Rotclaw

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Theme: They Might Be Giants - I'm Impressed

Carved out of the putrid ground was a pit, its rim crowned in bone spikes rising far above the largest Guardian and rivaling the height of an Imperial. They were an extension of the Wandering Contagion and grew as the living landscape spread. But these bones, once miniscule spikes, seemed to demand more than the nutrition that seeped out of the Wyrmwound. Nobody agreed on what they wanted; some believed blood fed them, others believed they were sentient and delighted in seeing combat and survival. One thing that everybody knew, though, was that the more gladitorial battles that took place in the bony colosseum, the higher the spikes grew.

Rotclaw impatiently drummed her claws on her throne. The hardened Skydancer organized these battles, and she need not forcefully pit two contestants together - there was never a shortage of volunteers eager to prove their worth to the Plaguebringer and all she stood for. One in particular never failed to show her face: Lyssa, a Wildclaw afflicted by some rabid madness that the healers could not explain. She thought herself a wolf, as if she were a werewolf under an eternal full moon. Her condition was stable and it was decided that she was not a threat to the clan's safety. She had bitten many clanmates, and none of them went mad. Still, they gave her a wide berth and many, out of pure superstition, were afraid to expose themselves to her clamping jaws.

A crowd formed when Lyssa entered the colosseum, and they erupted in a loud cheer upon seeing her spread her tattered wings and roar. Rotclaw stood up and addressed the audience. "Who is foolish enough to go fang-to-fang, claw-to-claw with the Wolf of the Wastes?" Beside her stood the Shambler, a Guardian of few words, adorned in armor made of dragon bones. The obsidian beast smirked and leaned over the palisade, watching the opening to the cavern that housed the contender. And there he was: a Lycaon. A subspecies just as lupine as Lyssa herself, with the advantage of a tactical mind compared to his opponent's blind rage.

"I am Tytthaena, representing Clan Swaddle Dog of Canidae Chasm, and I challenge the Blackwater Reivers to a fair and just fight." The feathered warrior, taking the form of a skydancer rather than the usual tundra, was dressed his traditional Lycaon garb: a leather kilt fashioned from beasts he hunted, and a carapace arm guard to provide shielding from quick strikes. Lyssa wore nothing but a wolf pelt headdress and bore gray fur in places where her feathers had molted.

It took a moment for Rotclaw to recover from the shock of a Swaddle Dog showing his face in Reiver territory, but when she did, her booming voice silenced the stadium. "You dare show your face here, mongrel?" Her words escaped through clenched teeth. "What have you ever given us but trouble? I would kill you myself if I was in the ring."

A roar of laughter from the Lycaon only fueled Rotclaw's rage. "Your bones would make an excellent addition to our decor, Your Majesty." He held his posture high, exposing his neck, just daring his rival to try to take him down. And it worked. Rotclaw leapt over the palisade, gliding down to a landing in front of Lyssa. "Not today, pup." The wildclaw protested with an annoyed chuff, but did not fight the orderlies who escorted her out.

"You've always been a foolish one, Tytthaena." Rotclaw circled around the dulited gray dog-dragon, hissing when she got close.
"What can I say?" Tytthaena chuckled, but his cheeriness gave way to smugness and he spoke with a grin and a pointed expression towards Rotclaw. "You tend to influence those around you more than anyone else in Blackwater Crossing." This drew a snarl from Rotclaw's throat and she struck without hesitation.

(To be continued...)


By ReCremisi