Creative Corner

Story pinglist:
@Aetherskyes

Story length: 9,061 words

Content warnings:
-animal death
-body horror
-violence
-death
-dragon experimentation mentions
-chemical burns
-gore
-if I forgot any content warnings, please tell me.




Outside of the Scythe’s meeting room, a small, scavenging rat scampered into a hole beside the door.

Dura scratched a claw along the roundtable, leaving a mark underneath the cut in the map of the Scarred Wasteland. A gleaming, scheming, careful red eye peered from beneath her skull-like helmet. Her lips parted, sharp teeth uttering, “Messengers say a new breed has been found at the Wyrmwound.”

With the noise of tearing wood and cutting paper, another claw scratched at the map, perpendicular to the last cut. It left a marking on the map, right on the Wyrmwound.

The dank, fetid air of the room was filled with nothing save for the stench of rot and the dull ache of stale air in the ears. And the quiet, whispered breaths of four Grand Scythes.

A shaking voice meekly began to inch forward through the silence. A face lit only by the dim green candlelight made a suggestion. “Perhaps… we find a way to integrate them?” Langtry muttered, crimson eyes darting about the room, seeing the other, displeased faces.

“You know as well as I, and everyone in this room does that our policy on visitors is too strict to suddenly open our arms in welcome and hospitality. Even if they make for fine members of the Fallen’s Fang clan, what example would that make of us, so willing to let this new, strange breed in so soon? We are renowned for our ferocity and territorial ways. Best not to throw it all away.” A coatl, lit more by the red incense upon her back debated, eyes narrowing and teeth gritting in disapproval of such sudden acceptance from Langtry.

A large paw lifted up onto the roundtable, and a deep, gravelly voice, coming from someone too large to be lit by the candle, added, “If we are to keep these things out of our sight for the time being, at least until we know they’ll be more benefit than deficit, we should start speaking of what exactly we should do to keep them at bay, of course keeping in mind that we’ve already been spending most of our resources in keeping the zombie hordes at bay… and in making sure that Langtry doesn’t destroy our culture from the inside out…” Bathrus leaned back after finishing her statement.

Langtry huffed and turned away, obviously having taken offense. “You lack curiosity…” he muttered between bared teeth.

A barely moving silhouette creaked towards the table, quiet eyes and dim mouth hesitating before remarking, “I believe we may need more information on these… Aberrations… before we start making any estimates. As for what I know… there is a yearly ritual wherein they mutate themselves via swimming within the Wyrmwound itself.” Festetch hissed, her calm voice suddenly leading to an uproar.

“Artificial Mutation?!” Roared Bathrus. “The cheater’s way of natural selection?!”

Buzzard nodded in quiet agreement.

Langtry covered his maw, brows furrowing. He rubbed his snout with a claw before snarling, “Such a grand heresy… and committed by these… children of the Plaguebringer herself?”

Bathrus slammed a paw on the table, causing candles to fly into the air, their wicks fizzling out before they had a chance to hit the ground, their melted wax dripping upon the map and hardening like strange blisters. “Disgusting! Artificial Mutation only leads to pain and weakness! It has no control! No hand of death to guide it!”

Dura watched as the chaos unfolded at the roundtable, picking a piece of dried wax on her hand until it peeled off and fell to the floor. She listened to every little quarrel, every suggestion.

“If we open our doors to them, perhaps… it’ll open whole new avenues of research! If these children of Plaguebringer herself commit it, then…” Langtry barked, attempting to soothe himself with possibilities.

“Not only would we be opening our doors in general, but we’d be opening our doors to heretics! What will the surrounding clans think?! Not to mention our greatest enemy The Betrayer is a damned so-called ‘Child of Plaguebringer’!” Buzzard spat.

“We know they must be kept out! But what are we to make sure of that?! Our forces are already spread thin by the Apocalypse ravaging these lands, AND our current slippery set of prisoners!” Bathrus roared.

Festetch sat back, and calmly remarked, “I’ll be letting the Death End know of the situation.”

The rest of the table fell silent.

“… But we hadn’t even agreed on what to do yet?” Buzzard questioned, tense, her voice quaking with poorly hidden rage.

Festetch grabbed a candle, waving it around a little, fingering the burnt-out and crumbling wick. “Knowledge is a powerful thing. The first we may wish to do is to let our clan know of this menace, so they may be better prepared, and more wary of the signs until we say the coast is cleared. And yes, while these are children of Plaguebringer, perhaps they’ve defected to such a heresy as artificial mutation. After all, if every breed were completely loyal to their God’s wishes and whims, we wouldn’t have nature mirrors and plague wildclaws, now would we? Telling our dragons of this heretical sibling breed is safe by this manner. They know of nature mirrors, and yet, they do not question the ideals of our deity… this shall be no different.”

The table paused, considering Festetch. Langtry appeared appeehensive, his pale scales dimming with a thought…

Dura glanced to the nervous mirror, and then looked back to the whole table. “I believe Festetch is right. If we cannot agree now, we should at least let the clan know in the meantime. And… make sure that their knowledge is of heretics.” She glared at Langtry. “… not of welcome guests.”

Langtry scratched at the table a little, before withdrawing his claws, the skull on his head tilting awkwardly, hiding his eyes shamefully. “I’ve… just one little issue, about that.”

The table turned to him, all eyes upon his own. One pair for one eye of his.

“There is… a certain assistant, within my End who I fear may… be a bit… too eager at the thought of artificial mutation…” Langtry tapped his fingers together, wings withering as he shifted away from the table, voice whimpering with a light chuckle at the end.

Dura hissed between gritted fangs. “Langtry…”

Langtry gulped, grabbing a candle and tapping it upon the incense of Buzzard and lighting it aflame again to get some light to ease his nerves. Buzzard huffed and hissed, jabbing her face towards Langtry at such a swift dismissal of boundaries.

Dura’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flared beneath the fangs of her skull helmet. “Have you been hiding a heretic within your midsts?” Her wings slowly opened. “You dare undermine our culture?”

Langtry looked at the grimaced faces surrounding the table, and chuckled to himself. “Well… I cannot deny it-“

Hissed, growling curses muttered under breaths drew nearer to him from all sides of the table. Bathrus placed a paw over her own face and moaned. “First, the heretical performer… this week…”

Langtry then added, “But, I have assessed him to be far too intelligent to simply be gotten rid of. I have… separated him from the rest... Given him his own space in the laboratory to feverishly write down his rather concerning Drabble. I’ve given him food, water. Just enough to keep that brain of his running. I’ve… forgive my seemingly heretical wording, quarantined, him from the others as to keep the heresy from spreading. I’ve found that sneaking in at night and… mayhaps, taking a few peeks at his notes has been rather beneficial for the rest of us. He seems entirely fine with the situation and has shown no sign of rebellion.”

Shifting her eyes, and passive-aggressively snuffing Langtry’s candle, Buzzard hissed, “At least you still keep to your knowledge that heresy’s the only sickness not to be spread… and you sure act to it.”

Langtry sighed with relief at the complement, before seeing that Dura was staring into him, and he sat straight back up in attention, waiting for her next words.

Dura commanded, “Bring me to him. Then, we will see how important he is.”

…

Srolk gingerly trimmed a potted flower, adjusting one of his allowed lamp imports from the sunbeam ruins so it hit at just the right angle. It was a perfect little thing, one of his magnum opuses after staying down here for so long. He had a lot of time to breed these on his claws.

Footsteps echoed in the hall behind him. He turned his pallid head behind himself, his wiry frame following his gaze to face the visitors, and cowl swaying behind his skull.

One set familiar, one set a little less familiar.

Langtry emerged, and right behind him was Dura. Their footsteps echoed across the reinforced cobblestone interior of his laboratory.

“Ah, hello Langtry.” Srolk remarked, as though Langtry was an old friend to him, ignoring the Conquest.

Langtry nodded to Dura. “I’ll speak with him. Feel free to look through his notes as you wish.” Srolk’s eyes watched the two very intently, his body language twitchy and ready to pull anything had something unexpected happened.

Dura began to wander the room for notes.

Langtry ducked under a green hanging lantern, approaching Srolk. “We’ve decided you’re due for an inspection, Srolk.” Langtry replied to Srolk’s greeting. Many years of dead leaves crunched under his feet… frankly, it was rather confusing considering all of his carefully kept plants on the rack. All else he had was a study and a rack full of what Langtry assumed were rodents… well, that was certainly new.

“Srolk, what are those… creatures, you have?” Langtry pointed a claw at the rat rack.

“Oh, those?” Srolk looked toward the rack. “They’ve been here for years. I’ve no clue how you’ve never noticed them! Actually, wait, nevermind…” Srolk looked at the rack closer, remembering that he usually kept it behind a hidden wall.

Srolk paused.

“Ah. Perhaps it is new.”

Langtry sighed, knowing something had probably been going on under his nose. Perhaps he’d let it slide, if benign enough. “Srolk, that does not answer my question. What are the creatures?” His voice echoed through the chamber as if to add emphasis, countered by the other echo from the pages being flipped by Dura.

Srolk shrugged. “Oh, they’re just giant plague rats which I’ve been breeding to make them a more reasonable size.”

Langtry narrowed his eyes in confusion. “You made… miniature giant rats?”

Srolk nodded. “Well, yes, but I think I’ve just reinvented normal rats.”

Dura looked up from the notes for a second to criticize, “Should’ve bred them to be bigger. Maybe make yourself useful by giving us some practice hunting game for the hatchlings.”

Srolk scratched his chin. “Well, I certainly could! But then they couldn’t go through cracks in the walls.”

Dura didn’t reply, returning to looking through his notes. How many of those rats she had seen were… she didn’t want to think about it.

Langtry tried to think of some more questions. “So… uh… still obsessed with the whole… mutation thing?” He fixed the skull upon his head.

Srolk nodded. “Well, of course! You know me!”

Langtry let out a small whine, unsure as he glanced away towards Dura. Dura grunted in disapproval from within the background.

Frankly, Langtry had no idea whether knowing or not knowing Srolk was worse.

Langtry smacked his lips, staring for a hot second. This was getting somewhat less salvageable. “So uh… why?”

Srolk waved a hand about haphazardly. “Normal mutation and evolution takes too long… sooo many generations. Why wait for that when one can skip the babies part and just do it immediately? Natural selection will still come in and wipe out all those bad mutations! It’s just a sped up process.”

Dura grumbled from under her breath, “A sped up process for impatient fools…”

Srolk still smiled, though now glaring blankly at Dura.

Dura slammed the notes shut. “Langtry, come, speak with me.”

Langtry followed Dura to the entrance of the laboratory, just outside of Srolk’s earshot.

Dura leaned against the side of the hall. “What use does he serve, exactly? Give me three good reasons to keep him.”

Langtry waved his hands around a bit, “Well, uh, he’s certainly been a lot of help for the third circle’s gardens! His notes are very in depth into the nuances of plant breeding… and uh, if you didn’t notice, he’s sort of… somehow been keeping track of everyone’s bloodline, which has come in handy to know who’s related to who. You know, who not to ask ‘is that your boyfriend?’ When it’s their brother. Perfect way to avoid getting punched. And, er…” Langtry glanced at Srolk, who was back to trimming his plants rather feverishly, occasionally spraying them with water from a tiny hatchling sized watergun, before he stopped to wave at Langtry. Which, frankly, sent a chill up his spine.

“If we…” Langtry made a cutting motion across his neck. “Get rid of him… I’m… frankly, I feel uneasy at such an idea.”

Dura waved a dismissive hand, and growled, “I find that to be two valid reasons. What, Langtry? Do you fear a bit of death? Has your heart softened below the threshold of a Fallen’s Fang member? Because I know of two good hands that can replace you…”

Gulping, Langtry backed up against the wall, and reiterated. “No, no my Conquest, I- I’m moreso afraid of what he may do if we try to kill him… he…”

Langtry stared back out into that big, cobblestone prison that was Srolk’s room, and smacked his lips indecisively. “He has a very… I’m unsettled by him, my Conquest.”

Dura nodded and walked back up the stairs, exiting Srolk’s room and closing a heavy door behind her, which locked immediately from the runestone embedded within the handle. “That is understandable, Langtry… everyone here is unsettled by such heresy. However, gardening is the gardeners’ jobs, and record keeping is the scribes’ jobs. And, how could you be sure that he’d ever cause trouble if we simply never told him of his oncoming execution?”

Langtry followed Dura up the spiraling staircase, the light voices of chittering rats growing dimmer and the noises of working Pestilence end dragons growing louder. “I suppose you’re right, Dura… but, perhaps give me a week so that I may collect the rest of his notes and history? Just in case?”

Dura didn’t even look towards Langtry as she nodded, the two stepping out from a hole near Langtry’s personal laboratory. The hole sealed shut behind them, crimson glow of a rune guaranteeing a securely shut prison.

“I’ll give you five days to salvage whatever you can out of this heresy.” Dura remarked, exiting the door of the massive laboratory, and shutting it behind her, leaving Langtry alone with his thoughts.

Sighing, Langtry trodded over to his desk, multiple floors of shelves of books, scrolls, and vials passing him by.

His nails scratched across an old, worn, carved floor, carved circuits within glowing slightly with residue built up over the years.

Hopping over three stairs, Langtry continued towards his most personal study area, lit from behind by massive, throbbing, glass tubes full of glowing, churning liquids.

And that’s when he heard a slight, small scratching.

Langtry began to slowly stalk to his desk now, unsure of what to make of the noise.

The scratching grew more feverish, more quickened as Langtry drew near.

He could barely make a silhouette with the backlighting, but it moved and thrashed in quite the sickly, unnatural manner.

And then, the scratching stopped, and that shape upon his desk stopped moving. It went completely still.

Langtry took one small step closer.

A booming slam echoed through the laboratory with a shrill screech and scream, and something thrashed beneath wretched, bony claws.

Langtry closed his fist, holding the small rat up to his eyes.

“Now, what were you doing in my laboratory?” Langtry asked in a hiss, chiding the little rodent whom had been trespassing upon his desk.

All it responded with was more squeaking and thrashing, merely little pathetic whimpers.

A louder screech, and then silence as Langtry slammed the thing’s head against his desk, as to give it a most merciful and relatively painless death, and threw it into his open maw, swallowing it down with a disgusting gulp.

As he swallowed the dead rat, Langtry looked down and saw some scattered bits of rat brain upon his desk… he snarled and saw something.

They were green.

Now, what in the world was that all about?

Figuring that eating such a thing with green-for-brains was an extremely unwise decision, Langtry scampered over to his personal laboratory lavatory to… well, get it out of his system before it got into his.

The green bits of gunky flesh slowly twitched and bubbled, growing upon Langtry’s desk whilst he was away, green fluids gushing out as the brains fizzed and expanded.

And then, another rat came along, and before such pieces of cerebrum could grow too large, scooped them up into it’s maw and swallowed.

The rat’s eyes glowed green for a moment, black fuzzy silhouette against the green tubes behind glowing with a small beady dot, and it sniffed. Then…

For a few moments, it just sat there, scratching it’s little face and cleaning itself, the fuzzy little thing seemingly un-phased by it’s sudden cannibalism.

Until Langtry slammed the door to his lavatory, and stamped out, gagging and retching, causing the little creature to scamper away back to whichever dark hole it had arrived from.

“Eughh! Ack! Ogh-“ Langtry shuddered, slamming his butt into his chair to get to work at his desk. “Only now do I realize how absolutely disgusting that rat was-!” He huffed and steamed, immediately getting to the bites and work upon his desk to distract himself.

Two of Langtry’s eyes glanced towards the now clean corner of his desk which once harbored gross green rat brains.

“Hm.” He huffed.

Langtry looked down at his notes, and wrote upon a bit of parchment, ‘Reminder; thank custodians for fast dutiful work cleaning rat brains off desk’.

Later that night within his Laboratory, Langtry decided that, maybe this night, he would work until the wee hours of ‘very very late at night’. Frankly, this is usually how long he worked for, but he preferred it this way. Of course, it wasn’t long until the ambient noises of his Laboratory lulled him to sleep once again after a long night.

The bristling of pages on the shelves, the slow bubbling and churning of the tubes behind him, the quiet whirr of outdated, rusty machinery… Langtry yawned, trying to keep his eyes open as his head rested heavily upon the wood of his desk. But slowly, their dry ache and heavy lids forced themselves shut. He fell asleep upon half-finished notes, something about orders for the day, plans for execution of Srolk, some notes from memory, all that.

A rat scampered across the floor, nearly tripping on a carved plague symbol before continuing on it’s merry way. Within its paws, it held a tiny scrap of parchment. Handing the paper to it’s own tail, it looked up to see the gargantuan silhouette of a sleeping dragon at a desk before it.

Squinting, the rat steadied its hindquarters, and, with a teensy squeak of effort, hopped up to the rim of the desk.

Unfortunately, for this little rat, only its front paws had caught the wood, leaving its hind nails scratching and clawing at the sides of the desk… causing Langtry to stir in his sleep.

Slowing itself, the rat began to hiss and pull itself up, swinging its feet to get a good grip before it had finally risen to the top of what seemed to be an enigmatic monument to those of the rat’s size.

Holding the piece of paper up before slapping it down on the table with a foot, the rat gingerly reached over with both hands to grab the lone quill listing upon Langtry’s fingers.

Holding this quill like a rather large sword, the rat teetered and balanced to haul the thing towards the nearby inkwell, dipping the tip into the crimson pool of gunk rather gently, before pulling it out, and swaying to get the quill in the right position.

And then, it’s little red eyes began to scan the papers before Langtry, and it narrowed these little red eyes to see some very important little tidbits, written in the black quill and crimson ink it held now…

And so, the rat began to take notes, scribbling and scrawling into the small scrap of paper beneath it, holding the quill like one would hold a great oar or lever, little specks of ink landing upon the rat’s white fur.

And then, it was done.

The rat grabbed the parchment, removed its foot, and, deciding to have itself a little mischief for the night, dipped the quill in the ink once again, and slowly began to draw upon Langtry’s snoozing face, leaving a twirled mustache marking.

And so, as quick as it had come, the rat hopped down from the desk, parchment in paw, and left the laboratory through whatever dark crevice it had crawled from.

In the morning, Langtry had found his quill was out of place, and that his hands seemed to snicker at the sight of him. Neither of these things amused him, but, he had more important matters than such petty things as moving quills and practical jokes.

Stepping over to a rune in the floor, Langtry traced a claw over it, and watched as it slowly, very slowly, opened like an aperture. And so, he took careful steps back down into it, and began his descent once again, the first step of execution.

The claustrophobic, twisting, spiraling halls of stairs greeted him once again, and, with each carefully hidden rune that passed him, he sighed. Srolk wasn’t the only ‘quarantined’ pestilence dragon here. But he was the only one found. And since one had been found, the others were now liable if this prison were fully searched. All the heresies lay hidden here. Heresies for Langtry to exploit, to learn from as though he were observing them under a Petri dish.

And now that Srolk had been called out, it was a living time bomb for Langtry’s, and the Clan’s, holy credibility. Like a dormant disease lying in wait.

Why’d he even mention Srolk? Truly, Langtry gulped at the thought, he may have just doomed himself at that meeting.

Placing a shaking hand over a rune, the lowest, last rune at the end of the dark staircase, Langtry watched as it whirred to life with a glow, and opened into Srolk’s quarters,

Srolk, as expected, seemed to be writing in his notes, and, conveniently, was done with a paragraph just when Langtry entered.

Srolk lifted his quill and waved it in greetings, a grin creeping across his facade. “Ah, greetings Langtry! Work been suiting you well?” Srolk just blankly stared in his goggled eyes through his burlap hood with that grin as Langtry trod towards him across the floor. “I’m just here for some inspiration, Srolk, if you will.”

Srolk waved an arm in a flamboyant display of allowance, backing away from his desk before standing up on his hind limbs and gesturing towards the desk, then freezing in place like a statue.

Before he sat down, Langtry side glanced at the rat rack behind Srolk, and, once he saw that all of those rats in jars were still there, sighed with paranoid relief, and went to looking at Srolk’s notes. He flipped through a few more pages about rat neurology, plant chemistry, advancements in artificial mutation elixirs, and found a very peculiar page… something Srolk wouldn’t usually write about.

“Srolk, what’s this… ‘new execution method’ you’re on about at this page?” Langtry turned around to Srolk, asking the question and holding back a startle when he noticed that Srolk was in that same frozen position. He had to wait a moment to see that Srolk was still alive, when his mouth creaked open to speak, the rest of him still frozen, “Well, Langtry, a little birdie told me…”

Srolk, with his usually puppet-like movements, swung back down onto all fours, and pointed to the page. “That there’s been a recent incident with a certain scientist… something to do with quite the corrosive ‘fermenting’ mixture… I’d figure the clan would take interest in such a thing as a particularly brutal method of execution… especially now… with- heh- all of the executions the Fallen’s Fang clan does pretty much all the time!”

Langtry stared into Srolk’s eyes with suspicion, as he always did. While Langtry questioned how Srolk even got that information-

“I know about the whole thing from the End-Wide safety announcement you made about it.” Srolk quipped.

Oh. Langtry felt a twinge in his chest and figured that maybe it was about time to get onto blocking this whole quarantine lab prison system from receiving such announcements. Anyways, it was an interesting take on things… Langtry was, in fact, intrigued by this newly proposed method. Though, why was Srolk writing about executions just now?

“Thank you- Srolk, I’ll… bring this up with the Death End. Hopefully, they’ll accept your idea.” Langtry carefully cut the pages with the execution notes out of Srolk’s notebook, and scampered over to the exit of Srolk’s laboratory, looking over his shoulder once to find Srolk just… staring at him and waving.

And then, he left to find Festetch.

Gently rapping upon the doors of Festetch’s quarters, Langtry waited for a response. The doors of her quarters were rather large for a skydancer, but she was rather large for a skydancer as well, so, it did make sense.

Tapestry hung by each side of the doors, colored bleakly and framed with bone. Each of them bore art of the Plaguebringer, fading into her skeleton as the fabric faded from blood red to mold black. And, atop each tapestry, biting into the fabric, was a real skull.

And then, Langtry got his answer as Festetch opened the door before him, and gestured a wide hand to welcome him inside. “Langtry, it’s been a few days… busy working on those notes and records of yours?” Langtry nodded, releasing a long and heavy sigh as he ducked beneath Festetch’s arm to enter.

Her quarters were, surprisingly, not quite as decorated as the others, save for Langtry’s, though he had the excuse that his Laboratory functioned as his quarters, and he couldn’t exactly decorate if he only slept in said quarters once a month at most. Festetch, however, didn’t exactly have that excuse, as she was known to be rather reclusive, so she should’ve had all the time in the world to decorate.

Nonetheless, it was rather barren. Really, the most she had in terms of decoration were some tapestries, books, bones and such. And, of course, she had the essential bed, nightstand, closet, desk, empty shelves, drawers and so forth, but that was the bare minimum of a Grand Scythe’s quarters.

Festetch turned and walked to her bed, sitting down. She pulled a stool out in front of her and beckoned Langtry to join. He did, of course, like anyone would, and sat down, the old wood creaking beneath him.

In a creaking, slow voice, Festetch stated, “Before you tell me what’s on your mind, Langtry, I must first ask one question.” Langtry nodded, gulping nervously as Festetch’s head creeped closer to his own, her eyes darkening and dimming under a careful glare…

“What’s that you have on your snout?” She quipped, pointing to the drawn-on mustache on Langtry’s face. Langtry, taken aback, crossed his eyes and lifted the skull on his head to get a better look. Indeed, upon his pale hide, there was a strange, smudgy marking. “Hm?” Langtry muttered, placing a hand on his nose and rubbing it a little. He’d gotten the most of it off, but it still left a little smudged mark.

“It looked like… some kind of mustache, maybe… are you going for facial hair, Langtry? You’re not trying to join those self-modifying Aberrations I’ve told my End about, hm?” Festetch kept prodding, and winked playfully, but Langtry just shoot his head and grumbled, “I don’t know who did this, but when I find them…” he clenched a hard fist. “They’re going to get a stern talking to, that’s for sure…”

Festetch ignored that last part, though a little confused by Langtry’s laxness on this violation of subservience to a Grand Scythe. Usually, she’d expect something like… well, at least something far more strict. Vandalism was a two-point crime, and being annoying was a one-point crime, meaning three points, and thus, getting pummeled in the arena as a punishment. Frankly, this was the most lax thing she could think of, and drawing a mustache on a Grand Scythe of all dragons probably violated even more rules she couldn’t think of at the moment, and ones that could probably be reasonably made up on the spot during judgement to be added to the books.

Langtry was about to ask his question regarding the execution method, when he felt something fuzzy rub against his leg.

Both Festetch and Langtry looked down, seeing a small white rat. Langtry, quite startled, withdrew his foot and cringed. “Gah! The rat’s these days- Festetch, have you noticed all the rats? Tell me it’s not just me with- with the rats!”

In response, Festetch shrugged, the bones upon her frame clattering together. “Oh, he’s just a little guest Langtry… now, little one!” Festetch scooped the rat up into her hands, and let it scurry into a hole in the wall. “You’d best be hiding-“ she chuckled, and added, while scratching its head as it peered from the hole before retreating.

Langtry simply stared on in abject confusion. What? How could- why would Festetch simply let such a beast wander her quarters so freely?! What if it was one of those green-brained rats?! Surely, she’d at least hold suspicion as to how they were getting everywhere- or- why hadn’t she eaten it?! What a waste of good food!

“Festetch- I- why haven’t you eaten it yet? I thought you had one of those… giant centipedes for a familiar!” Langtry extended his hands, the jerky movements of his head making his skull lopsided once again before he was able to fix it, and got up from the stool, his untrimmed back nails twisting and scratching against the floor.

Festetch held out a hand, and Langtry, gulping in her presence, immediately sat back down. “Calm yourself. It’s a familiar someone left behind on a hunting trip. I figured I’d take care of it for them… it should only be a few more days before they return and reclaim their little companion.” She quoted in a calm, stern tone.

Langtry felt a need to ask why she, a Fallen’s Fang Grand Scythe, felt she had the time to attend to such sentimental errands, but he retorted any further questions, and bit his tongue, not daring to prod Festetch further. He also dared not to ask what it was with all of the other rats he’d been seeing; well, one rat in his laboratory, but it was strange enough that he might as well have had counted it as multiple!

“I… my apologies for raising my voice, Festetch, I just… I wanted to come in here, to ask if… the Death End is willing to engage in a newly proposed execution method… by the Pestilence End, of course. For… testing on our newest name on the execution list.” Langtry let out a small, nervous laugh as he held the notes forward, and as Festetch snatched them. She dipped her head towards the notes, scanning them carefully with her eyes, then looking to Langtry through the notes, making him shrink back, before returning to looking the notes over.

Grabbing her personal scythe, Festetch nearly tilted the handle to give a stamp of approval on the notes, when she gave pause, and retreated the bony, ancient, ceremonial weapon. “I would approve of this design…” Festetch started. Langtry squeaked in nervous anticipation. “… If I actually had even a hint of what the fermenting elixir from this Typhardius incident was made of.” Festetch continued.

Ah.

Of course.

Langtry had forgotten to ask about that.

But, of course, Srolk wouldn’t know what the elixir was made of either.

“You know how secretive Typhardius was with his work, but I’m certain he’d answer to his own Grand Scythe.” Festetch remarked, grunting as she stood up from the bed and walked to the door, opening it and gesturing for Langtry to leave. “Now go, go and get our information from that cheesy little nocturne, Langtry.”

Langtry walked out the doors, and felt a gush of stale air as they slammed behind him, causing the tapestry beside them to wave, and causing a few torches to blow out, leaving Langtry in a darkness.

Langtry turned to go through the hallway, and towards Typhardius.

Langtry rapped upon Typhardius’ door, withdrawing his hand, but, where he was expecting an opened door and a formal greeting, all he had heard behind the doors was a muffled, “Come in…”

Well, this certainly wasn’t like passionate, hardworking Typhardius.

Langtry had opened the doors to find a laboratory in disrepair and dismay, a heavily armored shape huddled by a counter, using one hand to hold up a helmeted head with an elbow on the counter, using the other hand to place a finger on a vial and sort of just tilting it from side to side.

“Typhardius… have you been-“ Langtry nearly asked before Typhardius whipped around, muffled and metallic voice behind a rusty helmet hissing, “Do I LOOK okay?!” Typhardius removed a gauntlet, showing his scarred and cracked scales… peeling everywhere, weeping wounds… Langtry, being plague through and through, had seen worse, but it was still pretty bad.

“Well, Typhardius, you’re a plague dragon- you know those scars show you’re a survivor! Wear them with pride-“ Langtry chided, confused as to why Typhardius seemed so offended at such marks of a survivor.

Typhardius, shaking his head and walking back over to his vials, growled between bared teeth, “It’s not THAT- what kind of self-respecting plague nocturne of the Pestilence End loses to a teensy-weensy shadow spiral, confetti, and his own concoctions?” Langtry let out a long, exacerbated sigh, and pouted, “Can’t even remember how I won that whole arena ceremony business against my sister… feels like I’m an excuse for a dragon, a…” Langtry placed a hand on Typhardius’ shoulder, which was quickly flicked off. “Failure? Well, don’t call yourself that!” Langtry whined out in some attempt to reconcile Typhardius. “You’ve made wondrous chemical weapons for the other Ends, something sure to send our enemies on a run for their treasure!”

“You know you don’t believe that, Langtry.” Typhardius groaned.

While, yes, it was pretty true that Langtry was quite disappointed in Typhardius in all reality, knowing that he lost a battle, if it could be called that, at least he didn’t die, and Langtry needed to get on his good side to get that elixir formula.

Ignoring those last words of Typhardius’, Langtry shrugged, and muttered, “Believe what you want, Ty… all I’m here for is the… formula. For your fermenting stuff.”

Typhardius groaned loudly, slouching, and, grabbing a paper from a rack of identical papers, hissed, “Here… take it. It’s one of the newest formulas… the one for that vial that got me… nobody else got it. Have fun, I guess. Just leave me here.”

Langtry awkwardly took the paper, reading it carefully… when he realized it had a most classic issue. Pestilence End handwriting. Of course.

“Typhardius, my apologies to be more of a bother, but…” Langtry was interrupted by the noise of scampering nearby, and saw a worm like tail abscond into a hole above some cabinets, but figuring he’d thought of rats enough today, ignore it and almost continued when Typhardius took the paper back and began to read it in a monotone, tired, bored voice, still not even turning to look at Langtry again. “Vinegar… dragonsbane… bubbling wort…”

After he went on about it for long enough, and once Langtry understood what was written, Langtry held out a hand and felt the paper pressed into it by a surprisingly gentle gauntlet.

Langtry turned around, walking back out the room, quite thankful his front legs had rubber gloves, protecting him from the… residue on the floor. Which, judging by the rank smell and dragon-like silhouette, was probably leftover fermenting elixir from the incident, still sitting there.

The green light behind him faded as he left the cramped, round lab, and slowly closed the creaky door, leaving Typhardius to himself to sulk over his defeat at the great battle of ‘confetti-face and fermented-scale accident’

Now, time to repeat that whole list of ingredients to Festetch.

Langtry knocked on the doors to Festetch’s quarters again, waiting for a response. The doors opened with a mighty creaking, the tapestry still billowing beside them and the relit torches.

Bowing to him, Festetch stepped aside and let Langtry enter, holding that same rat in her hand. Langtry shuddered at the sight of that creepy little rodent… he shouldn’t have, he was plague, he wasn’t supposed to get creeped out, but it still let off an absolutely rancid aura of suspicion.

Langtry glared into the eyes of the fuzzy little thing as he passed by, which responded by cleaning its face idly and laying down, nuzzling into Festetch’s hand.

Not even bothering to sit back on her bed for a chat, Festetch sat on her haunches in the middle of the plain room, in the middle on the flat, uncarved floor. “Alright then, repeat the ingredients.”

Langtry shuffled through his bag and pulled out the paper, shaking it a bit to let off billows of dust, dust like tiny hairs floating through a nonexistent breeze. “Ahem-“ Langtry squinted to try and read the paper for visual reminders of whatever the scribbles upon it meant. “Vinegar? Hrm… Dragonsbane… bubbling wirt? No, no, bubbling wort.” As he continued on, he could already feel Festetch growing tired, so he quickened his pace, and finished the list, “And stirred for a whole minute, or until murky.” He finished.

“Thank you, Langtry. Now, that execution method…” Festetch took the notes from Langtry, and finished her work of stamping it with the hilt of her scythe. She handed the papers back to Langtry, and, extending a hand to shoo him off, retreated to her table with the rat to write everything down.

Langtry left the quarters, doors shutting quietly behind him, still blowing out the lights, still leaving him in the darkness, still unsure of what he was doing.

Days had passed. Days turned to a week. A week turned to time for the execution.

Langtry let out a long, long sigh. Ever since that one day, rats seemed to be minimal, and Srolk’s notes were entirely usual, stuff about plants and rats and whatnot. Though, he had been noticing a very rancid smell emanating from the other doors in that secret prison staircase… normal for plague dragons… he reminded himself. In an attempt to soothe himself.

Langtry trod heavy, heavy steps. Ever since that one day, his suspicions and fears had been growing. Suspicions and fears he had to quiet within himself, reminding himself that if he let any fear slip, anything too private out from his lips, then he could be impeached for all of those heretical laboratories he kept right in what was essentially the basement of his own laboratory… not normal for a Grand Scythe… he reminded himself. In an attempt to keep his own mouth shut.

Langtry pressed a slow, slow hand into a rune. Years of potential research was going to go down the drain, just like that. He didn’t want Srolk to die, and he was also quite afraid of trying, but most importantly… somewhat, Langtry agreed with him. With his research. He didn’t want to think himself heretical by any means, but… he disagreed with the disdain for these ‘Aberrations’. They seemed to hold experimental minds as well, fit perfect for the Pestilence End. To play with mutation so freely, why it was tempting, indeed! But it shouldn’t be tempting for a Fallen’s Fang dragons… he reminded himself. In an attempt to purify his mind of such heretical ideas.

Behind Langtry, stood the Death End executioners, and The Conquest. The executioners held within their claws a barrel of glowing, festering, fermenting solution, certainly enough to kill, painfully and quickly and quietly, perfect for a secret execution for a secret heretic.

Langtry stepped into the staircase, and he heard the stomping behind him for each movement.

And then that’s when Langtry noticed something.

The Conquest’s face twisted with confusion.

The executioners’ with great suspicion and distaste.

Langtry’s with fear.

Before them, all those other doors he had been so worried about? They were all… opened. Opened and present for all to see.

And a most sickly scent was erupting from each doorway, each rune appearing corrupted, flashing with green and red lights, the entire staircase flickering within a foggy air.

It didn’t smell of rot, no. It smelled of something far, far more disgusting.

“Heresy…” hissed from between the lips of Dura, and Langtry shriveled, feeling a kick in his leg urging him to go further anyways. He coughed and gagged upon venturing further, and then that’s when he peeked through the first doorway into the room behind it, creeping a hand down the staircase and craning his neck far enough to garner a hint of a peek of the room.

Or, rather, what he could see of it.

Something wet, bloody, twitching and pulsating blocked the entire doorway, growing at a concerning pace, tendrils of flesh licking out towards Langtry. And then, an eye opened. A red, disgusting eye next to teeth and bits of skull haphazardly scattered throughout the mass. The ‘skin’ of this thing blistered and bubbled, hissing and fizzing… with…

No.

How did…

Who got the…

How did- how did HE get the formula?

Langtry stumbled down the stairs faster, narrowly avoiding a brush with a twisting, hangnail-like… hair of flesh. And also perhaps to outrun any angry Conquest or executioners behind him.

The executioners and Dura seemed to have a similar reaction. They’d all preferred to run past the doorways and ignore everything, if possible, and then leave this place behind forever.

Langtry ran past dead, stagnant, rotting flesh which barely moved. Langtry ran past screaming, begging flesh. Langtry ran past flesh, all heretical, all peeking from doorways. All clogging his vision with runaway heat signature, which also made the stairway a hot, humid, confusing hell to traverse through, like a cyclone of horrid colors.

Srolk’s room was the only one left closed.

Langtry lifted a hand… drew it back, looked behind himself to see his crew waiting, and lifted it again, holding his breath and closing three of his eyes. The condensed liquid from the air itself ran down his gloves. They needed to get this done soon, before any other horrible thing happened.

Langtry’s fingers pressed into the rune, bending at the tips with force.

The rune began to glow. The door began to open.

And there was Srolk. Sitting patiently. Staring right into Langtry’s eyes.

And grinning. Grinning like he knew he was coming.

A little white rat sat by his side.

Before Langtry could even yell, “Srolk, what did you-!” The executioners pushed past him, running to Srolk and presenting their method before him. Dura trailed behind, slowly and carefully, giving a distasteful side glance to Langtry for his obvious disobedience. They moved past cramped and crowded shelves of alchemical equipment, some which Langtry didn’t know were there before.

Srolk still just sat there, letting his head fall to his side in a curious tilt, and inquired, “What is your visit for, this time?” He tapped his fingers together, and continued, “Execution, I’d imagine?” Instead of any fear, all Srolk just let off was a little laugh at the end, and that same smug grin as his hood swayed to meet his head, which swung back to an upright position, some popping coming from his neck as his head careened. His eyes narrowed and he looked the whole group up and down, grin faltering a little.

“Quiet, heretic!” Dura barked. “The rest of your words will be your pitiful begging to Plaguebringer for forgiveness. May she give you a fitting punishment…” and so, the Executioner’s twisted the top off of the barrel of elixir, and began to lift, the caustic concoction already ready to kill multiple dragons.

“See you there, o Conquest!” Srolk hissed, extending his arms and standing completely still. He managed to keep up that uncannily faux happiness the whole time. Dura decided not to respond to such disrespect right now, though she couldn’t help but huff from her nostrils a tad.

His death would be her words.

The barrel was lifted, the sour, eye-watering stench wafting into the laboratory, causing the rats on the rack to go into a fearful frenzy scratching at the walls, and causing some plants to wither into blackened husks from the reeking fumes. The squeaks and scratches only heightened any tensions Langtry felt. He was very, very over with rats.

The fluids washed over Srolk, covering him and beginning to steam as he just stood there unmoving. It steamed, and then it bubbled, and then it fizzed and crackled.

Dura watched, snarling under her bloodred skull and drawing her cleaver to more easily dispose of the body afterwards. She stepped forward, lowering her head and flaring her wings as she crept.

The executioners stepped back.

Langtry waited for any other noise.

There was only steaming, bubbling, and hissing of the elixir upon Srolk’s skin. Perhaps it was working. Perhaps Langtry’s worries were over.

Langtry just kept watching and waiting, and then saw as Srolk’s frame began to droop and fall forward, arms swinging down like a puppet which had just been discarded. And then, in his traditional, wooden, unexpected way, fell upon the floor with a thud, completely silent, and completely still.

Perhaps it did work indeed. Perhaps this execution would only end in hissing, not screaming, unlike what Langtry had expected considering the pain the mixture was known to inflict. Langtry sighed a long, long, deep and tired sigh. Of relief and of fear.

Dura drew her cleaver completely, slowly stepping even closer towards Srolk’s body. She walked amongst the executioners, each prepared to properly dispose of such a heretical and elixir tainted body.

Dura began to question why Srolk’s skin seemed completely uncracked and undamaged.

Luckily for her, Dura was behind both of the executioners, outside of Srolk’s range as his completely still form suddenly began to crack and twist as his arms flipped out from under him, and, holding two hatchling-sized watergun toys, shot a bubbling orange liquid into the faces of the executioners before him, while screaming, “IDIOTS! ALL OF YOU! HA!”

And only then, did Langtry get to hear the screaming he had expected to hear out of an execution. He watched in confused horror as Srolk sprung back to his feet, spraying fermenting elixir everywhere, his body drunkenly careening back and forth, limbs bobbing up and down with his movements as he danced, forcing all those near him to dodge and duck behind their wings. Including Dura.

The executioners were almost entirely soaked, and from them came horrid screaming.

The executioners could only crawl upon the floors, clutching their faces. Clutching their faces was all they could do when their hands were melded into them, finger bones grossly poking and prodding out from the flesh against the breaking skullbone. At least the screaming had stopped at the point when their mouths had forced themselves shut.

Srolk dodged a furious clawswipe from Dura, moving sideways and throwing a rat from his cloak into her face, forcing Dura to skid to a stop across the floor, slamming into the desk and notes, papers flying everywhere. Dura grabbed the rat, tore it off of her head, leaving deep scratch marks in her scales, and threw the rat violently against the wall, leaving a very small spatter of green blood from a few unfortunate dental injuries.

The rat was fine, mostly, and shook off the injury, running back into a hole, knowing that rat teeth were adept at growing back from breaks. Though, it did consider adding a new dragon to the mustache prank list.

Srolk bowed before Dura, head limply following his chest, and, at the end of his bow, dipped up to meet her gaze. Once he saw she paused, he licked his lips and pointed to two growing masses of flesh on the floor that used to be executioners. “There’s two reasons not to execute me…”

Dura’s eyes widened. How did he…

Before she could do anything, a watergun was being pointed straight at her.

“Would you like to be the third ‘reason’?” Srolk scolded, mouth hanging open. Dura almost thought of killing him then and there, but seeing the state of the executioners, didn’t want to risk such a fate. Instead, it seemed like Srolk was giving her some room to talk. So she took that room. “What do you want, heretic?”

Dura waited for Srolk to lower his weapon, but he seemed entirely unwilling to, still not breaking his gaze at all with her own. Srolk didn’t answer until he saw Langtry burst towards him in the corner of his eye, raised another watergun, and barked, “Fourth reason.” Langtry skidded to a stop.

“I- Srolk, what horrific concoctions have you-“ Langtry nearly finished his sentence when Srolk interrupted, “Horrific? Like keeping a dragon locked up in a cell for years upon years in isolation is horrific?” Srolk widened his eyes and bared his teeth, uncannily large teeth for any skydancer.

Langtry shut his mouth.

Dura was still left waiting for an actual answer, the only noises being heavy breathing, rats scratching in the walls and jars, and the hissing and bubbling of rapidly expanding and mutating runaway flesh. Then, seeming to end his torture method of ‘anticipation’, Srolk gave his demands.

“Well, first of all, the obvious being ‘release me from this hellhole of a laboratory’.” Srolk nodded all around his personal room, still somehow keeping his gaze on Dura. Dura nodded, and Langtry nodded, finding such a demand not too extreme.

And then…

“My next request… Make every Grand Scythe retract their statements about Aberrations, and no longer define artificial mutation as heresy. Might as well wipe that rule from the books completely.” Srolk laughed, before seeing the extremely fearful expressions on the faces of his so-called superiors. This did cause him to grin and chuckle to himself a bit, eyes shifting between the two other dragons. Dura coughed, “But- that would-“

“Yes, I know…” Srolk cooed, then switched to a fake, sympathetic pout. “That would ruin your poor, poor precious legitimacy! What a shame…” Srolk’s little insult ended in a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve heard of any Grand Scythes and Conquest council retracting a statement so quickly in the history of this clan…”

Before Langtry or Dura could let out one last peep, Srolk added, “Oh, and, if you see any Aberrations… do welcome them into the clan, hm? I’ll need test subjects willing and able to take my mutagen without, well…” Srolk nodded to the two masses of flesh on the floor, which seemed to have already turned grey and died, spared from any further torment. “That… occurring. I feel like they’ll be more resilient to it, no? Unlike all my other test subjects you all must have seen through the staircase… thanks for that, Langtry.”

Langtry went pale and froze, before Srolk winked and continued. “It was very lovely of you to provide me with such heretical test subjects, all with separate rooms to keep their heresy quarantined.” He extended a hand towards Langtry, who shrunk and cowered.

Dura looked to Langtry and gave him a small raise of the eyebrows… perhaps he WAS efficient at this whole getting rid of heresy thing.

Langtry smiled back at Dura. Oh, Plaguebringer, he knew that the only reason he wouldn’t be executed for this was because Srolk left out the whole ‘kept them for their research and not as test subjects for Srolk’ detail that he knew Srolk would probably hold against him later.

Srolk backed the two other dragons up towards the door, shooing them out all the way up the staircase, and letting the hatch close behind them forever. “There. Now, Langtry, do you have an open, actual laboratory for me to use?”

Langtry nodded.

“Thank you. I’ll get to work on my mutations as soon as I can, sir.” Srolk, still holding his tiny waterguns, still pointing them at Dura and Langtry, walked out of the laboratory to find his own and start his work. He made some mock shooting noises and motions as he left.

Dura and Langtry both panted with terror and relief once he had left. Oh, Plaguebringer, what a mess this was. And how were they going to break it to the other Grand Scythes? The clan?

How did he even do it?

Srolk sat down in his new chair, leaning back and slamming his little waterguns on the counter. The door was closed, and he was alone. Well, save for his little helpers, his mutated genius-brain-rats.

He took a swig of coffee, looked at some notes, and began work thinking over all he had accomplished.

Or rather, all that his rats let him know of.

The execution.

Which let him drive the method.

The assurance that the Grand Scythes had already made their declaration.

Which let him force that declaration into retreat.

The formula.

Which let him make his own elixir.

The other heretics.

Which gave him convenient test subjects to find the perfect mutation on each random artificial mutation trial that would lead to at least someone having immunity to the elixir.

And so, he was able to isolate that little mutation, apply it to himself, and make himself immune to the execution, and then the rest is history.

Srolk leaned down to a rat he held in his hand.

“Go tell the others of my success.”

The rat nodded, and scurried off into somewhere dark to send the message.

He and his comrades grew more and more successful by the day.

It was only a matter of time before the Conquest system could be toppled from the inside out.

Which, reminded Srolk.

He began to wonder what those sorry, sorry Scythes would be doing in the future?

Bathrus groaned, her footsteps heavy in the sand. Beside her was someone very, very noisy, and someone that made her quite embarrassed to travel by towards her very own Fallen’s Fang Clan. She was a Grand Scythe for Plague’s sake, this wasn’t even her job!

Dust kicked up behind her as she tried to outpace her quarry, but they caught up just fine. Why was Bathrus even doing this?! The yellow sky truly hung heavy tonight under the sun. Bathrus’ heart hung heavy in her chest. Ah. Right. Because a literal scrawny skydancer got his hands on a horrific mutagen and threatened or blackmailed The Conquest herself and some other Grand Scythe into ruining credibility by admitting their wrongness. And also into letting literally any Aberration enter the clan, even if just for a little while.

“Hey! Hey do you have free food?”

“Yeah! I like free food- wait, do we?”

“I dunno! Hey- hey big fluffy lady, does your clan have a good socioeconomic situation?”

“Yeah! Yeah, tell us the politics!”

Bathrus turned to glare at the Aberration walking next to her, and growled, “If it weren’t for heresy, you’d be dead right now.”

The Aberration blinked, the two heads looking at each other before continuing with the incessant questions.

“Does your clan have cheese!”

“Yeah! Yeah- hey! Lady, hey! Does your clan have cheese?”

“I like cheese!”

“Is it GOOD cheese?”

“I like good cheese!”

Bathrus felt a great urge to slam this thing under a mighty paw, but reminded herself that it was her current duty to deal with… these two, until she got back to the Clan.

It was going to be a very, very long day. Especially seeing now that there were other two-headed silhouettes flying around in the distance for her to corral and listen to the entire trip.

Dragons featured in this story: [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/72766739][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/727668/72766739_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/75318674][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/753187/75318674_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/67662396][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/676624/67662396_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/71789309][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/717894/71789309_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/69835430][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/698355/69835430_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/71837454][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/718375/71837454_350.png[/img][/url] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/71571922][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/715720/71571922_350.png[/img][/url]