Spokesperson/Sacrifice
O T W E L V E
{ oh - twelve }
Nickname: The Compassionate
x. the twelfth of twelve
• Care not from where they came from, for they shall be replaced again.
(song)
by (artist)
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INVENTORY
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~ lore ~
written by Disillusionist
- Bright, fresh-faced, and eager. Infinite tomorrows are reflected in their eyes. That smile, eerily similar to your own, until you realize you’ve seen it in the mirror before. Then, you were telling yourself to dream big. And apparently so were they...
“I’d like to work with you. Let me be your voice,” says the candidate. The Council looks at them, weighing everything: character, wisdom, words...
The interview, if it can be called that, consists of a single question: “Why?” And the answer comes, endearing in its simplicity: “I want to try something new.”
“You’re hired,” say the Council, though the resume goes unlooked-at, years of work experience tossed into the trash. They shine through nonetheless, as the spokesperson thrives, their job goes smoothly, and the words of the Council reach greater masses....
And then, one day, everything stops. No more words, no more voice, and the spokesperson is nowhere to be found. Apparently they have vanished, save for a single clue, a sighting described with a shrug—
“Oh, that one. They left. They said they wanted to try something new.”
- The next spokesperson does well. So well, in fact, that they are sent away. It isn’t anything bad they’ve done—it is just a routine diplomatic mission to foster good relations. They carry supplies and have a token escort. The trip is projected to last a few days.
It takes a couple of weeks, instead, for the expedition to return. Word of it, anyway. A single Tundra, bedraggled, the whites of her eyes gleaming, is all that is left of the group. She is shivering, and as others sit her down and wrap her in a blanket, it takes time for her to thaw, time before she feels ready to speak again. She whispers “Harpies,” and shrieks in fear as the wings of passing birds throw fluttering shadows across the ground.
- The third spokesperson turns their attention to the wilder regions of Sornieth. Here there are no cities, and the lairs that exist are far between.
When the third doesn’t return as scheduled, this time the Council doesn’t wait; a search party is sent out. They get as far as the swamp before the trail goes cold. Then there are only the walls of living vines all around them and the air so humid, they drink it more than breathe it. Tiny threads of sunlight stretch from the canopy to the ground, curtains so bright they could cut.
All this life, crowding in on the search party: It’s so aggressive, oppressive in its vitality. Nature at its finest, pushing in on intruders, telling them, “Get out, get out.” A splash in the nearby water, and they glimpse a toridae, its golden eye fixed on them with reptilian intensity. They scurry back the way they’ve come, back to civilization’s concrete embrace.
Later, one of them remarks that the toridae was unusually large, the plants just a bit too fat and strangely colored. They think of the toridae, unseen until it decided it shouldn’t be, and wonder when the forest will open up to reveal the third spokesperson again. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t...and that night they dream of wooden fingers uncurling, one by one, to reveal a sphere of neat, white bones.
- The fourth spokesperson takes to their job well. Perhaps a little too well. Initially hired to represent the Council, they find that there are other things they want to speak about. They begin by merely discussing various topics with other dragons. Disseminating information—but then somewhere in there, the clinical shell of objectivity cracks, and emotions come rushing in. The fourth is swept under by the wave of passion. They emerge with fire in their eyes, ready to do battle—
“With what?” the Council asks, exasperated. The answer, apparently, is the world. The fourth spokesperson is let go, and away they charge, nothing but a mass of hostility meeting every word with anger. Each breath from them is an argument, and it seems their vehemence is inexhaustible; they keep going, all the while fearing the day their breath will fail them. Then the world they’ve antagonized will close in on them, and they will have the argument to end all arguments. One against the world.
- The fifth spokesperson engages the crowd with stories. They’re simple stories, designed to capture interest, but as the days pass, they grow and grow, reaching the heights of strangeness and disbelief that give tall tales their name. Such incredulity invites questions. The fifth decides they do not like questions. They silence those who ask with physical remonstrations, mostly kicks and stomps.
A few of the queriers scurry away, but the rest of the crowd closes in. They flex their claws. They stomp their feet. There are no more questions now. But still, they demand answers.
By the time the guards arrive, the crowd has dispersed. They do not find the fifth again; there is only a churned-up swathe of mud, trampled all over with a hundred sharp-clawed feet.
- The sixth is eager to do their best. They are devoted to their job from the get-go. They approach all manner of dragons and speak freely with them. They are only too happy to answer questions and provide information, anything to convince the listeners to buy into the Council’s words. They’ll do anything to befriend their audience. Anything to befriend...
The sixth is found in a torn and crumpled heap, shivering in a pool of their own blood. Their ears quiver as they catch the others’ questions, the demand to know who did this. An answer is not forthcoming. As to the question why...
“It was my fault....I made them angry, you see.”
- The seventh made a mistake. They tarnished their reputation with words; therefore their words must be restricted. And so the seventh is urged to be silent. No more words now. No more communication. Not with their clanmates. Not with outsiders. Not with friends or family. No more writing. No more signing. No more letters and messages and ideas...
Until the seventh is left, completely silent, to stare only at a blank stone wall. There are no more answers. No more questions. No more mistakes, and no more words.
When others are asked what exactly the seventh’s mistake was, their disgust spreads plainly across their faces. “It was very bad,” they say. “We’re glad the seventh stayed silent. It would have been no good, their talking with anybody after that incident...anybody at all.”
Sentences upon sentences of dragons saying the silence was good, that the seventh had done well to observe it. No one ever mentions what their mistake was.
- In the chaos surrounding the attack of the Shade-touched creatures, it takes days before anyone realizes the eighth is missing. There’s too much damage; there are too many messes to clean up and too many gaps to fill.
It is then that the eighth’s disappearance is noticed, but this is not regarded as unusual. In the wake of such an attack, who wouldn’t want to disappear? Meanwhile, in the labs, tests on the creatures’ remains are run, and the results show strings of DNA: hints of centaurs, harpy feathers and serthis scales. And more besides—traces of dragonkind.
No one can deny the Shade’s influence, for its mark was upon the monsters’ eyes. But the lines and graphs, stark upon the paper, introduce another possibility into the researchers’ minds: “Shade-touched indeed, but perhaps not exclusively...”
- They do not like the ninth’s face. Or their voice. Or the way they move and dress...anything about them, really. They put up with their dislike of the ninth for a few days, and then the criticism begins—
“Why do you keep talking? No one wants to listen to you.”
So the ninth stays silent, lips tightly sealed. Emboldened, the others press on—
“Why do you move like that? Watch where you’re going.”
So the ninth goes to the side and stays there, perfectly unmoving, like a statue.
“Why do you dress like that? No one wants to see it.”
And the ninth strips off their raiments. Shadows cloak them, hiding them from view, and the others are pleased. Until they realize they can still see—
“Why do you show your face? No one wants to see you.”
The ninth covers their face with both hands. But the suggestion of form is still there, and finally—
“Why are you even here? Nobody wants you.”
Then, and only then, do the whispers stop.
- The tenth spokesperson is an undisputed success. Not only do they spread the Council’s words, they make the Council sound warm, inviting, and friendly. Such a great place to be, in fact, that everyone who hears the tenth’s words decides to join.
They come in droves, crowds of them forming long, snaking queues that are themselves living labyrinths in the already-confusing headquarters. And the Council is only too glad to have them.
There is some talk of giving the tenth spokesperson a commendation for their work, but after looking out over the sea of heads, this is quickly vetoed. Spokespeople weren’t hired to be commended. They were hired to speak and recruit. And if they cannot be found to do more speaking and recruiting, then they will be replaced.
It isn’t long before the tenth is forgotten. They are simply another blurry form in the galaxy of faces, their name a blip on a piece of paper so old, it’s already gone yellow without ever seeing the sun.
- It is too late to save the eleventh. As the others watch in horror, the earth crumbles beneath the spokesperson’s feet, and they fall backwards into the pit. It takes a long time for their scream to fade away. It weaves like a thread into the others’ memories, snagging like claws caught on fabric. Unable to shake it, the others decide to make their peace with it. They set up a vigil for the eleventh, and cards, candles, and flowers begin piling up at the pit’s edge.
The vigil is almost complete, their peace nearly as solid, when something comes up from the darkness.
They do not hear it at first; its claws sink deeply into the soft earth as it crawls, crawls its way up to the light. Flowers spill across the ground as it finally slides up, knocking aside candles and cards. It shudders as it drags itself blindly along, and the soft gasps and wheezes it emits sear more deeply into the soul than the eleventh’s scream could have done. It is animate, certainly, and alive, but no one would call it a dragon. Not anymore.
- The page is turned and...it’s blank. You see only the inside of the back cover. You flip the dossier over, but it’s just worn brown leather, smooth and shiny with age.
You turn the dossier over and over again. It takes you a moment to realize it’s because you’re searching for something. Not more words. Not more information. Not even a solution, but an escape.
From the spokesperson’s fate... “I’m next, aren’t I?” you ask the dusty air.
Silence greets you, and you feel your spirit lift. Your breath flows out of you in the wild, hysterical flight only relief can manage—
—and is stopped cold by a voice from just behind you: “Aren’t we all.”
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