Charon

4/21/18 The little, unnamed Mirror had observed as his father felled prey on their path to the Wyrmwound. With a single swipe of his claws, unfortunate creatures would buck and recline amid the red earth. They looked as if they were drowning with saucer eyes and frothing breath, yet the land was dry and dusty. The struggling beast would then still.

"That is a Necromancer's power," his father stated, "And this as well." The dragon would then place his same bloodied claws atop the body, and the paleness of its flesh and the blue of its lips would dissipate. The meat looked as healthy as if it had still been alive. His father would then break apart the meal, rationing out a portion to himself and portion to the hatchling. On one such occasion, however, as they passed through Rotrock Rim and neared their destination, his father had decided not to partition the spoils, instead instructing his son to eat his fill. The young Mirror didn't question and eagerly ate until his stomach ached.

"Good, that is the last time I am feeding you. When we reach the Wyrmwound, you will be of age and your trials will begin. So much of your effort must be staked on survival, that you won't possess the frill of hunger anyhow," then after a long beat, "Glory to Mother."

When the Mirror at long last made it to the pustule crater and welcomed the Plaguebringer's virulent touch, he became queasy, yet not entirely ill, still able to move about and search for a perch on which to meditate. Having witnessed the culling grip of Plague's power, he become very aware of every facet of his existence in a glimmer of something between curiosity and foreboding. Was that scale always flecked? Was his heart quickening? Was that a rattle developing deep in his chest? He pictured the horrible expressions of his father's prey. Was this death?

In two days time he no longer held the coherency to ponder the nature of his condition for sickness had sapped his strength. Adamantly, he crusaded against the urge to lay down, refusing to flop upon the ground as mere food.

5/02/18 The ground beneath the Mirror seemed to shift. He was as close to the Cauldron as he could muster and the earth was tenuous. He shifted his weight, knocking a chunk of rock into the pool below. It popped and protested as it dissolved into dust. His thoughts still foggy, he reorientated his limbs. As his claws dragged across the soil he noticed that a thin, black streak was left behind. Curious, he splayed his digits and stomped the ground. Each footprint was blackened, eroded by the indifference of adulterated destruction.

As more earth faded with each touch, he contemplated if this were his incredulous future. If the shores of the pustule lake would recede beneath him, leaving him stranded to the wastes of the noxious waters below. With his consciousness fading, his head nodded and bounced as his snout smacked against the ridge. He spread his wings and, kicking off, ascended to higher terrain as the basin grew angry and enveloped his perch.

The next day, on the fifteenth day after accepting the Plaguebringer's touch, his infection ebbed and he gradually regained his sensibilities. His father, who had been observing his trials from afar, set out from the Wyrmwound for home to report back on the young dragon's survival.

He steeled his mind. By the dawn of the 24th day he would need to master the art of control over the contagion to earn his title.

5/10/18 The nameless Mirror had but a couple waning sunsets to learn how to surge his prey from the brink of death. He reflected again on the power of a Necromancer, how seamlessly both hideous wasting and the spring of vim was called forth. He stared at the pile of corpses before him. Their deaths not nearly as efficient as he hoped, and their recovery completely lacking. He grumbled and slashed at one, chewing the meat that folded before his grasp.

If you are to succeed, you will be Murmur, one who divines and imparts Her secret will.

He goaded himself to try again and again. He ensnared a cerdae betwixt his claws; it bucked and screamed yet he could do no more for it than crush it's skull to halt it's foamy mouth.

Necromantic Symbol Cloak "Represented by Capes, Cowls, Banners, and Guises: A symbol of authority, deception, sacrifice, uniformity, devotion, and service. Necromancers bearing cloaks often serve as priests to their clans. They are first and foremost disciples of Plaguebringer and will insist that her tenets and decrees are followed to the letter. They guide the day-to-day spiritual practices of the clan and ensure all members are baptized with the latest plague."

5/13/18 Sleep evaded him in the gauntlet that was the final waning hours of the Necromancer Trials. The 24th day had slunk past without fanfare, and his Trials quietly ended. The Mirror had yet to begin his travels back home to his birth clan in the Boneyard. He wondered what sort of celebration they had prepared for him given his survival of his challenge. He wondered still what gifts would be renounced upon his return as a Necroservus. It was a worthy title, yet not deserving to merit the utmost of decorum. He paced about the bubbling pools of Rot as a caged animal, captured by his mind's wanderings. Despite his frustrations, Mirror dragons generally weren't creatures of deep brooding, and his sour mood soon dissipated, spurring him instead to take action. As a Necroservus he still possessed the will and strength to serve the Plaguebringer and advance Her whims across the reaches of Sornieth. He glanced about the hardened beings of the Wyrmwound. Among them, surely, would be a true Necromancer. One he could dedicate himself in service, and if no one among them passed their trials, then he would wait, determined to harness the chariot of his fate.

He spent the long hours meditating and harvesting strains of infection from the tumultuous terrain, curling the disease about his body and seeding countless spores and pathogens betwixt his scales. What he lacked in a Necromancer's curative ability he wished to make up for with pure virulence. While antsy to find Her purpose for him, he was also in no rush, taking his time to coddle the Rot that he hoarded and ascertain one who warranted his loyalty.

His thoughts again dawdled to home. There was little use in wasting the energy in returning. His life's work was not to be found dodging the Beastclans and roving towards frivolous celebration. The truest commemoration of his trials would be to leave the pustule lake with a plan.