@
sarahbunny @
fatz
Setting
The trading post has certainly seen better days.
Usually a bustling, thriving hub of activity between the clans, the outpost of colorful stores and stands has turned into a collection of rundown shops and shuttered doors. Walking past, one can see that this is not a new turn of events—the peeling paint and accumulating dust tells you whatever caused the Post to get into this shape has been happening for quite some time. The few spaces still open host dwindling supplies and overworked employees, far from the welcoming merchants of months past.
Outside, only a few dozen dragons go back and forth between the different shops, collecting what they need to before returning home. All look tired, haggard and fearful—most wear heavy cloaks and covering their mouths and noses and do well to avoid anyone who so much stumbles or coughs. Before, dragons used this space to socialize, barter, and trade gossip—but today, it’s rare for a dragon to even say hello to someone outside their flight.
Whispers say a great pestilence has befell clans throughout the country—even those from Plague dragons themselves are not safe. Despite the best work from alchemists and sorcerers throughout the nation, no cure has been found—just simple spells, herbs and medicines that can help dragons suffering through the symptoms as they wait for the illness to pass.
Enter: the apothecary. An elderly pearlcatcher witch has run the store for countless years—though she fears she too will need to shut her doors soon, as she feels her rising temperature and growing feebleness with every passing day. Outside the general store, the apothecary is the only medicine store still open at the post, and she watches countless dragons browse the wooden shelves full of herbs and potions, desperate in their search for a cure for their sick clansfolk.
She watches and helps when she can. But she knows her goods will, at best, prolong the inevitable. However, now, even the most basic herbs and remedies she sells are almost out of stock. Today, only a single potion to aid symptoms of the plague remains on the depleted shelves.
The witch decides she’ll close after today.
@
sarahbunny @
fatz
Setting
The trading post has certainly seen better days.
Usually a bustling, thriving hub of activity between the clans, the outpost of colorful stores and stands has turned into a collection of rundown shops and shuttered doors. Walking past, one can see that this is not a new turn of events—the peeling paint and accumulating dust tells you whatever caused the Post to get into this shape has been happening for quite some time. The few spaces still open host dwindling supplies and overworked employees, far from the welcoming merchants of months past.
Outside, only a few dozen dragons go back and forth between the different shops, collecting what they need to before returning home. All look tired, haggard and fearful—most wear heavy cloaks and covering their mouths and noses and do well to avoid anyone who so much stumbles or coughs. Before, dragons used this space to socialize, barter, and trade gossip—but today, it’s rare for a dragon to even say hello to someone outside their flight.
Whispers say a great pestilence has befell clans throughout the country—even those from Plague dragons themselves are not safe. Despite the best work from alchemists and sorcerers throughout the nation, no cure has been found—just simple spells, herbs and medicines that can help dragons suffering through the symptoms as they wait for the illness to pass.
Enter: the apothecary. An elderly pearlcatcher witch has run the store for countless years—though she fears she too will need to shut her doors soon, as she feels her rising temperature and growing feebleness with every passing day. Outside the general store, the apothecary is the only medicine store still open at the post, and she watches countless dragons browse the wooden shelves full of herbs and potions, desperate in their search for a cure for their sick clansfolk.
She watches and helps when she can. But she knows her goods will, at best, prolong the inevitable. However, now, even the most basic herbs and remedies she sells are almost out of stock. Today, only a single potion to aid symptoms of the plague remains on the depleted shelves.
The witch decides she’ll close after today.
[center][img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/189695/18969483_350.png[/img][/center]
Torvarg hated the feeling of cloth pressed up against his face, hated the scratching of wool on his scales, hated the condensation that built up against his maw and the damp, stale breathing he’s had to have instead of fresh air. He’d had to wear the awful thing since Leigh, a fae in his clan, had fallen ill—well, after they realized her illness could spread.
Here, it was even more dangerous than at home, and even more reason why he had to put up with wearing the mask, he realized. While most of the dragons he’d encountered on his way here were of the few remaining healthy, like him, he had seen a few who had definitely fallen on hard times—even thinking back at the Imperial man he saw collapse as he spat up blood made him shudder.
But he didn’t have time to think about that right now. Torvarg was here on a mission—Laurent, the clan leader, had gotten the disease, and even though the fae had said he should be treated after people who’d had the sickness for longest, Torvarg was going to get him better. They had healers in the clan for everyone else anyways, and no one there had died yet, so he’d set off to find some medicine and try to find a way for Laurent to get better on his own.
“Not that that’s turning out to well for you, is it?” the Spiral muttered to himself as he flew out of yet another store with all the medicine stocks bought out. He felt a little dumb for going out on his own and not considering this—of course he knew that everywhere had been getting the same plague as his clan—why had he not considered that everyone else would have the bright idea to go out and buy up all the medicine too? But at this point, the Spiral had decided that he’d be too embarrassed with himself to go home empty handed. He was coming back with medicine or not at all. “Idiot.”
Looking around, he realized he might just have to accept he wasn’t going to get a hold of medicine—he’d been in half the stores in the square, and the other half were closed anyways. There weren’t too many options left. Before giving up, however, he decided he’d try the outskirts of town—[i]Maybe somewhere more secluded won’t have been ransacked yet.[/i]
As he flew through town towards the edges of the common space, a homey, wooden cottage caught his eye—[i]Apothecary[/i], the sign read. While he preferred straight magic to witchcraft and herbs, the small shop looked like his best bet left. The door opened with a tinkling of a bell. Torvarg noticed an old dragon, presumably the store owner sitting behind a counter and gave her a slight nod on entering before quickly going deeper into the shop, looking for something, anything to help Laurent—
A potion! With an excited yelp, he snatched the last remaining vial off the shelf, ecstatic at his luck. “Finally!”
Torvarg hated the feeling of cloth pressed up against his face, hated the scratching of wool on his scales, hated the condensation that built up against his maw and the damp, stale breathing he’s had to have instead of fresh air. He’d had to wear the awful thing since Leigh, a fae in his clan, had fallen ill—well, after they realized her illness could spread.
Here, it was even more dangerous than at home, and even more reason why he had to put up with wearing the mask, he realized. While most of the dragons he’d encountered on his way here were of the few remaining healthy, like him, he had seen a few who had definitely fallen on hard times—even thinking back at the Imperial man he saw collapse as he spat up blood made him shudder.
But he didn’t have time to think about that right now. Torvarg was here on a mission—Laurent, the clan leader, had gotten the disease, and even though the fae had said he should be treated after people who’d had the sickness for longest, Torvarg was going to get him better. They had healers in the clan for everyone else anyways, and no one there had died yet, so he’d set off to find some medicine and try to find a way for Laurent to get better on his own.
“Not that that’s turning out to well for you, is it?” the Spiral muttered to himself as he flew out of yet another store with all the medicine stocks bought out. He felt a little dumb for going out on his own and not considering this—of course he knew that everywhere had been getting the same plague as his clan—why had he not considered that everyone else would have the bright idea to go out and buy up all the medicine too? But at this point, the Spiral had decided that he’d be too embarrassed with himself to go home empty handed. He was coming back with medicine or not at all. “Idiot.”
Looking around, he realized he might just have to accept he wasn’t going to get a hold of medicine—he’d been in half the stores in the square, and the other half were closed anyways. There weren’t too many options left. Before giving up, however, he decided he’d try the outskirts of town—
Maybe somewhere more secluded won’t have been ransacked yet.
As he flew through town towards the edges of the common space, a homey, wooden cottage caught his eye—
Apothecary, the sign read. While he preferred straight magic to witchcraft and herbs, the small shop looked like his best bet left. The door opened with a tinkling of a bell. Torvarg noticed an old dragon, presumably the store owner sitting behind a counter and gave her a slight nod on entering before quickly going deeper into the shop, looking for something, anything to help Laurent—
A potion! With an excited yelp, he snatched the last remaining vial off the shelf, ecstatic at his luck. “Finally!”
Out of Character: @sarahbunny
I cleared the fact that my clan was supplying herbs to the apothecary with Robin b4 posting.
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/86258/8625764_350.png?mtime=V1X9kAACKQw.png[/img]
The trading post was a long way from the Gladeveins, over the mountains, seas, and forests of Sornieth. Vikorus was in his prime, however, older than many of the dragons in his clan but youthful enough to foster many hatchlings and strong enough to make regular journeys to the trading post. This trip was different, however. He would usually travel with friends from other nearby clans some that were lightheaded or coughing during one flight were gone the next until now when Vikorus left alone.
In a pouch on his belt, next to his Nature Tome, were some herbs. Vikorus’ mate Thanaton was a green witch and had spent the last week searching for the light blue blossoms of the gethsemane flower. Now few and far between due to overharvesting or perhaps some other blight, these flowers seemed to be best way to treat the sickness affecting more and more clans in the Viridian Labyrinth. Sadly, there were not enough flowers to go around many youngsters on the brink of death were brought to the Exaltation Alter to seek a better life with the Glademother.
Pelor, the clan leader warned Vikorus not to take the Gethsemane flowers to the Apothecary anymore because they had to look out for their own, but Thanaton had other plans. In private she pulled him aside and tied the pouch onto his belt. Leaning over his neck she said quietly, “these are the last I could find and it will be another three months for the flowers I planted to mature. We have enough to last us, but I fear for the other clans of Sornieth. Please, share these last few blossoms with the Apothecary and ask her for a way to help us.”
Now, Vikorus was flying with determination, thinking of the young dragons in whose futures were in jeopardy and even a few of the senior dragons whose dignity was brought low by this illness. All the while, he was trying not think about Thanaton who looked faint when last he saw her. As he approached the trading post, only a few dragons were flying above the shops and carts, a sharp contrast with the usual chaos.
When Vikorus touched down he saw that the shops where he would stop for brass buttons, lute strings, and freshly caught herring were closed. The parchment stand said that proprietor would return in a week, but the sign was dated three weeks ago. From behind a building, he heard something. Bolting toward him was a savage looking Mirror dragon with blazing red eyes set directly on Vikorus’ pouch of herbs. A flurry of green and ragged scarlet wings tumbled in the dusty path for a moment before Vikorus lept into the air and the mirror feably beat his wings trying to follow and collapsed onto the dirt.
[img]http://66.media.tumblr.com/1f75efd28a75e904aef8f158b2f5b5ea/tumblr_nq7z99M6oV1uomlq0o5_400.png[/img]
Vikorus felt sorry for the other dragon and knew that this disease had to be stopped somehow. He reached the apothecary, one of the last vendors still open and said hello to the aging Pearlcatcher inside. An icy-looking Spiral dragon was darting worriedly around the back. Was he worried for his clan too? Either way, Vikorus needed some answers.
He turned again to the old apothecary, “Agnes, here are the last of the flowers we could find.”
“I know it’s even less than last time,” he said, “but we needed to keep some for clan. What do you know about this illness?”
Out of Character: @
sarahbunny
I cleared the fact that my clan was supplying herbs to the apothecary with Robin b4 posting.
The trading post was a long way from the Gladeveins, over the mountains, seas, and forests of Sornieth. Vikorus was in his prime, however, older than many of the dragons in his clan but youthful enough to foster many hatchlings and strong enough to make regular journeys to the trading post. This trip was different, however. He would usually travel with friends from other nearby clans some that were lightheaded or coughing during one flight were gone the next until now when Vikorus left alone.
In a pouch on his belt, next to his Nature Tome, were some herbs. Vikorus’ mate Thanaton was a green witch and had spent the last week searching for the light blue blossoms of the gethsemane flower. Now few and far between due to overharvesting or perhaps some other blight, these flowers seemed to be best way to treat the sickness affecting more and more clans in the Viridian Labyrinth. Sadly, there were not enough flowers to go around many youngsters on the brink of death were brought to the Exaltation Alter to seek a better life with the Glademother.
Pelor, the clan leader warned Vikorus not to take the Gethsemane flowers to the Apothecary anymore because they had to look out for their own, but Thanaton had other plans. In private she pulled him aside and tied the pouch onto his belt. Leaning over his neck she said quietly, “these are the last I could find and it will be another three months for the flowers I planted to mature. We have enough to last us, but I fear for the other clans of Sornieth. Please, share these last few blossoms with the Apothecary and ask her for a way to help us.”
Now, Vikorus was flying with determination, thinking of the young dragons in whose futures were in jeopardy and even a few of the senior dragons whose dignity was brought low by this illness. All the while, he was trying not think about Thanaton who looked faint when last he saw her. As he approached the trading post, only a few dragons were flying above the shops and carts, a sharp contrast with the usual chaos.
When Vikorus touched down he saw that the shops where he would stop for brass buttons, lute strings, and freshly caught herring were closed. The parchment stand said that proprietor would return in a week, but the sign was dated three weeks ago. From behind a building, he heard something. Bolting toward him was a savage looking Mirror dragon with blazing red eyes set directly on Vikorus’ pouch of herbs. A flurry of green and ragged scarlet wings tumbled in the dusty path for a moment before Vikorus lept into the air and the mirror feably beat his wings trying to follow and collapsed onto the dirt.
Vikorus felt sorry for the other dragon and knew that this disease had to be stopped somehow. He reached the apothecary, one of the last vendors still open and said hello to the aging Pearlcatcher inside. An icy-looking Spiral dragon was darting worriedly around the back. Was he worried for his clan too? Either way, Vikorus needed some answers.
He turned again to the old apothecary, “Agnes, here are the last of the flowers we could find.”
“I know it’s even less than last time,” he said, “but we needed to keep some for clan. What do you know about this illness?”
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/232940/23293998_350.png[/img]
Genevra moved warily in amongst the dragons that were moving hastily from shop to shop. She didn’t like the crowds, let alone a crowd where everyone was wearing masks. Her master had assured her that the trading post was usually even more crowded than this, but Genevra still felt uncomfortable around so many unfamiliar faces.The sickness was spreading throughout her clan, and one of the hatchlings in her clan had caught it. It was one of Celastrina’s hatchlings no less, the closest friend to the clan matriarch Icewing. She twitched her tail nervously and glanced around looking for her mentor.
He wasn’t hard to miss. Edemar was and Imperial like her, and the largest dragon in the clan and jet black with the pattern of stars on his wings and with glowing mushrooms upon his flanks. He had spent too much time studying magic that he had begun to take on magical properties himself. His size and his general lack of concern for things going on around him caused many a passing dragon to move out of the way, as he was too concentrated with checking shops to look where his long tail was moving.
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/189669/18966892_350.png[/img]
Genevra on the other hand, was continuing to grow but was still young, having barely been able to keep up with her mentor only a few weeks prior. She was under his tutelage for magic, hoping to take on the role of the healer so that Edemar could retire after his many years of service to the clan. As a member of the Wind Flight, walking was a strange sensation for her, as she was almost always in flight to travel anywhere within her clan or in her territory. Her legs were unaccustomed to walking so much, her wings used to supporting much of her weight in the currents on the cliffs.
But she was a long way from her home now, a home that she had never left until today. Edemar had been hoping to take her sooner but with the growing sickness, she had been left to care for the ill every time Edemar left to gather more supplies. Things were becoming tense now, as all supplies were running low. Icewing had decreed that no dragon was allowed to leave the safety of the lair without a least one other accompanying them. Edemar certainly didn’t need protection, but Genevra was glad that it gave her an excuse to see some of the world.
“This way,” Edemar growled, his deep voice rumbling quietly. She followed him wordlessly, as her mentor led her, much to her relief, out of the crowds towards the edge of the trading area. “We are going to see Agnes,” he said “She is an old friend and she may have been able to save some medicine for me, I sent word that we were coming.” Genevra nodded and followed him to a small wooden cottage which read “Apothecary” in looping handwriting. They went inside to see two dragons already there, a scholarly looking Wildclaw and a Spiral with piercing eyes, both dragons turned as Genevra and Edemar entered.
Genevra moved warily in amongst the dragons that were moving hastily from shop to shop. She didn’t like the crowds, let alone a crowd where everyone was wearing masks. Her master had assured her that the trading post was usually even more crowded than this, but Genevra still felt uncomfortable around so many unfamiliar faces.The sickness was spreading throughout her clan, and one of the hatchlings in her clan had caught it. It was one of Celastrina’s hatchlings no less, the closest friend to the clan matriarch Icewing. She twitched her tail nervously and glanced around looking for her mentor.
He wasn’t hard to miss. Edemar was and Imperial like her, and the largest dragon in the clan and jet black with the pattern of stars on his wings and with glowing mushrooms upon his flanks. He had spent too much time studying magic that he had begun to take on magical properties himself. His size and his general lack of concern for things going on around him caused many a passing dragon to move out of the way, as he was too concentrated with checking shops to look where his long tail was moving.
Genevra on the other hand, was continuing to grow but was still young, having barely been able to keep up with her mentor only a few weeks prior. She was under his tutelage for magic, hoping to take on the role of the healer so that Edemar could retire after his many years of service to the clan. As a member of the Wind Flight, walking was a strange sensation for her, as she was almost always in flight to travel anywhere within her clan or in her territory. Her legs were unaccustomed to walking so much, her wings used to supporting much of her weight in the currents on the cliffs.
But she was a long way from her home now, a home that she had never left until today. Edemar had been hoping to take her sooner but with the growing sickness, she had been left to care for the ill every time Edemar left to gather more supplies. Things were becoming tense now, as all supplies were running low. Icewing had decreed that no dragon was allowed to leave the safety of the lair without a least one other accompanying them. Edemar certainly didn’t need protection, but Genevra was glad that it gave her an excuse to see some of the world.
“This way,” Edemar growled, his deep voice rumbling quietly. She followed him wordlessly, as her mentor led her, much to her relief, out of the crowds towards the edge of the trading area. “We are going to see Agnes,” he said “She is an old friend and she may have been able to save some medicine for me, I sent word that we were coming.” Genevra nodded and followed him to a small wooden cottage which read “Apothecary” in looping handwriting. They went inside to see two dragons already there, a scholarly looking Wildclaw and a Spiral with piercing eyes, both dragons turned as Genevra and Edemar entered.
Agnes
The old pearlcatcher looked feebly up at the dragon that came into the store from her chair behind the counter. The first, a young spiral she didn't recognize, but merely returned his brief nod with a murmured greeting as he sped off through the store.
The second was Vikorus, a face he knew well. The old dragon's face cracked into a smile as she beckoned him with a flick of her tail into the store. "Vikorus, its so good to see you. How is Thanaton doing these days? I do miss her coming around to chat."
As she helped the Wildclaw unpack the bushel of flowers from his back, another pair of dragons, two Imperials who entered.
"Edemar," she said respectfully with a dip of her head. "It looks like all my friends are coming by- good thing too. A day later and you would've missed me. Now what's this young lady's name?"
She looking at Generva with a warm smile, before turning back to Vikorus as he asked about her knowledge on the illness. Agnes gave a dry smirk and shook her head. If only she did know more, or if any of the other healers did- they could've put a stop to this suffering long ago.
"I'm afraid I don't know much on how to cure it," she said, "The flowers help me make potions that help keep dragons from dying, but no one's found a way to cure this illness yet. And even that won't help much longer- that young fellow in back has my last potion before I'm out of stock myself."
The Pearlcatcher wobbled to her feet, and grabbed the flowers in her mouth before putting them on a nearby table to sort. Her steps were shaky and she nearly lost the flowers as a cough rattled her frame.
"I saved some medicine for you as you requested, Edemar," she said wearily. "But I'm afraid you won't be able to rely on me any longer. I've caught the blight and am afraid of infecting my customers- I can teach you how to make the medicine, but as Vikorus told me... There's not much of the herbs needed left..."
She trailed off with a hopeless expression, before shaking her head and sorting through the flowers. Agnes spoke as she worked.
"I hear that a corruption has settled on this land, that's causing this whole mess. A curse from the Plaguelands, beyond any dragon's control," she said. "I remember when I was young, the beastclans, in their battles against us, wreaked similar destruction when they were able to take control of the forces of elemental magic. While I wonder if this is some similar twisted use of the god's wills, this prolonged suffering and hardship is incomparable to anything from the past.
"In all honesty, my friends, I fear for our future."
Agnes
The old pearlcatcher looked feebly up at the dragon that came into the store from her chair behind the counter. The first, a young spiral she didn't recognize, but merely returned his brief nod with a murmured greeting as he sped off through the store.
The second was Vikorus, a face he knew well. The old dragon's face cracked into a smile as she beckoned him with a flick of her tail into the store. "Vikorus, its so good to see you. How is Thanaton doing these days? I do miss her coming around to chat."
As she helped the Wildclaw unpack the bushel of flowers from his back, another pair of dragons, two Imperials who entered.
"Edemar," she said respectfully with a dip of her head. "It looks like all my friends are coming by- good thing too. A day later and you would've missed me. Now what's this young lady's name?"
She looking at Generva with a warm smile, before turning back to Vikorus as he asked about her knowledge on the illness. Agnes gave a dry smirk and shook her head. If only she did know more, or if any of the other healers did- they could've put a stop to this suffering long ago.
"I'm afraid I don't know much on how to cure it," she said, "The flowers help me make potions that help keep dragons from dying, but no one's found a way to cure this illness yet. And even that won't help much longer- that young fellow in back has my last potion before I'm out of stock myself."
The Pearlcatcher wobbled to her feet, and grabbed the flowers in her mouth before putting them on a nearby table to sort. Her steps were shaky and she nearly lost the flowers as a cough rattled her frame.
"I saved some medicine for you as you requested, Edemar," she said wearily. "But I'm afraid you won't be able to rely on me any longer. I've caught the blight and am afraid of infecting my customers- I can teach you how to make the medicine, but as Vikorus told me... There's not much of the herbs needed left..."
She trailed off with a hopeless expression, before shaking her head and sorting through the flowers. Agnes spoke as she worked.
"I hear that a corruption has settled on this land, that's causing this whole mess. A curse from the Plaguelands, beyond any dragon's control," she said. "I remember when I was young, the beastclans, in their battles against us, wreaked similar destruction when they were able to take control of the forces of elemental magic. While I wonder if this is some similar twisted use of the god's wills, this prolonged suffering and hardship is incomparable to anything from the past.
"In all honesty, my friends, I fear for our future."
So Edemar was his name. Vikorus had seen the black Imperial occasionally at the apothecary in the past and was glad to have a name for the handsome face. And the giddy young dragon at his side, this Genevra, reminded him of Edyson from his own clan. Both were marked by beautiful flowing colors, youthful determination, and the fear which can only be experienced by those thrust into a tumultuous world and see their role models, strong dragons, shaken by the events unfolding around them.
Vikorus was not much of a caring father for his own offspring; he carried on his Wildclaw family tradition whereby young dragons had to make their own way. That’s how it was for him when he was just a hatchling. Being a middle child the only attention he got from his father, Hino, was regular sparring bouts which could never win. As he grew up, even Vikorus’ younger siblings would best him and even worse, he began to notice his eyesight was deteriorating. Looking at the successful dragon that he is now, no signs aside from a few scars and his glasses betrayed his troubled childhood.
It seemed that Agnes was slower than usual and there was a sad look in her eyes when she said that there was no known cure. A moment later Vikorus watched as a hacking cough rattled Agnes’ whole body.
“I’ve caught the blight…”
Even healers were brought low by this mysterious disease. Where could sick dragons go to now? Things were only getting worse and Vikorus felt that as one of the last truly healthy dragons he needed to do something to stop the illness. Thanaton told him to see what could be done to help cure the disease and change the fortunes of those afflicted.
“A curse from the Plaguelands, beyond any dragon’s control...”
The Plaguelands? Vikorus had travelled through most of Sornieth, he even befriended some clans from far off reaches of the Southern Icefield, but no Nature dragon went to the Scarred Wasteland if they could help it. News that this illness which has spread so far may have come from that festering land of filth was not surprising to Vikorus. However, he did not feel prepared to take the next step, to journey over the scarred earth, the bones, the decaying flesh… No, he ignored the looks of the other dragons and figured that the disease will probably pass soon enough. His mission from Thanaton certainly did not encompass a journey to the home of the Plague Flight. Even if it seemed some dragon needed to go.
This was news, for certain, but what could he do to help? Maybe it would be better to go home and this news to more dragons in his clan, stronger ones who could actually make a difference. Dragons who wouldn’t faint in the face of danger, who knew how to fight.
So Edemar was his name. Vikorus had seen the black Imperial occasionally at the apothecary in the past and was glad to have a name for the handsome face. And the giddy young dragon at his side, this Genevra, reminded him of Edyson from his own clan. Both were marked by beautiful flowing colors, youthful determination, and the fear which can only be experienced by those thrust into a tumultuous world and see their role models, strong dragons, shaken by the events unfolding around them.
Vikorus was not much of a caring father for his own offspring; he carried on his Wildclaw family tradition whereby young dragons had to make their own way. That’s how it was for him when he was just a hatchling. Being a middle child the only attention he got from his father, Hino, was regular sparring bouts which could never win. As he grew up, even Vikorus’ younger siblings would best him and even worse, he began to notice his eyesight was deteriorating. Looking at the successful dragon that he is now, no signs aside from a few scars and his glasses betrayed his troubled childhood.
It seemed that Agnes was slower than usual and there was a sad look in her eyes when she said that there was no known cure. A moment later Vikorus watched as a hacking cough rattled Agnes’ whole body.
“I’ve caught the blight…”
Even healers were brought low by this mysterious disease. Where could sick dragons go to now? Things were only getting worse and Vikorus felt that as one of the last truly healthy dragons he needed to do something to stop the illness. Thanaton told him to see what could be done to help cure the disease and change the fortunes of those afflicted.
“A curse from the Plaguelands, beyond any dragon’s control...”
The Plaguelands? Vikorus had travelled through most of Sornieth, he even befriended some clans from far off reaches of the Southern Icefield, but no Nature dragon went to the Scarred Wasteland if they could help it. News that this illness which has spread so far may have come from that festering land of filth was not surprising to Vikorus. However, he did not feel prepared to take the next step, to journey over the scarred earth, the bones, the decaying flesh… No, he ignored the looks of the other dragons and figured that the disease will probably pass soon enough. His mission from Thanaton certainly did not encompass a journey to the home of the Plague Flight. Even if it seemed some dragon needed to go.
This was news, for certain, but what could he do to help? Maybe it would be better to go home and this news to more dragons in his clan, stronger ones who could actually make a difference. Dragons who wouldn’t faint in the face of danger, who knew how to fight.
Genevra was surprised to see that the elderly dragon was a Pearlcatcher. Every young Imperial grew up learning that Pearlcatchers and Imperials didn’t get along. She had avoided the Pearlcatchers in her clan for fear that they would bully her or do who knows what. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the prejudice that had been taught about other breeds was false? Nyla had always spoken of what her mother had taught her. Genevra and only had Edemar, and he wasn’t the judging type. She watched as her mentor approached Agnes, she had kind old eyes. Agnes coughed and Genevra tensed her jaw under her mask and then felt ashamed, she shouldn’t be judging this dragon, as she had obviously caught the sickness as well.
She moved closer to Edemar as he and Agnes spoke. A curse from the Plaguelands? Why would they do this. Genevra could feel the knots in her stomach again like when she was in the crowds. Agnes had thankfully saved some medicine for him and soon some of her clan members would be able to feel better. She feared with no medicine left, that if they were unable to cure all of the members of her clan, some would surely die soon. She feared for the hatchlings.
Although the other two dragons, Vikorus and Torvarg, didn’t seem outwardly as upset as her, with her tail twitching and slinking behind Edemar but there was something in their eyes, and the way Vikorus clenched his jaw. They were afraid, afraid for their clans, afraid for themselves, and afraid of whatever is going on with the plague dragons and their curse. But what could they do, what could any of them do. Genevra herself was barely out of being a hatchling and Edemar was old now, ancient really, Imperials were some of the oldest living dragons.
“We must do something!” Edemar growled, and he looked to the other dragons. They glanced up at him, a bit startled, as they had been lost in their own contemplation of the situation. “We must do something to stop this curse, and protect our clans!”
Genevra stared in shock at her normally passive and reticent mentor. Back in the day he was hailed to have once been a fierce fighter to be sure, but he was old now, and she had never once heard him raise his voice unless it was an emergency for her to fetch something to help a wound.
“How can anyone fight this,” Genevra said meekly slinking her head out from behind Edemar, “how can anyone stop this sickness, we’re healers and a cure alludes us.”
Genevra was surprised to see that the elderly dragon was a Pearlcatcher. Every young Imperial grew up learning that Pearlcatchers and Imperials didn’t get along. She had avoided the Pearlcatchers in her clan for fear that they would bully her or do who knows what. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the prejudice that had been taught about other breeds was false? Nyla had always spoken of what her mother had taught her. Genevra and only had Edemar, and he wasn’t the judging type. She watched as her mentor approached Agnes, she had kind old eyes. Agnes coughed and Genevra tensed her jaw under her mask and then felt ashamed, she shouldn’t be judging this dragon, as she had obviously caught the sickness as well.
She moved closer to Edemar as he and Agnes spoke. A curse from the Plaguelands? Why would they do this. Genevra could feel the knots in her stomach again like when she was in the crowds. Agnes had thankfully saved some medicine for him and soon some of her clan members would be able to feel better. She feared with no medicine left, that if they were unable to cure all of the members of her clan, some would surely die soon. She feared for the hatchlings.
Although the other two dragons, Vikorus and Torvarg, didn’t seem outwardly as upset as her, with her tail twitching and slinking behind Edemar but there was something in their eyes, and the way Vikorus clenched his jaw. They were afraid, afraid for their clans, afraid for themselves, and afraid of whatever is going on with the plague dragons and their curse. But what could they do, what could any of them do. Genevra herself was barely out of being a hatchling and Edemar was old now, ancient really, Imperials were some of the oldest living dragons.
“We must do something!” Edemar growled, and he looked to the other dragons. They glanced up at him, a bit startled, as they had been lost in their own contemplation of the situation. “We must do something to stop this curse, and protect our clans!”
Genevra stared in shock at her normally passive and reticent mentor. Back in the day he was hailed to have once been a fierce fighter to be sure, but he was old now, and she had never once heard him raise his voice unless it was an emergency for her to fetch something to help a wound.
“How can anyone fight this,” Genevra said meekly slinking her head out from behind Edemar, “how can anyone stop this sickness, we’re healers and a cure alludes us.”
Yikes. Was he intruding? Torvarg awkwardly stayed towards the back of the store, potion clutched in his hand, as he watched the old Pearlcatcher explain her fears and struggles from the plague. The other visitors, who seemed to obviously know this lady and not just be customers, shared solemn stares after the bleak news she delivered.
The Wildclaw scholar did not comment, but seemed nervous and scared by the old woman’s words. The male Imperial, a towering, dark figure, yelled out an imperative goal—something about needing to stop the blight and save their clans. The younger imperial, a smaller female, seemed a bit more skeptical of whether an illness could be ‘defeated’—a sentiment Torvarg personally shared.
“If anyone could’ve done something to stop this, don’t you think they would’ve be now?” Torvarg dryly retorted to the Imperial, quickly looping his way to the front of the store where the other dragons stood. “I mean, its not like everyone was just like ‘I’m okay with all my friends and family dying and getting incurably ill,’ you know?”
He smirked but shifted away from the looming dragon slightly—he was just being realistic, but he knew that sometimes that’s not what other dragons wanted to hear. He didn’t want any physical repercussions for his reply if the Imperial decided he didn’t like Torvarg’s logic.
Still, this whole conversation seemed pointless. He rolled his eyes as he looked around the group—a bunch of old dragons with a lot of talk, but who weren’t going to go out and be able to get anything done.
“I mean, look, lady, have you heard anything about where in the Plaguelands this is coming from? Or if we got there, what are we supposed to do, beat up a disease?” He said, and flicked his tail towards Generva. “I mean, she’s right—healers haven’t been able to get anything done, and you guys would be my best bet for being able to deal with this.”
Torvarg was an ice mage, a musician—he was never really interested in the healing arts, and never very good at it when he tried. But the spiral was fairly well read on the different types of magic though, and he was sure he would’ve heard of the types of curses the old shopkeeper was talking about through his readings by now if they were real. All of this seemed like an old wives tale, a way to attribute bad things that were happening to some murky and mysterious source to make the arbitrary evil in the world easier to rationalize.
Sure, he’d help if there was something he could do—he didn’t like to see other dragons suffering, especially those in his clan, any more than the next guy. But even with what Agnes and Edemar were saying, Torvarg wasn’t sure there was much he could feasibly do to stop the sickness.
He sighed and pushed past the cluster of dragons to the counter, grabbing out a few bits of treasure from his pouch and placing them on the table near Agnes.
“If you guys figure out a way to fight this illness, I’ll help you guys if you need it, Torvarg said, putting the vial into his sack. “But until then, I need to do what I can to help my own clan.”
Yikes. Was he intruding? Torvarg awkwardly stayed towards the back of the store, potion clutched in his hand, as he watched the old Pearlcatcher explain her fears and struggles from the plague. The other visitors, who seemed to obviously know this lady and not just be customers, shared solemn stares after the bleak news she delivered.
The Wildclaw scholar did not comment, but seemed nervous and scared by the old woman’s words. The male Imperial, a towering, dark figure, yelled out an imperative goal—something about needing to stop the blight and save their clans. The younger imperial, a smaller female, seemed a bit more skeptical of whether an illness could be ‘defeated’—a sentiment Torvarg personally shared.
“If anyone could’ve done something to stop this, don’t you think they would’ve be now?” Torvarg dryly retorted to the Imperial, quickly looping his way to the front of the store where the other dragons stood. “I mean, its not like everyone was just like ‘I’m okay with all my friends and family dying and getting incurably ill,’ you know?”
He smirked but shifted away from the looming dragon slightly—he was just being realistic, but he knew that sometimes that’s not what other dragons wanted to hear. He didn’t want any physical repercussions for his reply if the Imperial decided he didn’t like Torvarg’s logic.
Still, this whole conversation seemed pointless. He rolled his eyes as he looked around the group—a bunch of old dragons with a lot of talk, but who weren’t going to go out and be able to get anything done.
“I mean, look, lady, have you heard anything about where in the Plaguelands this is coming from? Or if we got there, what are we supposed to do, beat up a disease?” He said, and flicked his tail towards Generva. “I mean, she’s right—healers haven’t been able to get anything done, and you guys would be my best bet for being able to deal with this.”
Torvarg was an ice mage, a musician—he was never really interested in the healing arts, and never very good at it when he tried. But the spiral was fairly well read on the different types of magic though, and he was sure he would’ve heard of the types of curses the old shopkeeper was talking about through his readings by now if they were real. All of this seemed like an old wives tale, a way to attribute bad things that were happening to some murky and mysterious source to make the arbitrary evil in the world easier to rationalize.
Sure, he’d help if there was something he could do—he didn’t like to see other dragons suffering, especially those in his clan, any more than the next guy. But even with what Agnes and Edemar were saying, Torvarg wasn’t sure there was much he could feasibly do to stop the sickness.
He sighed and pushed past the cluster of dragons to the counter, grabbing out a few bits of treasure from his pouch and placing them on the table near Agnes.
“If you guys figure out a way to fight this illness, I’ll help you guys if you need it, Torvarg said, putting the vial into his sack. “But until then, I need to do what I can to help my own clan.”
Agnes
Agnes gave a solemn nod to Edemar at his cry to action. She agreed that something needed to be done to stop the spread of this disease, and though she may not be much help, she knew that dragons still healthy needed to take direct action to combat the disease before it went any further. With medicine stocks running dry, it was only a matter of time before the plague began to kill dragons, with the very old and very young already so susceptible.
She crossly turned her head to look at Torvarg, the icy spiral customer as he gave a sarcastic reply to Edemar. “Respect your elders, boy.”
But as the old Pearlcatcher turned to Generva, her expression softened. The young Imperial seemed kind and frightened—but much too forlorn and fearful for such a young age. The Pearlcatcher’s heart went out to the young dragons like her, who grew up in such a time of darkness—who barely knew what times were like without worry and heartbreak overcoming everyday life.
“Don’t fret dear,” she said, giving a comforting flick of her tail to the young Imperial’s shoulder. “Your mentor is right—we need to fight this illness from the source if we want to stop it. Healers have only been treating the symptoms so far—if we want to put a stop to this, we need to go further.”
As Torvarg spoke again, her expression returned to a sour frown. The young spiral’s sarcasm was not becoming of him, and to treat strangers with such disregard—young dragons these days didn’t have an ounce of manners, she grumbled. As the spiral put the money down on the counter, she walked back over to him and put the few pieces of treasure in her register with a huff.
“You are being simple, boy,” she snapped at him. “What we are discussing is more than just the fate of one’s friends or family—it’s the fate of the entirety of Sornieth. Stopping this requires dedication to more than one’s own clan, but to the entirety of dragonkind.”
She turned back to Edemar and Vikorus.
“From what I know, it would be best to send a small party to investigate what I believe to be the source—we will need a well-read dragon who would be able to identify the source and understand the history behind this illness on arrival, a powerful mage to be able to stop the blight and defend the party during the journey, and a healer to care for the group and understand how to counter the sickness from its foundation once there.
“Do you know of such dragons who could make the journey?”
Agnes
Agnes gave a solemn nod to Edemar at his cry to action. She agreed that something needed to be done to stop the spread of this disease, and though she may not be much help, she knew that dragons still healthy needed to take direct action to combat the disease before it went any further. With medicine stocks running dry, it was only a matter of time before the plague began to kill dragons, with the very old and very young already so susceptible.
She crossly turned her head to look at Torvarg, the icy spiral customer as he gave a sarcastic reply to Edemar. “Respect your elders, boy.”
But as the old Pearlcatcher turned to Generva, her expression softened. The young Imperial seemed kind and frightened—but much too forlorn and fearful for such a young age. The Pearlcatcher’s heart went out to the young dragons like her, who grew up in such a time of darkness—who barely knew what times were like without worry and heartbreak overcoming everyday life.
“Don’t fret dear,” she said, giving a comforting flick of her tail to the young Imperial’s shoulder. “Your mentor is right—we need to fight this illness from the source if we want to stop it. Healers have only been treating the symptoms so far—if we want to put a stop to this, we need to go further.”
As Torvarg spoke again, her expression returned to a sour frown. The young spiral’s sarcasm was not becoming of him, and to treat strangers with such disregard—young dragons these days didn’t have an ounce of manners, she grumbled. As the spiral put the money down on the counter, she walked back over to him and put the few pieces of treasure in her register with a huff.
“You are being simple, boy,” she snapped at him. “What we are discussing is more than just the fate of one’s friends or family—it’s the fate of the entirety of Sornieth. Stopping this requires dedication to more than one’s own clan, but to the entirety of dragonkind.”
She turned back to Edemar and Vikorus.
“From what I know, it would be best to send a small party to investigate what I believe to be the source—we will need a well-read dragon who would be able to identify the source and understand the history behind this illness on arrival, a powerful mage to be able to stop the blight and defend the party during the journey, and a healer to care for the group and understand how to counter the sickness from its foundation once there.
“Do you know of such dragons who could make the journey?”
A fool’s quest. And a foolish request for a group of dragons so unfamiliar with each other. Agnes was obviously meaning for the dragons in the store to take on this monumental task, but why them? Vikorus could see her asking him to do something, perhaps with his own clan, or maybe even with Edemar, but why would she ask so much from the loudmouthed spiral whom she clearly disliked?
This slinking Spiral dragon gave Vikorus great unease from the moment twirled over to the counter. Worse off, his cocky attitude reminded Vikorus of young Wildclaws who were always so quick to prove themselves through violence, wrapped up in their great opinions of themselves. He could tell that this dragon was an ice mage, a dreadful combination of emotionless calculation and he vainly understood to be immense power. What Vikorus learned through his years among the Gladeveins in the shadow of the Behemoth was that sometimes subtler magic, a tree growing over the course of decades or centuries, could be more potent than a flashing bolt of magical ice.
Even if they could work well together, the trip itself would be taxing and there was little information available for them once they made it to the Plaguelands. As much as Vikorus hated to admit it, there had to be more to ending the disease than simply finding and smiting it. Still, if they waited another day for action, Vikorus thought, more and more dragons would remain suffering.
Vikorus experienced pain and hardship before. Wildclaws are known for the brutality and his clan’s constant fighting was intensified by missions to fight the beastclans where young dragons came of age. Too many times had he been close to death, a feeling which his siblings and cousins craved yet filled him with horrible dread. One of the only escapes available to Vikorus was a crumbling tome he found lying in the weeds after he was knocked onto his back during a duel. He secretly asked a Snapper in his clan to teach him how to read and he found the book contained many secrets about plants and animals of Sornieth, each page containing a new wonder. Then, whenever he was challenged to a fight, Vikorus would bear through it and spend the next day looking for a warm spring to sooth his bruises.
Obviously Agnes was too sick to fly. Would Edemar take on the task? He was certainly strong, but his age could slow him down at this point, as it had done for the old Imperial Leofric in Vikorus’ clan. What of the younger imperial beside him, the precocious girl? She may be small for an imperial, but she was certainly healthy enough to be travelling to the extreme environment of the Plaguelands. Both of the young dragons would probably be eager to see the world and the spiral would certainly want to demonstrate his magical prowess whenever possible.
What about him, though? Could Vikorus bear the possibility of more violence? His encounter with the Mirror in the alley still affected him, but he was curious to see a new, albeit hideous, corner of the world. In fact, Vikorus could not help but think of passages from his Tome which could aid them in their journey through the rot and devastation that was the Scarred Wasteland. He flipped through the pages right there in the shop, looking for the chapter on the Plaguelands.
A fool’s quest. And a foolish request for a group of dragons so unfamiliar with each other. Agnes was obviously meaning for the dragons in the store to take on this monumental task, but why them? Vikorus could see her asking him to do something, perhaps with his own clan, or maybe even with Edemar, but why would she ask so much from the loudmouthed spiral whom she clearly disliked?
This slinking Spiral dragon gave Vikorus great unease from the moment twirled over to the counter. Worse off, his cocky attitude reminded Vikorus of young Wildclaws who were always so quick to prove themselves through violence, wrapped up in their great opinions of themselves. He could tell that this dragon was an ice mage, a dreadful combination of emotionless calculation and he vainly understood to be immense power. What Vikorus learned through his years among the Gladeveins in the shadow of the Behemoth was that sometimes subtler magic, a tree growing over the course of decades or centuries, could be more potent than a flashing bolt of magical ice.
Even if they could work well together, the trip itself would be taxing and there was little information available for them once they made it to the Plaguelands. As much as Vikorus hated to admit it, there had to be more to ending the disease than simply finding and smiting it. Still, if they waited another day for action, Vikorus thought, more and more dragons would remain suffering.
Vikorus experienced pain and hardship before. Wildclaws are known for the brutality and his clan’s constant fighting was intensified by missions to fight the beastclans where young dragons came of age. Too many times had he been close to death, a feeling which his siblings and cousins craved yet filled him with horrible dread. One of the only escapes available to Vikorus was a crumbling tome he found lying in the weeds after he was knocked onto his back during a duel. He secretly asked a Snapper in his clan to teach him how to read and he found the book contained many secrets about plants and animals of Sornieth, each page containing a new wonder. Then, whenever he was challenged to a fight, Vikorus would bear through it and spend the next day looking for a warm spring to sooth his bruises.
Obviously Agnes was too sick to fly. Would Edemar take on the task? He was certainly strong, but his age could slow him down at this point, as it had done for the old Imperial Leofric in Vikorus’ clan. What of the younger imperial beside him, the precocious girl? She may be small for an imperial, but she was certainly healthy enough to be travelling to the extreme environment of the Plaguelands. Both of the young dragons would probably be eager to see the world and the spiral would certainly want to demonstrate his magical prowess whenever possible.
What about him, though? Could Vikorus bear the possibility of more violence? His encounter with the Mirror in the alley still affected him, but he was curious to see a new, albeit hideous, corner of the world. In fact, Vikorus could not help but think of passages from his Tome which could aid them in their journey through the rot and devastation that was the Scarred Wasteland. He flipped through the pages right there in the shop, looking for the chapter on the Plaguelands.
