Viren

In a colorless land, covered in ice and snow,
Lively dragons claimed the wasteland as their own
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The Tale

Macig is an unstable and constantly swirling force, an energy so massive and volatile that not even the true gods can merely put a leash on it. Magic is ingrained into every living creature, into every living thing and everything that's not, and sometimes? Sometimes, it lashes out on whatever's in reach, the effects random and mysterious. Drakes get cursed, they run into magical spirits and golems, sometimes they just don't die and sometimes it kills them. Magic is universally impactful, and nobody escapes the random chance that they'll wake up as something else because they just so happened to be unlucky that night...

Even eggs can be affected, afflicted. Such was the case when Tarmeux found himself a fling while on a hunting trip, a beautiful snowy imperial charmed by his skill. When she laid two eggs it was time to part ways, each taking one and flying their separate ways. Vercada needed no convincing to take in one more egg to her current clutch, seeing as it was still her mate's child and obviously healthy. But problems arose...

First, the stepson hatched far earlier than his siblings. Second, the first thing he did out of the eggshell was bite Vercada with the strength of at least an adolescent mirror, still dripping with eggy fluids and toothless! His eyes were wide open- showing a strange and unknown sight to the parents. Instead of any pupil or iris, his four eyes were made of gently glowing snowglobes, which continuously leaked frozen tears and fully-formed snowflakes from the corners. He was able to see just fine, but this effect... it meant something, something that Vercada was happy to investigate but Tarmeux was wary of. Neither of them had any magic capabilities and these eyes were obviously magical in nature; would it hurt them, would it hurt the hatchling?

The days went by with the two parents taking shifts to watch over the nest and child, and things continued to evolve in strange ways. The hatchling could out-eat his own father, tearing through copious amounts of meat and fish- more than his own body weight, multiple times a day. This wasn't an issue for the hunting obsessed duo, who always had more to spare. The hatchling was stronger than any newborn had the right to be, wanting to play and wrestle with his parents like any hatching but being strong enough to shove them back several steps. His bites, even before he grew his teeth, were concerning if a talon or wing membrane was the victim of the clamp. This wasn't an issue for the durable duo.

The hatchling hated Vercada, and that was the first problem. With Tarmeux he'd play, coo, settle down for sleep and show all the normal behavior. With Vercada, he was a hellbeast bent on ripping her apart with his tiny claws, constantly scrabbling at her thick scales and biting her until he exhausted himself into passing out. It didn't hurt her much at all, being so tough and armored, but why did he do it? The hatchling continued to grow without speaking, either- sure, Tarmeux and Vercada were quite silent, but usually their hatchlings would at least babble to each other with any words they'd heard. This one only snarled and growled, completely animalistic.

The next problem arose when Vercada awoke from a nap to find her adopted son in the unhatched nest, the fabric scraps and briars collected from the snow covered in a sickeningly yellow-tinted ice... egg yolk, broken, smeared across the nest and sitting for long enough to have frozen over in the winter's deep chill. The child? Snoozing in the middle of the carnage, his shut eyes still flickering with snowflakes wriggling out from under the eyelid. Tarmeux, just arriving back from a hunt with extra food for a fed hatchling...

Vercada demanded to do something with the child, furious for his actions. Tarmeux stood his ground, refusing to allow her to hurt the hatchling as it was still his son, their child, still not even named! So young- But age didn't matter when it came to his actions. Even if he was unaware of the consequences, something had to be done. Tarmeux had no response, knowing his mate was right in the end... stepping aside, and allowing her to take the child with her as she flew out of the den. Flew for miles upon miles, them and her mate being the only three dragons in the land for possibly hundreds of miles. Flew and flew, until the endless snow gave way to the barest of trees; the edge of the boreal woods, oh so distant from home. Her fury kept her in the sky the whole way, even when the traitorous child woke up and starting biting her again, the blood crystallizing as it dripped and reached the ground so far below. She didn't even wince- it was the last time she'd have to handle the abuse.

These woods were beastclan territory, and the exact thing she needed. It didn't take long to find the tracks of a pack of longnecks, following their hoofprints until she saw their fire in the distance. Taking short flight, she cast her shadow over their camp before diving across and landing in the middle, uncaring of their tiny spears and empty bared threats. One snarl, one flex to show her powerful muscles, was enough to force them to submission. Then, she shook her stepson free from her arm, letting him roll over the ground and right himself with an angry hiss. To the clan of beastfolk, she growled and spoke.

"Can eat all, here and now." The warriors, who had heard stories of a terrifying gray and blue guardian who hunted civilized and feral animal alike from their parents and the parents before them, knew this to be true. But she hadn't eaten them... yet. And she continued, her voice so deep and low to be barely understandable, "But, I use. Take him. Raise him. Do not kill him." she slowly turned, meeting eyes with each of the llamas. "Or I kill you. I watch you, up." nodding up to the while clouds overhead. Faced with this ultimatum, they quickly agreed, and Vercada took off.

The longnecks didn't even last two days before the baby, teething enraging him even more, had killed half of them and sent the other half running for their lives. Vercada caught the cowards and ate some for herself, giving the rest to the hatchling as to deter him from biting her as she collected him again. Repeating the pattern with the natives of the forest, she spent days upon days tracking down stronger and stronger beastclans. It didn't matter if they could talk or were even sapient- the hatchling certainly didn't care, being more beast than sapient himself. Eventually, she was just trying anything that moved. Even the yeti failed... the baby had made quick work of that chunk of flesh he'd claimed from the foster father, chewy as it was.

But her next choice wasn't something she'd seen before. A Bluemoon Aviar, specifically a large one. She, the aviar, was a self-proclaimed dragon hunter who was responding to a letter sent from the boreal woods by centaurs who needed her service to take back their territory. Vercada just meant to eat her- the dragon was hungry, and the bird was small. But the nimbleness, courage, and pure talent of the well-trained beastfolk made the hunt take far too long to be normal. This lone beast was giving her a run for her money, something that simply didn't happen! Once she finally pinned down the bird, breathing heavy with scratches on her face from its talons, she had an ounce of hope for her ability to be rid of the hatchling on her back.

"Take it. Take the child, fighter. Raise it. A prize."

"wh- what?! Are you crazy, what makes me- what-"

"Take it, and you live."

"...What is his name?"

Vercada only shook her head. She didn't deem the egg-munching child as deserving of one, and let the bird up from the ground. She left the hatchling tumbling in the snow once again and flew high enough to watch without bother. The hatchling had to take some beatings- raps on the head from the aviar's fists, her being a melee fighter- and eventually over the course of the rest of the day, stop trying to immediately eat her. That was when Vercada was comfortable with leaving the hatchling behind.

Over the weeks, the new mother of the feral dragon came to an understanding of why the hatchling had to be abandoned. He respected nothing and nobody, ate more than the warrior could provide on most days and made up for it with his own terrifyingly brutal hunts, and tried to attack her in her sleep. She adjusted accordingly- unleashing him on hostiles and during her own hunts as a wild card aid, sleeping in trees since the hatching couldn't yet fly, and naming him herself; Viren, a title from her own clan meaning "one who rages".

Once he had been knocked into submission enough, she began to train him. Showed him how to grab things with talons and never let go, how to fly and dive, how to hide under snow and what to avoid in the woods. As he grew to adulthood, his adoptive mother earned more and more respect. He would even bring her back prime pieces of his hunts in the evenings and nights, that being the only kindness he really showed. Still entirely uninterested, or perhaps unable to talk, these gifts along with grunts and hisses were the only proof of his loyalty to her. Eventually, she had to return home, and couldn't bring along such a savage creature to a clan of what he would see as dinner. finding a suitable cave, she set him up a nesting spot and slowly acclimated the dragon to living on his own before disappearing.

Thus, a legend was born... Deep in the thickets of the boreal woods, a monster lives and hunts without care of who or what stands in his way. Beastclans learned to avoid his territory or be wiped out, passing the stories along to their children. Non-sapient creatures learned the same, creating a dead zone in the middle of the woods.

Dragons travelling or hunting learned the same lessons, through blood. Through beastclan companions they took in, their familiars. From seeing neighbors disappear without a trace. Viren took no prisoners, gave no mercy, didn't even recognize the difference between a dragon and an animal. To him, everything was the same flesh, and his primal savagery drove him to battle and consume all of it. More civilized hunters even tried to organize their attacks to remove the monster, and fell.

When travelling the boreal woods, watch for bones and birds. If you find the skulls of dragons, leave as quickly as you can. If the birds stop singing, you've gone too far. If there's no sound at all, save for the wind through the tree's branches? It's already too late for you to escape the territory of winter's bane, of the curse of the woods, of the beast without borders.

Viren doesn't always stay in his desolate home, though; longer hunts for entertainment take him across the reclaimed glacier, seeking large enemies and travelling dragons. He is one of the many dangers of the empty landscape, sending travelers to their doom when they believe another dragon to be a sign of their destination or at the least a sign of aid. Sightings of him are recorded in frozen notebooks lost in the elements, told over fires by crafty or clever survivors who outsmarted the brutish mirror, and most importantly...

Carried back to the Fractallians from the scars a couple of them gained while journeying, before reaching the clan's safe haven. The sign to Vercada and Tarmeux that their son was alive and well, taking after them in the best and worst ways, and looming on a distant horizon. If he ever arrived at the clan, that would be a possibly genocidal disaster... but as of the present, the ticking time bomb shows no sign of going off. For now, the beast is satisfied.

Relations With The Fractallians He doesn't know they exist. He also wouldn't care if he did know; they're just more pounds of flesh.

Relations With The Subterrainian He doesn't know they exist. He also wouldn't care if he did know; they're just more pounds of flesh.