Temerity

Born and raised in the Plaguelands, Temerity craved adventure—and when she heard of a job opportunity in the Sunbeam Ruins, far from her humdrum home, she readily answered the call. It turned out to be a wanted ad for a hatchling caretaker, which was not a vocation she’d considered. But she wasn’t about to refuse this challenge, and caring for all these children proved to be an entertaining one.

The hatchlings were young exalt trainees. Though they didn’t remain long in the lair, Temerity enjoyed guiding them through their lessons, tussling with them, and telling them stories. Scary tales were huge favorites, stories of ghosts and monsters lurking in the dark...

All that changed one night, when Temerity felt the walls of her den shudder. The years of caring for children had made her senses sharp, and she was awake in a flash.

It was one of those seasons when there were no exalt trainees passing through the lair. No children for Temerity to watch over. So the training halls were quiet, and she should have relaxed. But she did not.

She went out to investigate instead.

~ ~ ~
It was Aver who first noticed her disappearance. Like Temerity, he was a hatchling caretaker—but the children he cared for lived elsewhere in the lair, far from the training halls.

Temerity would occasionally come by, and she and Aver would watch the children together. At times she would take charge of all the hatchlings, and the Aether would get some much-needed rest.

But now, without Temerity’s aid, he had to devote all his time and energy to the children. It was only when most of them were old enough to leave, many months later, that he got around to asking about the Bogsneak.

“She must’ve left with that last batch of trainees.”

“Perhaps she thought to seek exaltation elsewhere.”

“Entirely possible! It’s a lucrative life, I’ve heard....”

And so it went, each dragon repeating these assumptions, till they were all thought to be true. When the clan decided to train more hatchlings, new caretakers were found. All seemed well again...

Though the scary stories continue. The caretakers don’t share these; it’s the children, instead, who whisper among themselves.

Of strange, slithering noises heard in the night. Just audible if you lie down, your ear against your pillow. Sometimes there’s a quiet voice muttering in the dark.

And scarlet eyes staring up through the sewer grates. The gleam of uneven teeth. A misshapen form dragging itself into the shadows...

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Sometimes,” the hatchlings admit. “But she’s nice. She just talks about groceries...or math...or funny stories...”

The adults dismiss these as the hatchlings’ overactive imaginations—though it must be said that every part of the lair has its share of strangeness. They remember those tales of portals opened by dark magic...creatures spun from alchemy...doglike monsters stalking the grounds...

And their predecessor, that Plague-born Bogsneak who vanished some time ago.

“Or maybe” they can’t help thinking, “she never actually left?”

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
all edits by other users

* You expected the room to be empty. After all, everywhere else was.
But the bed remains unmade, and there are garments and papers scattered across the floor. Ink stripes some of them, scrawls veering in crazy directions. Tilt your head a bit, and you feel that you can almost read them...but then you relax and there is nothing but bewilderment, those meaningless scribbles staring you in the face.
You clean them up—yet you don’t throw them out, even when you’re told that you can. They go into a closet instead, and as you stare at them sitting in that shadowy corner, you get the sense that they’re waiting.
Waiting to be used...
But not by you.

* “She was so good with the children.”
Was.
You hear the words loud and clear. You turn and search the gaggle of dragons as they stream past, heading to business of their own.
“So plucky, that one...but kind...loved the children. Why did she...”
“Who?” you endeavor to ask them. “Who?”
But you can’t keep up; and besides, you have your own tasks to attend to. You tell yourself you’ll look into it later, when you have enough time.
You do not. You never do. Yet the question (“Who?”) remains.

* By day, the training halls ring with noise. The cacophony of swordplay, of magic and commands...
And children, so many of them gathered here before they depart, heading towards greater deeds and glory. They jostle together, wide-eyed and eager, and it’s all you can do to keep up with their energy and then send them to bed at night.
Night is another beast entirely. You don’t relish it, how the silence grows thicker, meaning it’s likelier that you’ll hear—
“Go to sleep,” you tell the children. “Go to sleep.”
You wander around, making sure they’re all tucked in. But you swear you hear voices still.
“Go to sleep,” you repeat—more quietly this time. “Go to sleep...”
Silence. All around you, the children slumber.
Perhaps they’ve already been asleep for hours.

* Something sleeps. Beneath your bed, beneath your feet, something dreams.
It tosses and turns, its slumber racked by memories of a shape it once had. A different voice, a face, a name.
Another life entirely.
The muttering is what dredges you up from your dreamscape. It burrows into your ear, nudging urgently at your brain till your eyelids part.
You turn to address the darkness, but no one’s there. And even the voice seems to fade away, becoming one with the whisper of the creaking branches outside, or perhaps the fleeting remnants of a fast-receding dream.

* The first stirrings of dawn see you striding out onto the dewy grass, out on patrol to make sure all is well. The sunlight struggles to make headway through the clouds, and so do you, still heavy with a lack of sleep and—
You see it.
A shadow in the fog, sliding round the corner of the building.
You move forward to take a closer look. You have to make sure, for the children’s sake...even as your brain keeps screaming at you, “Don’t look, DON’T LOOK—”
When you come to, it’s morning, and a ring of worried faces is staring down at you. You scramble upright, stammering out an explanation. But the words are as disjointed as...
That thing.
The bulk of it, yet the way it flowed, and how pitifully it dragged itself along...
You shouldn’t have looked, you really shouldn’t.
It turned, and you saw its face.
So horribly twisted, nothing was where it should’ve been. The eyes, the nose, the spines and teeth.
And yet you could’ve sworn—
It smiled.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
all edits by other users


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