Madras' Clan

This clan is not the same as you once saw it. There are no eyes twinkling with the stars overhead, there is no large dragon stepping forward to invite you in. There is only the wind, the heat, despite the night, of the infection embedded into the land itself, and the smell of the flesh rotting beneath your feet. That is, until you hear the subtle swishing of the shifting of dry sand coming toward you. You turn to look and when you do, you see in the distance… is that ice?
No. Rather, as the whiteness, bright against the vivid reds of the wastes around you, approaches, you make out the shape of a wildclaw dragon with his own red veins on his scales, as if the rot and blood of the land has woven up his legs and onto his body.
He rushes you, and prods and scratches at your flesh, inspecting you with low growls and grimaces. Finally, he stands high before you and orders your leave.
“Leave this place,” he says, his voice loud and booming over the sands and ringing in the bones of the scattered skeletons. “You are not welcome here, and if you step any further into our territory, you will be hunted down.”
“Bloodmouth, hush,” says a voice much softer and kinder than the wildclaw’s, and immediately he does so. A skydancer takes her place beside him, equally as white as he is, though dappled with blue gems rather than red lines, which seem to glow gorgeously in the light of the stars and moon around you, bright and beautiful against the redness of the sands.
“Despite what my mate here has told you, as long as you wish us no harm, you are welcome to venture further. You may even find yourself wanting to stay. Come, follow us. You are better off with us than alone here, where you will surely take sick, and may not finish your journey at all.”