Raffles & Giveaways

Something was wrong.
The hatchling could feel it; it was like the shadows of predators where gliding over its fragile form, waiting and preying upon it. Yet the nameless little dragon didn't move from its hiding spot; laying still as if dead inside the great, ancient skull of a fallen Guardian.
Not that it would know about who's skull it was taking refuge in or that the long forgotten and broken bones were those belonging to a so called Guardian. In fact it didn't know anything about other dragons, about their races or societies, their languages or their deities. It didn't know, that the wasteland it had wandered in was the territory of the Plaguebringer and that most living beings feared this corrupted land for it was tormented by horrifying, never-ending strains of disease and calamity. No, the hatchling didn't know any of those things.
Its world was nothing but the cracked and endless stretching earth it walked upon; nobody had taught it to fly, how to move its leathery, dust-crusted wings and rival the beasts of the skies as it was supposed to. Scratched up bones it dug out on its search for smaller beings to eat meant nothing to the little dragon; they only provided shelter from harsh whirlwinds of heat and sand and sometimes from glowing eyes, which haunted it after nightfall.
A low whine escaped it and made it cringed, then it rolled up tighter around its dull pearl. Burning in the tiny, scrawny body was hunger; even greater than the fever, and no matter what it had stuffed inside that gnawing abyss it wasn't enough, not enough, never enough. Its skin stretched tight over muscles and veins; too tight, tight enough to tear. Scraps of it peeled of as the hatchlings breathing turned into something gargled, something racked.
It was hungry and furious and desperate as the scorching winds stopped their singing and whispering outside its safe heaven. The ground shook and the skull started to split. Bone fragments dropped on the little Pearlcatcher, but it couldn't bring itself to move when it's cover was completely taken off the ground and it only layed weak and helpless to await its fate.
A shadow with crimson eyes towered over it. Large claws closed the distance between the hatchling and the monster, but the smaller felt no fear as it was gripped and lifted effortlessly. They were the same after all. Aching, pulsing, devouring.
“Don't fight it,” The monster breathed and the air turned sweet and rotten and rich of decay; its vile eyes piercing the little life it hold tightly to its chest.
“Let Mother's love crawl under your skin, let it feaster on your flesh; feel the pestilence ravaging you, for She has choosen you to carry Her most infectious blessing.”
The shadow spread his feathered wings, the small but powerful contagion shifting against his blistering scales. A new warlord of the wastes has risen and Purge would teach him to be a true survivor.
A child of the Plague.