Aloysius

It began in his youth. His dreams filled with tepid water, a dark, inky form stirring the pool. He swore that he saw something else in the rapids, but it was lost to him when he awoke.

He does his best to disregard them. He is not an oracle, and he is a gaoler of the Fortress. Whatever images he may receive when he closes his eyes, they couldn't be for him.

The closer it came to the day he would choose an order, the clearer the visions became. The shapeless specter became something tall, regal, but unrecognizable. The endless sea it maintained became a whirlpool, creatures dancing in and out of the current. His confusion only grew.

Until it became the night of his final day of adolescence, he had no answers to this repeated story. Waking in the same dream, the water was violent, battering against his fur and stinging his eyes. Only that night, did the shadowed being lean close enough to see. A face of many animals, burningly bright.

"You will go to the rotten heart of this world," its many mouths spoke, "and you will swim among the unworthy. To be reborn and remade, and stand against the impregnable abyss. You will do this, and serve your god like no other."

"Why must I do this?" he called above the whipping rain, cringing at the raging wind.
"So that you may be a Sentinel worthy of the title, of the Warden's kin."

He was thrust into the waking world faster than he could ask what they had meant.

---

Despite the overwhelming confusion- and the thought that he might be a lunatic- he set off to find his way to the northern continent. Maybe he was crazy, but if he had been plagued by this dream since he was small, it had to mean something.

The journey was obscenely tedious. Everything was too warm, and the wasteland was the biggest offender yet. But it was undeniable: the closer he got to the center of these lands, the more he felt.. something. He could only think to describe it as a pulse. Like the ground beneath him was a body.

It was enough to spur him on, pouring his energy into shortening the journey. He didn't know how he knew where to go, but his feet moved without him. Pulled by a deep, searing need.

In hindsight, it was understandable why the other dragons around him tried to stop him. Busy with their own affairs, they hadn't noticed his resolve at first. But upon realizing he was heading towards the Wyrmwound without hesitation, they startled. It was dangerous even for a plague-born. But there was only one place to swim in this desolate land.

With a deep breath, he shut his eyes and leapt into the apex of the Plaguebringer's power.

Scaldingly hot fluid soaked into his fur immediately. His skin itched and his ears hurt, but he kept his head below the surface. Treading water for as long as he could hold his breath. Would this be enough?

He lifted his head once his chest began to spasm, gasping for precious air. The fumes were almost suffocating, and his fur was in his eyes, but he paddled towards where he thought the wall was. There were others calling for him high above, clamoring louder as he sank his claws into the earth to drag himself upwards.

When he fell back to the safety of dry dirt, he turned his face to the sky. For a long moment, the infinite sky reminded him of home. Of the Fortress he left behind, to make this journey.

The sky became obscured by the faces of others, curious and horrified at once. Again, he was reminded of the being with many faces, many voices. He still needed to assess if his mission was complete.

He lurched to his feet again, nearly toppling back over. He remained standing thanks to the others that rushed to steady him, despite still being soaked with illness.

"I look like you," he determined. His fur had darkened, smears of red dancing across his coat. Similar but different to the crowd around him.
"I think," a gangly mirror spoke up, fixing him with her many eyes, "that you may be one of the most foolish necromancers to be blessed by Her hand."
He nodded to himself. "Am I one?"
"Come. Follow me and we shall see."

He was sat before another, and instructed to infect them. He lifted his claws with uncertainty, willing the heat in his veins to move. Life pulsed where their bodies connected. Was this how it felt to infect? To connect to another? He called the heat back into himself, and thought the burn to be akin to frostbite.

"You are a necromancer, then."
"Is this how one is remade, then?" he asked.
"Yes. Is this what you sought?"
"I.. I believe so. I must return to my duties as a Sentinel, now. Thank you for your time."