Charafay

05/20/18 The feathery, nameless Tundra called out relentlessly for her missing sibling. It was an odd noise as Tundras were not known to commonly exercise their voices, but this little one howled. She tailed her mother and a sizable Guardian dragon who appeared nearly skeletal in appearance, the creature's skin eroded by Rot. Her mother sat between the large dragon's shoulder blades, her eyes trained on the Tundra as she waddled behind the pair. They traveled mile by mile across the Plague Lands.

"Can't she rest and ride with me," her mother offered. "Your back is more than capable to hold us both, Yafim."

"If the germ can't manage to walk to her trials, what chance has she to pass them," the old beast returned. The Fae's brow furrowed, but she said little else outside of offering her child words of encouragement and several delicate plant morsels which she kept at a pouch at her waist.

As the days passed, the Tundra had a hard time recalling the scent of her sister any longer, and as she grew taller and stronger, she realized how small and young her mother suddenly appeared to her; she could now stretch her neck up to reach her. The Fae would scuttle down the Guardian's back and rest upon her sweeping tail. Her petite hands would then pat the Tundra on her bony nose.

"Only a little longer now," she would assure, yet the Tundra only had a scant idea of where they were headed or why. She was aware that it was called the Wyrmwound and that it was another mother that beckoned them, a mother that all dragons she had encountered in her young life had unquestionably deferred.

Juxtaposed to her quiet mother, the Guardian that they traveled with often commented on the landscape as they passed.

"Those are the remains of a wily Pearlcatcher who thought he could escape the Rot," she would say, "The last time I stepped foot in these parts he was still flopping about so stubbornly. Too stubbornly. There is a fine line between mettle and pride." The Tundra tried dearly to remember her tales, but found her mind diverted by the evolving and red terrain. It took the utmost of concentration to avoid tripping over the twisting tendrils and dry bones that marred the ground.

05/27/18 As the Tundra reached the tangled base of Rotrock Rim, she caught the scent of something new in the air. It seemed more delicate than the usual stink of the earth. She made note of it as they clambered among the mass of roots and alien protrusions; it was a movement somewhere between flying and clawing and the effort speedily depleted her stamina. She soon needed rest. Yafim allowed it, yet voiced her unease.

"We have already fallen enough behind. You have reached the age to receive Her Rot. We must past the peak and accept Her blessing."

As she recovered, her mother sought out and carried over servings of water in an upturned skull. She drank some and splashed the rest about her body to cool herself. Interestingly, she noticed that the odd scent she had caught earlier had suddenly grown stronger. As she glimpsed around she saw strange shoots of green that had erupted all around her in each spot that a droplet of water had landed. They were thorny and knotted and writhed like a snake. She snapped at one of them and chewed it. Her gums tingled and grew numb, but the meat of the plant was as a cool jelly that was quite refreshing. She rose to her feet again.

Later that evening they finally made it over Rotrock Rim and into the Wyrmwound.

"I'm sorry, but you're on your own here. You must seek the Plaguebringer's touch," her mother instructed. She handed her the pouch carrying the plants they had gathered along the trip, including the strange new ones. The young Tundra bowed her head as the Fae placed the satchel around her neck.

06/01/18 Her pale fur had begun to shed in irregular patches, and she lay listlessly on the ground. Somewhere she could hear the rising pitch of her mother's voice and the gruff rumble of the Guardian dragon trading back and forth as a strange call and echo. She motioned to lap at the chilly juice of one of her plants, but her tongue had long since rotted from her skull.

06/10/18 When she roused once more her mother and Yafim where nowhere to be spotted, and when she called out, her voice was dampened and strange to her. She glanced at her body; her limbs had regained the furry coat that had once become dust, yet this time her pelt was darkened and red. She held the cognizance to reach into her bag. The gummy plants that she had collected at Rotrock Rim remained and she relished the sap as it cooled her mouth which still felt hollow, though there seemed to be a small portion of flesh that either remained or had regrown. She rolled it to and fro as she ate.

Beyond her limitations, however, she felt the singe of survival, the drug that was vivacity. There was perhaps a skill and art to life in the Wyrmwound that she had acquired. As she glimpsed around, however, a new twinge of nerves came upon her. She could hear Yafim's voice ringing out between her ears.

"The first trial is of infection, the second of survival, and the last," she had paused when she spoke this, turning full around to face her, "The last is of contagion where you must use your gifts of life and death on another."

The young Tundra churned over the events as of late. She had accepted the Plaguebringer's touch, and she had overcame the infection. She removed a few little fragments of bone from her bag, and shifted them as she counted as an abacus. The trial of infection, one; the trial of survival, two. Two white fragments sat near her left claws and one by her right. She was missing the last trial of contagion. Her first instinct was to ask another dragon how long she had been unconscious, but before she could utter a word, she remembered that her speech would be garbled and difficult and grew sheepish. The scents of her mother and Yafim only lingered on a few large boulders upon which they must have laid; there were no other dragons here that she had recalled. Perhaps she should have been paying more attention to her surroundings.

6/19/18 Unaware of when she had fallen asleep or how many days she had remaining in her trials, the young Tundra waited diligently at the Wyrmwound to see if she could learn the skill to master the final test. Despite the sweltering air, she felt comfortable, and despite the many crumpled and wasting dragons, she felt healthy. She observed one such Mirror for several days, trying to understand where to pinpoint the disease of his body and how to control or alter it. Her claws grew warm with an intense heat when she willed to force the dormant pathogens of her body unto him, yet she was not aware if they took to his skin as the Rot that sprang from the Plaguebringer. Even more baffling were her attempts at helping the ailing creature. He didn't appear to be much younger than she, and her efforts to locate his custodian yielded nothing. She was, however, able to discover a flowering herb that she mixed with the cooling plant from the Rim. She was sure that the paste was no medicine, but knew the herbs had made her calm and sleepy when her mother had given them to her, and the Rotrock weed had quickly become one of her favorites for its soothing and numbing qualities. She spread some on his raw skin out of curiosity, the rest she pressed between his teeth. His rapid breaths soon slowed.

By morning the Mirror had succumbed to his illness. Much of his carcass had already been devoured by beasts when she returned. With a small sigh, the Tundra decided that it was a sign for her to return home and end her Necromancer Trials. She had lived, and she was certain that her mother and Yafim would be amazed to see her; it was all she allowed herself to think of the future, expecting that the trek back to them would be her true final task.