Traveller

While exploring the Ashfall Wastes, I came across an unusual lair. The first thing I noticed was loud and rather aggressive music coming from the side of a volcano. My first thought was that this was some Wind Flight experiment, but then I saw a fully functional piano get thrown out of one of the holes in the side of the volcano and a chant saying "hail Do Glatem Live! Flamecaller, and the dragon gods of Sorenith!" Then a flute was thrown out of the hole and broke. This was not a wind clan. In fact, I was about to leave until another ridgeback popped out of the ground.

"Hey buddy," he said in a strange accent that sounded more like it came from the Southern Icefields. However, his eyes had the orange glow of a fire dragon. "Hard digging through lava rocks, eh? Well my guy, Icicle, he noticed a lonely ridgie looking at the side of our lair, like some kind'a puck bunny who didn't know what hockey was."

"Hey, Cementario," Came a voice, I looked down to see a white pearlcatcher with a scarf. "I know you think it's funny to talk like an Ice Dragon, but really, pal, we don't approve."

"Go eat some poutine and relax, eh," Cementario said to Icicle, who glared back.

"I told you a million times, I don't like poutine, I don't play hockey, and I don't approve of you making fun of me."

The two of them went back inside, bickering with each other, however I could tell they were friends. I followed them through a large, but not quite large enough opening into the volcano. I squeezed through and the first thing I noticed was that this was mostly a pearlcatcher lair. They were everywhere, flying around, and "dancing" to the loud music. Well the dancing mostly consisted of them standing close to a loud stereo, clearly taken from a lightning clan, and shoving each other around while banging their heads. I couldn't help but be curiously fascinated by this. A large imperial with shimmering wings stood on all fours, while other, smaller breeds sat on top of her back and wings. She seemed to encourage this behavior for some strange reason. I also noticed that most of the dragons had bizarre names, FlamingScissors, TrumpsArmpit, Moist, and GEEYYOOOWWWWRG, being the strangest ones I heard.

A blue pearlcatcher in a hood was preaching to a small group of dragons, while smashing various objects with his pearl, and talking about a mythical being called a Richard Nixon who did something to a gate in the water flight. I tried to listen in, but the music was too loud and nothing made any sense. I was about to leave, when a group of pearlcatchers jumped me and placed a lovely cloak and goggles on me. This baffled me even more, as I did not expect such generosity from whatever place this was.

Against my better judgement, I decided to join the dragons in their dance, which was called a 'mosh' or 'mosh pit.' I tried to be careful not to hurt the smaller dragons, but I fear that I might have accidentally stepped on a few wings and tails. Either way, I was too caught up in the chaos to notice and once the music was turned off, I was so tired that I couldn't ask any questions. I didn't have the strength to dig a tunnel, I just slept on the ground.

The next day, I woke up to what to me seemed like a normal fire lair, with dragons forging swords and armor, as well as metal jewelry and trinkets, then shipping it out. The dragons still had weird names, but everything else was exactly what I would have expected from a pearlcatcher dominated fire clan.

I went to find Cementario, but he was nowhere to be seen, but I ran into Icicle and asked him what kind of strange clan this was.

"Clan 7734," Icicle explained. "The clan of the metal souls."

"What?"

"Dragons who can mosh for ten hours straight," Icicle replied. "As you can tell, we are a fairly disorganized clan, who just happened to all live together in one big volcanic wasteland. If you really want to learn more, you can stay as long as you wish."

Day 51: February 25, 2018

The shadows gradually lengthened as I continued deeper into the Tangled Wood, fedora snagging easily on overhanging branches. Vicious-looking creatures were coming out to play, calling to one another in ear-piercing screeches and hoots.

I tried not to show it, but I was afraid.

It might've been my imagination, but I swear I could hear the Shadowbinder following me, pursuing me with her great black talons, snickering everytime I jumped at a sudden sound.

I decided to make camp against a stone facade that would do my poor, sore back good. As I settled in for the night, a low, haunting moan cut through the air. To my sensitive ears, it sounded like stone against stone, uncanny to the eerie croaks and calls of the Tangled Wood.

Just as I dismissed the thought and closed my heavy, drooping eyelids, the solid surface gave out underneath me.

Thunk.

Laughter filled the air around me, some voices even shouting, "Do it again! Do it again!"

SPLASHHHH!

I coughed and spluttered, icy water trickling down my face as I groped around for my lucky fedora. Where was I? All I remembered was falling, falling... And now this?

Prying my eyes open, my vision was instantly bombarded with a wide assortment of colored scales, ranging from carrot-orange to deep blue. A single, pure-white Spiral with a mage's staff slung over her back was taking great delight in dumping basins of ice-cooled water on my head.

"Ay! Shadowsong, you little punk!" A Guardian, features obscured mostly by a cowl, confiscates the basin, apologizing frantically.

Shadowsong, as the Guardian called the Spiral, snickers and slinks off. Sitting up, I take in my surroundings. Glowing, pulsing purple vines dangle from the ceiling, matching rough-hewn mats underfoot, all pulsating to the same rhythm as the central bonfire. Ledges were terraced into the back wall, rising to at least 50 feet above the mat-covered floor. Underneath the stone shelves, starting at ground level, were a wide variety of tunnels were cut into the rock. Looking up, I could see a distant shaft of light, marking the clear entrance and exit.

"Where-where am I?" I asked, addressing no one in particular.

The Guardian smiled. "Clan Escapade- the Heart of the Tangled Wood."

It's hard to say how I found myself being led further into the depths of Plague territory by a Fae dragon no larger than a couple toes on my front paw, her head adorned with some sort of enigmatic skull mask and her tiny body swathed in a sash proudly donning her native element's rune, but there was something in her large red eyes and her alluringly chipper voice that gave me no choice but to follow her. As she guided me through the desolate, forsaken lands, she introduced herself as Peony--the second-in-command of a large and powerful Plague cult.

I will admit the word 'cult' gave me a new wave of unease, as nothing I've ever heard referring cults were of any benevolent promise, but Peony assured me that as long as I knew my place I'd be treated ethically. Granted, I was still grateful for her ardent invitation--even if it was some trap I'd have to try and fight myself out of later--because as a sort of débutant to the Scarred Wasteland I found myself parched, starving, and very sick in no time.

So much for thinking I could hone my survivalist skills here.

Peony kept chatting about her cult: she told me about some of her fellow cultists, she told me grand tales of how their necromancer summoned about a dozen zombie dragons for a sort of obedient, expendable battalion, and what I find hardest to believe is that the cult managed to quell the fury of a ten-headed Emperor dragon--well, eleven at first, but she tells me what's left of the Nature head is merely a deformed stump that wriggles and twitches every so often.

She never mentioned anything about the leader, which I find peculiar in hindsight.

It seemed like a long journey made in no time when we finally reached our destination in Rotrock Rim: and for the most part upon seeing the cult's territory most of her tall tales were confirmed. Undead dragons shuffled about the premise, snarling and snapping their barebones jaws at me before Peony shooed them off and called to a pair of intimidatingly unnatural Guardian dragons. Must be the necromancer, and some sort of apprentice? I felt my heart nearly leap from my throat at the curled-up mass that was the Emperor dragon--Peony wasn't kidding, they actually had one! Three of its heads lazily looked over to my presence and I could feel my blood run cold in a sensation I knew wasn't the illness that ran through me.

A few curious cultists watched me, all donning skulls on their heads save for a few here and there, and a couple Skydancers approached Peony, one with a skull on his head and the other with some sort of healer's getup.

"Who's this now, Peony?" the masked one pried to the miniscule Fae. "We're expecting four litters of hatchlings, so I hope you don't make this permanent."

"A traveller who may need our aid is all this dragon is." Peony retorted, tossing her head between the two Skydancers. "Tyrian, Sybil, please take care of his ailments, make sure he gets food and water."

"Yes, of course."

From there Peony went to flutter away, leaving me to Tyrian and Sybil, who must be medics or healers of some sort. "It's been a long journey to your lair, but I am grateful for your help." I offered, trying at least to be courteous before they consider sacrificing me to the Plaguebringer or whatever they might do.

The masked Skydancer, Tyrian, shook his head. "Think nothing of it, Peony has a tendency to retrieve dragons on the brink of death." he grumbled, opening his pack and producing a few medicinal supplies while the more healer-dressed Sybil flipped open a book previously strapped to his hip. "I take it she wants you looking and feeling your best before you're presented to His Pestilence this evening."

I noticed the bloodied bandages on Sybil's arms and legs, curious as to what carnage they concealed, but I wouldn't pry. He hadn't said a word but his vermilion Plague eyes twinkled with curiosity, and I found myself looking back to Tyrian with confusion. "His Pestilence?"

"Our leader, and the strongest dragon in the cult." Tyrian replied, preparing a syringe. "He's a living effigy of the Plaguebringer herself." Claws clinked against the glass vial. "This'll pinch a little."

I stilled when the needle pierced my shoulder, but nevertheless I raised my brow. "How so?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure, but he's covered in rot and pustules, real gross-looking..." the healer trailed, and I could feel his paws pressing gingerly on what I could only assume were indicating pressure points. "He's a cannibal too, so if you're not planning to be dinner I implore you make a good first impression."

My body tensed in nervous fear. A cannibal? He eats other dragons? "I...I'll be sure to try my best."

The more I stayed with the cult, the more I learned about them, their rituals, their "exaltation" process. I often remiss to that one fateful evening I was taken in, fed, watered, and healed only to be presented to their leader--who was the most horrifyingly grotesque Mirror dragon I've ever met, mind you--and somehow not have been turned into his buffet-style dinner. In fact, Sylvan [his real name but I was instructed to use noble formalities when addressing him] took kindly to me and my guts to try my luck in Plague territory, and alongside him and another powerful dragon named Lunar he offered to train me and make me stronger. He reeked like the most gangrenous and rotted corpse I could imagine, but somehow his recklessness and sheer tenacity charmed me.

I got to witness a ritual sacrifice one night, and I learned a new meaning to 'terrifying' when I watched a dragon serving as a cult prisoner being mutilated and vivisected until her agony was brought to an end when Sylvan began devouring her still-beating heart. The event was traumatizing to watch, but all the cultists seemed to rejoice their prisoner's gruesome death, and I contemplated running away that night until it dawned on me that I would not receive the same fate, as I was actively trained and personally looked after by Sylvan.

Among the cult's ranks I met more dragons like me--lone travellers or otherwise solitary dragons seeking aid and refuge as cultists. Auror, a male Ridgeback clad in spiky silver armor, was a mercenary initially hired for protection when the cult was small in numbers, but stayed because he got along kindly with many of his fellow cultists and considered them close friends. Salvo, a vividly-colored Guardian dragon, is an assassin--or a bounty hunter, I can't remember what I'd heard about him--who's had a healthy spree and needed a well-fortified and inconspicuous lair to hide in until his trail's gone cold.

Sylvan insisted I wear a skull headdress if I'm to be known as a part of his cult, but I declined on behalf of my age-old lucky fedora, and that I was in the same boat as that Salvo when it came to cult permanence. Reluctantly he acknowledged my reasoning, but when a rather impressionable-looking armband was offered I couldn't say no.

Unexpectedly, I was also given permission to breed one of his dragonesses, and I chose a bewilderingly-colored Nocturne named Foile. She happily agreed and once the deed was done we had a clutch of three eggs, the dragoness promising me I would be able to take one for myself. As a new father I was unsure if I could bear the responsibility of caring for a hatchling, but Foile assured me that there was little to worry about.

Soon the three hatchlings emerged from their Plague-infused eggs, one Nocturne and two Ridgebacks. I chose to take the Nocturne under my wing as my son, unsure of what to name him. Perhaps I'd ask my clanmates for their opinion when I return...