Grenitris

Their origin is a mystery. They were certainly one of the first of the Aberrations to be born outside the virulent clutches of the Wyrmwound, but how they ended up out there, nobody can say.

The egg was found by a clan of wanderers scouring the Abiding Boneyard. This wasn't the first lone egg they had found, and they took it in; if it hatched and could keep up, it could stay with them. In a place as harsh and unforgiving as this, just taking their first steps would be an achievement.

The egg hatched. None of the clan knew what to make of the creature that crawled from that gooey shell, with its two heads each looking around as it sniffed and stumbled. But they knew it for Plagueborn, and didn't shun the dragon. Some sect of the clan believed them to be a child of the Plaguebringer Herself, and took it upon themselves to care for the hatchling, while ensuring they faced all the trials a worthy child of Plague should.

Gren was talkative, curious, bold. Itris was... strange. He didn't talk. Sometimes he would stare off at nothing, eyes glazed, for what seemed like hours. Gren spoke for them both. When asked how she knew what Itris wanted, she looked like she'd been asked how she knew the colour of the sky. She always shrugged it off after failing to find an answer.

In the sixteenth year of their so-far idyllic life (at least, as idyllic as any life in the Wasteland can be), things changed. It started with a single shape on the horizon. Then more appeared, and more -- and as they neared, their silhouettes resolved themselves into the forms of Aberrations, hundreds of them, marching towards the Wyrmwound.

Follow them, Itris insisted. Follow.

And so, Grenitris said their goodbyes, and left in the wake of their long lost kin. But they never quite felt at home among them. Still, they continued, spurred on by Itris' determination even as Gren began to doubt their path.

But when they reached the destination of their Aberration companions, watching as they ritualistically entered the Great Cauldron and twisted and mutated -- Itris urged them not to enter. Not for us.

He led them along rough, fleshy crags and through thickets of grasping, many-eyed branches; through mouth-caves and around lakes of gore; until finally they came upon a small, humble settlement, huddled in the shadow of a great Wyrmfang. A few bone-braced buildings and tents, fit for mid-sized dragons, scattered the area. A few fields holding fenced-in, domestic cerdae herds surrounded the encampment, as well as gardens of mushrooms in vibrant shades of red, orange and sickly yellow.

"What now, Itris?" asked Gren, watching from a distance as a small clan of what seemed like mostly Aberrations went about their business.

Itris smiled. Home. This is home.