had mistaken him for another battlefield casualty. And they had avoided him, fearing that he and his sibling would fuse into an Emperor.
Ereshkigal didn’t fear Emperors, though. The Shade-touched undertaker had lived beneath the Cathedral of Eyes for a long time, and they had an inkling that the place’s magic would prevent the transformation. “Furthermore,” they reminded themself grimly, “Emperors are the least of my worries.”
They nudged Hannibal. The red Imperial groaned, and the only motion he made was to clutch his sister’s corpse closer. Ereshkigal clinically noted the fetor rising from it.
“He’ll let go of it eventually. They always do.” And with that parting thought, the undertaker left Hannibal where he lay.
Days passed, during which Ereshkigal moved through the Catacombs, conducting business of their own. It was some time later, while they were making their rounds again, that they recalled the fallen Imperials—largely because the stench now pervaded most of the tunnels.
“It seems the other one has succumbed, too,” Ereshkigal guessed. They moved towards the shore, fully expecting to have two bodies to deal with. But instead, they saw Hannibal huddled against the wall. His red eyes stared vacantly at nothing—and he still clutched his sister’s corpse in his claws.
Ereshkigal questioned him again, but as before, the red Imperial was completely silent, giving no indication that he even knew someone else was there. The undertaker left him to it—though they did return some hours later with food and fresh water. These remained untouched for yet another set of days—until, perhaps spurred more by instinct than anything else, the Plague Imperial slowly began shoveling sustenance into his maw.
He did this with one paw. The other, of course, still clutched Ophelia’s corpse tightly. Ereshkigal wondered if he could even uncurl his fingers now; they had been frozen in that position for days.
Every few days, the undertaker came by Hannibal’s cavern to drop off supplies and clean up the filth he left. The sole exception to this was Ophelia’s body: Ereshkigal, in their long years of working with the dead, knew profound grief for what it was. They said nothing against the corpse, even as it steadily putrefied and began falling to pieces.
Finally, after many months, there came the day that Hannibal lifted his head slightly when Ereshkigal approached him. He watched the cloaked Imperial stack up the plates, and then he mumbled, “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Ereshkigal’s voice was flat, carefully neutral. “I rarely get visitors in my lair. That does not mean I have forgotten my manners.”
As they started back down the tunnel, they called out, “Come. Bring your...” The sentence trailed off deliberately.
“My sister.” Hannibal said it in a whisper. Ereshkigal nodded back.
They showed Hannibal to some caverns he could use as his quarters. There the red Imperial stayed, mostly curled up next to Ophelia as though she were a gruesome toy. Ereshkigal regularly came by with supplies, and though they did not speak much, Hannibal eventually divulged his and his sister’s names.
There were times when he left his quarters, shambling through the tunnels like a ghoul. In this section of the Catacombs, there was almost nothing that could threaten a full-grown Imperial, and so Ereshkigal left him alone. Besides, they had their own work to attend to.
Hannibal learned about this one day. Here in the Catacombs, sounds traveled some distance, and something about Ereshkigal’s quiet muttering drew him into the dark. He followed the low, droning voice to a small cavern where the stench of decay hung thickly.
He could barely make out Ereshkigal’s shape at the far end of the room, hunched over something. “The workshop is not a place for visitors,” the cloaked Imperial rumbled. They turned and strode towards Hannibal, their expression reproving.
Hannibal didn’t cower, though. For the first time, Ereshkigal saw a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What do you do here?”
“The dead are sent down to these catacombs. It is my work to prepare the bodies for burial. Sometimes scraps of spirit still cling to the flesh, and I excise those, too.”
Something about the way they said it made Hannibal suspicious. He asked, “What happens to those...souls?”
“I am Shade-touched.” It was a dreadful pronouncement, but Ereshkigal’s voice was as flat and calm as ever—evidently, they’d had more than enough time to accept their condition. “The Shade fragment embedded within me continuously attempts to consume me. It has already taken much.” And for once, albeit briefly, Ereshkigal’s face twisted in dismay. “I no longer remember much of my past. My early adulthood is a blur; my childhood is completely gone. I might have had friends and a family once...but the Shade took them away from me as well.
“I feed souls to the Shade to prevent it from devouring mine. It is repugnant...but I do what I must.”
“Do you speak to the Shade? Sometimes I hear you...”
“I have nothing to say to the Shade,” Ereshkigal growled. “No—I speak instead to the souls who fall down here. There are...those who would know more from the dead, before I send them on their final journey. So I ask the dead about their lives, their deeds.” They nodded off to one side, and Hannibal saw alcoves carved into the walls. Behind the curtains, there were moldering scrolls, an escritoire.
“There is at times valuable knowledge to be found even in mundane narratives. I write down what may be of import—though oftentimes the narratives are just that, mundane, and I discard the writings.”
Hannibal barely even heard those words. His eyes had come alight with a dreadful eagerness. “You speak with the dead. My sister...I can speak with Ophelia again!”
“Her soul fled long ago. I can’t call her here; summoning spirits is beyond me.” Ereshkigal paused, allowing the words time to sink in—and then they quietly stated, “She is gone.”
Hannibal shook his head. “She is here, she is with me...”
The corpse squelched horribly as he held it closer, heedless of the vile fetor rising from it. But Ereshkigal remained unmoved. “She is gone, Hannibal,” they repeated, as gently as they could. “Best for yourself—for all of us, including her memory—if you let her rest.”
“No,” Hannibal groaned. “No!”
He stumbled away, the echo of his wail floating after him. Ereshkigal didn’t even look in his direction. Their work was never-ending, and they had more urgent things to attend to.
Deep in the fog of his grief, Hannibal knew that Ereshkigal was right. The shapeless mass he clutched close was no longer his sister, no longer the headstrong and energetic Imperial he’d known.
But he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. To do so, even after her death, would be to betray her—
—and admit that he had been weak.
Weariness eventually overcame him. He didn’t know how long he stayed slumped in that featureless cavern, with only the corpse of his sister for company....
The voice, though soft, still cut through the sobbing like a knife: “What’s troubling you, stranger?”
Hannibal looked up, gulping in surprise. The walls around him remained drab and unremarkable; he heard a quiet laugh and looked up, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling.
“I’m not in the same space as you at the moment. Let me...arrange things so we can talk more easily.”
And at those words, the world seemed to move around Hannibal, the catacomb walls sliding aside like panels to reveal shelves of artifacts...and books, so many books. Battalions of them, solemnly bound in dark, worn leather.
“‘Arrange’...” he croaked as the joke hit him. There was a glint of gold to his left, and then that voice again: “You’re not actually here, per se...but I find that having someone to look at makes communication easier.”
The speaker was a golden Spiral, its scales burnished to mirror brightness, coiled atop a plinth. It beckoned to Hannibal with delicate claws.
“Come closer, stranger. And bring your sister with you.”
“My name is Hannibal,” the Imperial said, without pausing to wonder how the Spiral knew his relation to Ophelia while still needing his name.
Upon hearing it, the idol’s smile grew wider. It gestured to the floor before it, where there was now a deep, plush carpet. “Have a seat, Hannibal, and let your sister rest, too. You’ve traveled so far...”
“Too far,” Hannibal snapped. The words hung in the lambent air for a moment, and then he bowed his head. “My sister is dead.”
“A pity. But it’s fortunate you drifted into Ereshkigal’s territory...” The Spiral chuckled under its breath. “Very fortunate indeed. The undertaker is skilled in preparing the fallen to receive their funerary rites. They’ve been doing good work for so long...They could tell you some stories.”
“They won’t help me. They say...she is gone.”
The Spiral laughed gently, warmly. The room seemed to shimmer, and Hannibal would have looked away—but the Spiral was looking straight into his eyes now. He returned that gaze, and found himself marveling at how bright and golden the idol’s eyes were. As golden as the sun...as wealth...as glory...
“Dear boy, if we hold the memory of another person close, then they are never really gone.”
“Is that true? I...I’ve never heard that—”
“Let’s remember.” There was a brief coldness there, steel beneath the warmth...and then the Spiral asked, “What was your sister like?”
“Ophelia? She was stronger than me...so strong. When we were hatchlings, she learned to fly earlier than I did, but she picked me up, pulled me into the air...I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t...”
When Ereshkigal found him later on, he was sitting in the middle of the cavern, mumbling to the empty air. Ophelia’s corpse, as always, was clutched against his side.
“He’s snapped—perhaps for good this time.” There was no satisfaction to that thought, but neither was there any particular regret. Ereshkigal had lost plenty of people before. Hannibal was just the latest in a long list.
Still, he was alive, and so the undertaker carefully steered him back to his nest. They laid out some food and water for him, but it was more for the look of it than anything else.
They knew what was coming: Hannibal would refuse to eat or drink and would just go on babbling, staring vacantly beyond the walls. He would waste away, and eventually, he would die....
But to Ereshkigal’s surprise a few hours later, Hannibal was eating and drinking. There was a rather odd look in his eyes, but he seemed quite coherent.
“The writings you make...Must they always be kept on scrolls? Why not books? The leather would protect them from the damp air.”
Ereshkigal was puzzled by this change, but they explained, “My business is the preparation of bodies, not the collection of stories. I am too busy to create and curate books.”
“I will need parchment,” Hannibal whispered. “And glue...and ink. The bindings must be strong. The memories must endure.”
“Perhaps that can be...arranged.” Ereshkigal’s wings slumped slightly in realization. They understood the look in Hannibal’s eyes now. They knew whom he had met.
They echoed the list of supplies: “Parchment, glue, ink...bindings...You will want leather, yes?”
Hannibal shook his head. But still he smiled, and in response, he patted Ophelia’s tattered hide.
Hannibal looked through what stories remained in Ereshkigal’s workshop. He listened to the dead...or perhaps to other voices...
“If we hold the memory of another person close, then they are never really gone.”
Only a demon could twist such beautiful words into something dark and hideous, but by the time Hannibal knew Cipher’s true identity, he was too focused on his work to care. And indeed, why should he care? His work dwarfed everything else, including grief.
He was to create a library of memories. A library of souls, of lives.
He learned to prepare parchment, and he inscribed the stories of those bygone lives upon the pages. Chapter after chapter...yet he worked tirelessly, his eyes aglow with that unnerving light.
And once each story was finished, it was bound into a book. The tomes varied widely: They came in a dizzying array of colors. Some were inlaid with precious metals, others gleamed with magic and gems.
What they did have in common was that they were bound in leather that uncannily resembled their owners’ hides.
Ereshkigal did not assist Hannibal much in this labor; after all, they had their own labors to attend to. But they did stop by the new librarian’s workshop at one point. They asked how everything was.
“All is well. Ophelia and I are, too.”
Ereshkigal hesitated, but they had to ask: “Are you, really?”
“Of course.” Hannibal turned and smiled—at the hefty tome next to him, its surface stamped with lurid red runes. The leather and pages were stained, and the foul stench of decay still clung to it.
Perhaps it always would.
Hannibal didn’t even notice Ereshkigal leave. He bent over his desk again, and then there was no sound save for the scratching of the quill, and the whispers of tales that only the dead should know.
~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
all edits by other users
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biography coding by saturne #101073
Scratch
Energy Stone
A low damage scratching attack that generates some Breath.
25
Required Level: 1
Shred
Ability Stone
A medium damage melee attack. The target takes damage from bleeding for a short time.
250
Required Level: 1
Summer Swelter
Apparel
A swirl of fragrant summer grass.
2000
Burlap Mantle
Apparel
A drab mantle of old burlap. It has seen many years of use and is frayed along the edges.
250
Plague Tome
Apparel
A durable leather tome filled with ancient knowledge of the Plague Flight.
1000
Magician's Cloak
Apparel
A rough, heavy patchwork cloak woven from aged linen. It feels as though the material was once heavily enchanted.
0
Furious Shoulder Guard
Apparel
A painted leather shoulder guard, lined with fur.
1300
Haunted Flame Candles
Apparel
A spooky assembly of mysterious floating candles. One must be careful when making sudden movements to avoid being singed.
0
Deadeye's Leggings
Apparel
Never leave your leggings at home; you'd look silly without them. You may also look silly with them. Decisions.
1300
Carapace Arm
Apparel
A tattered banner and carapace of a fallen foe adorn this fierce scavenger. (Riot of Rot Holiday Item 2017.)
0
Well-to-do Sable Gloves
Apparel
A smart pair of soft gloves help to pull off the whole look!
800
Pronghorn Hunter
Familiar
A lone pronghorn is a danger to both beastclans and dragonkind.
2750
Accent: oh to be far away
Imperial Male Only
Accents are equippable items that can be worn like a coat of paint on top of the skin of your dragon. The look of the accent will not be passed onto offspring and may be unequipped at any time. (Designed by aeons.)
Itemid #38407
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Exalting Hannibal to the service of the Lightweaver will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
