Erixitl

Ambition is a deadly plague, far more so than the toxic strains of the Wyrmwound we seek to master.

I was once a young, bright-eyed Necromancer. With my inborn Nature magic and my hereditary affiliation to the Plaguebringer, I resolved to delve deeply into both magics, to become a walking contradiction of elements, to discover a balance within myself and reach outward, thus proving for all time that Nature and Plague were only the opposite sides of the same coin.

I failed.

During the first day of my trials, as I deeply inhaled the toxic steam of the Wyrmwound and allowed the Mother's Blessing to course through my veins, a Graveyard Guardian broke through the ranks of supervising Necromancers and charged me. It must have been enraged by the powerful Nature magic I had so carefully developed. I threw up a shield of diseased roots, the magic becoming mixed to an ineffective degree. The great bear snatched me in its jaws and tossed me into the Wyrmwound itself.

The pure burst of Plague magic immediately neutralized all Nature magic within me. I could not contain it, could not hold it back, and thought that it was over.

I have little memory of what happened next. I try to forget. I imagine that I emerged from the Wyrmwound as a monstrous beast, engorged with pus and covered over with blackened, rotting flowers as my Nature instincts tried to contain the Plague. Many in that session of trials became Wraiths, as the mighty strains of disease that poured from my contaminated body proved too powerful to be conquered within the designated time. I knew nothing, realized nothing, only pain.

I drove my shrieking way across the wastelands, scattering clans before me in my wake. Hunters were sent after me, but I dodged or destroyed them all, with some kind of residual self-preservation instinct that hung onto my soul from both sides of my heritage. My only recollections of that time are the thought of survival; the crux of both Plague and Nature philosophies. I had truly become a flying contradiction, an embodiment of both. In some sick, twisted way, I had fulfilled my ambition--and it was horror incarnate.

I do believe my rescuer is one of the greatest Necromancers to exist. Her powers are latent, and she doubts their extent, which is more crippling to her than any disease. But even with her talents, I doubt that she could have neutralized me had she encountered me within the Scarred Wasteland. Only over the Sea of the Thousand Currents, where the Water magic which both represses and sustains all life confounded my remaining senses, could she have successfully completed her impossible task.

I stand before you today, a mere shell of what I once was. Plague magic is far from me, and what little Nature magic remains is scarcely enough to hold my flesh together over my bones. I survive by my master's will and the Plaguebringer's alone; my other goddess, the Gladekeeper, would cast me out in an instant. But I present my tale to all Necromancers who come after, as a warning and a blessing, particularly those who have a Nature affiliation of some sort.

I still maintain that Plague and Nature are the same; that they do share many philosophies in common, and that together they maintain a delicate balance that preserves all of Sorneith. But I no longer think that any one dragon can contain both magics within them, nor can one dragon serve both deities. One must choose one or the other, and utterly devote themselves to that one. Life cannot co-exist with death. Like oil on water, they are ever touching and never mixed.