Onyx

The Black Wolf The Beast Clan tell stories about a dragon known as The Black Wolf, a dragon devoid of compassion. No beast is safe when The Black Wolf prowls the land.

The last hatchling to be born of a cursed clan, Onyx was a survivor. He broke from his egg alone, with no family; the only living thing in nest surrounded by his fallen clan. He screeched for his mother as his newly opened red eyes took in a gloomy cave that smelled of death. He stumbled over the rotten bones of long dead dragons and beasts. His cries continued as he unknowingly stepped over his mother's skull. The tiny hatchling wandered out of the cave and into the light of the Scarred Wasteland. He cried and screeched and fluttered his tiny wings not understanding why no one was there to answer. He was hungry, cold, and alone in a world too big. His cries attracted a hunter from another clan. The hunter, a Wildclaw, said nothing as he scooped up the small hatchling and carried him off back to his clan.

Screeching and fighting, the hatchling was presented to the clan's leader. As the Wildclaw moved to place the hatchling on the ground, Onyx bit him. The leader Witherfang, a large Imperial, laughed at the newborn's audacity. He chose to keep the hatchling and raise it as a warrior for his clan. Witherfang gave the thistle hatching the name Onyx, for the dark stone he resembled. He placed Onyx in the care of Realia, a female mirror, that had been taken from another clan. She was a quiet reserved dragon, now in charge of raising hatchlings that like her, came from other clans. She lavished the young hatchlings with love. Onyx began to see her as his mother. His early days were filled with song and kindness. He was told of the gods and that when dragons leave this world, they are sent to serve them. Onyx began to grow under his new mother's love and began his training with his brothers and sisters. At first it was fun, a new game to see which hatchling was the strongest but soon that would change.

Witherfang came to Realia one day and asked her to line up the young dragons. Onyx and his siblings did as they were told. They were still young but the hatchlings all feared Witherfang enough to follow orders. The old Imperial walked up and down the line of hatchlings glaring into their big innocent eyes. As he inspected them, a small group of dragons took Realia away as her job was done. Witherfang separated the hatchlings into groups and their real training began. The days passed and training was no longer fun. He trained them for battle, having them spar with each other. As they spared, the young dragons were moved from group to group. The winner of a fight was moved into a group with stronger dragons; the loser into a group with weaker dragons. The stronger of the young dragons received praise and larger rations, while the weaker were pushed in an attempt to make them stronger. Onyx was younger than most of the hatchlings and fought hard to keep up with the older, stronger dragons. He wanted to prove himself, wanted to show Witherfang he was grateful for his life. He began to resent the stronger dragons, and slowly the kindness and compassion he had once known twisted into malice and disdain. He stopped seeing the others as his siblings and only saw rivals. His fights became bloody as he learned to outmaneuver and cripple his opponents. Witherfang watched his progress with glee for he knew that Onyx would be a fine warrior indeed. Then the day came when the unthinkable happened. The Beast Clan attacked.

Onyx and the other young warriors were called into battle, none of them fully grown, but all primed for the kill. Harpies dropped from the skies onto the backs of dragons, their spears crippling wings and piercing scales. Centaurs charged across the Scared Wasteland, packs of wolves at their side. The battle blurred around Onyx; feather, fur, skin, and blood swam in his vision. Roars and cries deafened his ears. The smell of death, and fire flooded his nostrils. The rage of battle took him then. He charged on barely aware of his surroundings, lashing out at all around him. When the rage faded, he stood covered in blood, snarling, and shaking from exhaustion. The battle was over, they had won, or so he thought. He looked around, and for the first time, took in the horror of the attack. Witherfang lay dead with a Harpy's spear through his chest. Most of the clan had fallen with him. The Beasts had broken through the lair's defenses, the nests and females were gone. What remained of the clan were a few warriors, most badly wounded soon to meet the gods. The clan was finished and with nothing left, the survivors scattered to the winds.