Haematoma

Day 4: Wraith

She was born with a rare blood disorder, causing severe bruising and blistering with the slightest of injuries. Actual cuts or scrapes could bleed for hours, crippling her ability to survive. The clan Necromancer shook his head over her weakened state. "This is a genetic problem; it is not of the Mother. I cannot do anything for her."

"Then we will send her to the Mother," her parents decided. "If she survives the trip to the Wyrmwound, perhaps she will earn a blessing."

She was unceremoniously named Haematoma, a reference to the continual blisters that appeared along her belly. Her journey to the Wyrmwound was fraught with peril beyond the average, and yet she survived. Bleeding from several minor injuries sustained several weeks before, she nevertheless stood before the Instructors at the Rim, prepared to give herself over to the Mother.

"Your weakness is not admired, but your courage is." The supervising elder nodded approval as he administered the infection to her. "Take the Mother's Blessing and begin your meditation."

She flew down the steep sides and landed as her symptoms began. Slashes appeared across her back, immediately oozing blood. She had feared this, and resolutely began searching for cobwebs and clay to staunch the flow. Even though her breed did not eat meat as a rule, she found herself stalking rabbits and sucking their blood in a vain attempt to replenish her own. The pressing need for survival interfered with her ability to meditate, to concentrate on conquering the disease within her. Still she persisted. On the twenty-second day, faint from loss of blood, she lay down with a small stockpile of supplies. She would conquer the infection now, or die in the attempt.

Her thoughts turned inward. She acknowledged the infection within her veins, and she recognized her own familiar weakness. She nudged the plague with her mind, and to her surprise and delight it responded. How did it interact with her infirmity? She explored the possibility. Her infirmity prevented her blood from performing its natural function of clotting. The disease caused lesions on her skin, thereby causing her to bleed profusely. But what if it could change?

From the moment she was actually able to concentrate on it, the disease was in her control. She manipulated it with all the skill of a practiced Necromancer, mutating it far beyond its original form. From creating lesions, she successfully mutated it into causing rapid clotting: a disease that would be devastating in any dragon except her. She emerged from the Wyrmwound on the final day having successfully conquered not only the disease assigned to her, but also her own infirmity. She held her head high. She felt she had truly earned her place as a Necromancer.

"No," came the verdict.

"What?! How?"

The Necromancer glared at her sternly. "The infection that you carry in your veins is not the same one you were infected with."

"I know that. I mutated it in such a way as to negate my inborn infirmity."

"That's not possible. It takes years of practice to mutate the gift of the Mother. You must have had outside interference." The Necromancer turned to his recording secretary. "Wraith," he pronounced. He reached to remove the disease from her.

"Please, no," she begged. "I'm managed to mutate for my own survival. If you remove this new plague from my body, I'll be as I was before. Weak. Inferior. Unable to survive."

His claw stilled. She felt his skill dragging through her body, seeing if what she said was so. Finally he nodded. "It is not usually allowed. I still believe you must have had help. But the Mother does not kill without reason." He pointed at her. "You hereby rescind all claim to the Mother's gift. You will never take up the mantle of the Necromancer. You will never share or spread your own strain, nor pass yourself as anything but a failure, a Wraith." He drew a small amount of the disease from her into his claw. "Your strain is marked. Should you break this promise, retribution will be swift and merciless. Do you understand?"

"I do," she whispered, heaviness filling her heart. She had achieved a monumental success, and none would know of it. Any hope of prestige was gone.

"Then begone, Wraith." He waved a claw, and her scales returned to their previous darkened state, back striped with the marks of her success and failure.

As she left the Wyrmwound, she held her head high. Failure or not, she was rightfully proud of her accomplishment. She had survived. Now, she just had to find service in such a way as to continue not only her own survival, but others like her.