Mina

03/19/18 She was but a hatchling when she left for the Wyrmwound, and she grew swiftly as Mirrors tended, but instead of alongside the nests and peers of a den, she grew among the caustic pits of decay and disease. Upon reaching adulthood her trials would begin. As she matured she came to understand as her mother had once chided, what a privilege it had been to be selected for this task. She had made it to the Wyrmwound alive, persisting where so many others had perished. She recalled passing the twisted and crumpled bodies of those who had dared venture so far from the milder vicinity of the wastes. At first the afflicted beings had ruffled her instinct to hide or flee for safety, but she no longer gave pause upon catching the horrid noises of the dying nor did she recoil at the scent of festering flesh. She hunted and subsisted and at times even glimpsed the awe-inspiring Plaguebringer landing at Her Cauldron, churning the most acerbic of the Scarred Wasteland's plagues. She knew, very soon now, she would be lucky enough to receive one, and her test would begin. If she survived, and further, if she succeeded where her mother had failed, she would return to The Cell as a hero, as Blightrose the Necromancer.

03/20/18 Arcing like a current from the Plague Mother’s claw, a particularly virulent strain of Rot had taken to the young Mirror’s frame. On the first day post infection her lymph nodes had inflamed into buboes, pock marks dappled her skin. Her body drank in the infection. Thus was the first test of a Necromancer. The second was to survive. At times the disease made her limbs numb, and then it would culminate in a harrowing ache, or warp her senses so severely that she couldn’t place if she were awake, dreaming, or hallucinating. Whenever she caught glimpses of clarity, she would meditate, dragging her body closer and closer towards the rim of the Plaguebringer’s cauldron. Glory to Mother, she recited between her winking consciousness, contented if they were her very last waking notions.

On the 13th day after the initiation of her trials, her fever broke. She had a vision of her life force as a microcosm of the Wasteland where a multitude of strains and plagues resided as dragons on the land. When she came to, the disease had subsided leaving the telltale ruddy marks of sepsis on her flesh. The Rot was now dormant, hers to govern. Upon her success, her mother had left the Wyrmwound. It would take some time for her to return to The Cell and while the young Mirror continued her meditation, preparations would be made for her return. A Necromancer’s homecoming was an impressive affair, though she didn’t think of victory; her mind hadn’t strayed past the 10 remaining days of her trial. A Mirror was adept at hyper focus, their thoughts dominated by the primitive instinct to survive and not well formatted for distraction or multitasking.

03/22/18 For the first time since she was a hatchling, she again set foot upon The Cell’s territory. They had since extended their influence clear into Rotrock Rim. She grasped that her home clan would have spent much of their recent resource and effort focused feverishly on currying Mother’s favor in preparation for her return. She had time enough to briefly appreciate the new vastness of her home before a curious crowd had soon gathered eclipsing her view. They seemed to genuinely appreciate and welcome her return with awe, or at least as much awe as could be spared in the tumultuous Wasteland. They seemed intrigued for the time being. She grinned at each of them, wishing she could remember them as much as they appeared to remember her, and glancing eagerly for her mother in the crowd. She caught the drag of footsteps at her back. The noise was accompanied by a particular rattling sound; that was surely Ichorclaw. She hadn’t discerned it previously, but upon setting fresh eyes upon the decorated Necromancer, she gathered that the clatter accompanying his pace originated from a row of hardened scales that radiated from his spine and hugged his form as a carapace. Perhaps the adaptation stemmed from his own trials at the Wyrmwound...

“A Necroservus. Congratulations; why don’t you show us a spectacle?” He declared to the eager fidgeting of denizens. “Something quick, however, and then please take a much earned rest, for it appears that the ‘Land has been rather hostile,” his eyes drifted towards her leg as he spoke. She harbored a recent, slashing wound in her haunch, and held the limb gingerly at her side, lame. She nodded mutely, closing her heat pits as a Mirror’s signal of respect.

Glancing around, her attention was drawn to the spiraling trunk of a young tree that had sprouted between a crag in the crackled, red earth. She hobbled over and without the expenditure of any flourish set her claws about the root. Those in close proximity would have heard a sharp exhale and glimpsed a black handprint seared into the wood upon her touch. Though that small nuance was soon lost on the crowd and overtaken by “coos and ahs” as the blackness promptly wicked up the trunk draining the tree of all vim. The Rot diffused rapidly and eked its place in the extremities, causing the tree’s fragile leaves to wither into faint lattices atop its branches. The trunk became deformed with fungal protrusions, stretching the wood with tumors, and with a loud snap actually broke in half as the fungus grew bulbous and overtook it. The Mirror gripped the white flesh of the mushroom with a swipe and tore it asunder, liberating a ghastly powder of spores that took to the air and carried across the Wasteland.

“Artsy display,” Ichorclaw lauded, “Quite effective,” and then without a pause of hesitation, “Now, if you would all be so gracious to allow the new Servus some room and patience, we shall commence this blessed bounty in the morning. Glory to Mother.” The throngs gradually dispersed at his word. As the last of the dragons departed, The Cell’s Necromancer addressed her once more, “A den has been readied for you. Noble work in returning to us, however, if you would kindly elucidate me as to your name by dawn, seeing as ‘Blightrose’ appears to have too withered.” There was confounding warmth to his tone. It was without the dressings of embellishment nor inflection, and all too often juxtaposed with the starkness of his speech. That she had vividly recalled.

“Yes.”

“I will send Panacea by to dress your wound. I suppose that you have already cleared it of infection?”

“I have,” she replied evenly.

“Your mother shall be by soon as well. I had sent her on an errand. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the ‘weather’ concerning your return. Ill timing on my part. Congratulations.”


03/23/18 In the early hours of the following morning The Cell’s Necromancer had indeed visited her, his clattering scales at the entrance of the den alerting her to his presence.

“Your name?”

“Mina, after my grandmother.”

“And your leg?”

“Irreversibly damaged, but not necrotic.”

“I would expect as much from an able infectionist.”

“Of course,” his words jogged her attention, “Look, the clan must have garnered these presents. These are offerings for a Necromancer, however, not an infectionist.” She retreated to the far side of the den, and after a dabbling of seconds and shuffling began to carry forth a pile of trinkets. Ichorclaw glimpsed it, assessing the contents of her inquest.

“Did...did Bonejack literally acquire a rose?”

“The headpiece? Oh, yes, it appears quite nice. Why?”

“Your name was to be Blightrose,” he halted his speech, gathering himself. “It’s nothing. It’s completely like him is all. It was a very literal gift.” Mina smiled.

“You seem fond of this clan.”

“Yes, they serve Mother well.” Though her smile faded as effortlessly as it had encroached. She nodded silently in response. “So, if I may..." Ichorclaw continued, "What happened at the Wyrmwound?”

“I," she appeared taken aback, "I failed my last trial, but you knew this.”

“That’s not what I meant. What happened. How did it go?” She gathered that he was in fact asking something more conversational than accusatory.

“On the 1st day of my trial Mother infected me with Rot. It took to my skin straightaway. On the 13th day, I cleared the infection, and then,” her gaze drifted to the back of the burrow, her tone wilting, “I had 10 days left to understand how to cull the disease and heal others, but a Kamaitachi got a hold of my leg, and I spent a great deal of my time staving off unrelated illness and healing myself.” Her frame sunk. “If only I had more time, I’m sure I could have figured it out, but--”

“But thus is life,” Ichorclaw surmised.

“But--no, that’s...I made it to the Wyrmwound. I returned alive. What is next? What do you need from me?” He chuckled a bit at her resolve.

“Mina I...” He shook his head and seemed vulnerable and it spooked her. Was Mother, too, vulnerable? What was this? What was wrong? “I undertook my trials no longer than a season before you, and Yafim also accompanied—your mother accompanied me to the Wyrmwound as well. The disease stuck fast to me too, yet I,” he hesitated, his jaw oscillating as he ruminated, an artifact of his father, “I did not fare so well. I was so sick,” his eyes were wide. “I collapsed at the edge of the Plaguebringer’s crater and yearned for sleep. Your mother roused me. She shepherded me to my feet, and for the next several days I stood there knees locked, gawping down at the bubbling pit, reminding myself that I had an obligation to fulfill, adamant not to lose consciousness.” He sat, his brow knitted, “But. Suppose. Just suppose I had fallen asleep, suppose your mother was not there to...” he trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, but he held her gaze with such dismay, and she understood. Ghoul. “Do you know what can be even more horrifying than death or humiliation, or hell, humiliation followed unceremoniously by death? The realization that Mother wouldn’t care. That it wasn’t fealty or faith that secured her favor—those were merely a bonus.”

It was in that grueling instance that Mina wordlessly grasped where Ichorclaw the dragon resided. She reached a hand out to his in camaraderie. She had felt it too. Unaware of what more could be said, she willed a virulent plague into his clawed digits. Coyly, he cured it.

03/24/18 To be considered a full Necroservus, a dragon who had completed two out of the three trials must serve under a Necromancer. At times the accomplished Servus would journey back to the Wyrmwound to encounter new Necromancers and negotiate their service, at times they would trek across the land to make use of their gifts. They were far from the only infectionists in the Wasteland, but they were still one of the most distinctly trained, and they tended towards ambitious zealously as a result, having each at least glimpsed the Plaguebringer even if not truly blessed by her as the Necromancers had earned.

Mina chose to stay at The Cell at least for the time being. She was not a full Necroservus, Ichorclaw already saw that role occupied by her mother, nor had he advocated for her commitment, and she thus enjoyed a rare instance of self-determination concerning her actions. With two eggs in the nest, she was inquisitive enough in discovering how this unexpected role would play out.

She would remain until the wound in her leg healed and then determine how best exert her talents to bring glory to Plague.