Ajax:
This is what I deserve, for trying to kill my own son. I limp ever forward, yet, the rot has taken a root in me. Maybe, when Givontair was young, I wouldn't have attempted to sic a necromancer on him. He was such a bright child. Always with a book in his hands. His adoptive parents used to give me reports about him.
How he mastered reading and writing by the age of three. How he patched up his pet hamster, which survived another five years, before finally giving up the ghost. Any father would have been proud with such a son. These words, I realize now, are my mantra when it comes to my youngest.
I collapse on the forest floor, not having the strength to continue. My body knows something my mind refuses to acknowledge. I am dead already. There is only one cure for the plague of a Plague Lord. Something that is not within my reach.
But my youngest will survive. He will get to take care of his son, get to be happy with his mates. I guess, the price for that is not too steep.
I smile at that. Givontair is going to keep a grip on his sanity, I am certain. I should have done the same. Yet, my paranoia took the better of me. Was I ever a good father? For any of my children?
I remember leaving my sons and daughters with human parents. Every time I did so, I would check up on them in different forms. I missed out on so much. I have never seen the first steps of my children. Never fed them for the first time. Or, helped them learn how to fly.
I sigh, and try to make myself as comfortable as possible. No, I wasn't a good father. What sort of a father won't bother with any of his children? What sort of a father would try to kill one of them? All because an oracle decided to spew some words, that barely make any sense.
"Death is bringing me clarity," I whisper to the forest.
"Is it now?" I hear a voice from behind me. I don't bother trying to see who it is. I am dead, I remind myself. It is just a matter of time, before my brain catches on to the fact.
"It is certainly making me face my mistakes," I tell the stranger. He chuckles.
"You think so, but do you really? What if you were healed? Will the revelations persist?" What a strange question. Just who is this man, to hand a strow to a dying man?
"I can't be healed. I am infected with a plague from a Plague Lord," I say, my voice becoming weaker. Soon, the light in my eyes will fade. I wonder, if Hell is going to be a blazing inferno, or just warm enough, for me to feel at home?
"If you could be healed, will you fix your mistakes?" I narrow my eyes at that. Just who is this man? I hear footsteps, and then a figure loom over me. I recognize the tentacles right away. With a strength I didn't know I had left in me, I jump from my spot, and then get in a fighting stance. "Relax. If I wanted to use you as a puppet, I'd just wait for you to die."
"What are you doing in here?" I ask the Dread. He looks just like how he is depicted in his temples. Tentacles, coming out of his body. Two golden eyes, with slits. A flowing dark robe, hiding a body that is probably grotesque.
"These are my lands, dragon. The grasslands are Uruk territory, and the Uruk know only one God," he places a hand on my shoulder, and then makes me sit back on the grass. "Normally, I am not in the business of charity work."
"You are not in the mood for charity work now, either," I snap at the deity. Most men would have held their tongues. Yet, my moniker the Bold is well deserved. I will not hide away, in the face of the reason why I am dying.
"I am not the one who brought death to you, dragon," the Dread says. I suppose he is right. I was the one, who brought this on myself. Yes, I knew that my son hunted me, but he didn't do it actively. I should have known, back when he didn't take the chance to kill me in Trelia, that he would never muster the courage and mercilessness for such an act.
"What do you want from me?" My breath becomes ragged. I just hope that Givontair is well now. Gods, I still remember him as a small baby. With white puffs of hair, and the clearest and most trusting blue eyes, that I have ever seen. I gulp, as shame grips me.
"I am in need of a champion," the Dread says. I puff out some smoke. For, I am too weak to snort out fire. If I squint enough, I can see a black shadow coming from the tree line, towards me.
"I am not a necromancer," I tell the being. I have lived long enough. There is no way I will give up my place in the afterlife, for a couple of years. Worse, years of servitude. I have fallen low, but not this low.
"No, but you can go and speak with a promising young man. He is close to your son, even. I can smell the thirst for power in him. Bring him on my side, and you will get to live, and perhaps even get the forgiveness of your child," honeyed words have never swayed me. I stand up, and ready my fire glands.
"Ajax the Bold doesn't bow! There is only one king of the dragons, and we are a proud race," the stream of fire hits the being dead on. The Dread chuckles, and turns into black miasma.
"Think about my proposal," the being says in parting. I ready more fire in my flame glands. Yet, before I can breathe it out, the black miasma passes through me. My head becomes clearer, but I can feel it. A foreign presence, that makes me lean over, and empty the contents of my stomach.
Ajax:
This is what I deserve, for trying to kill my own son. I limp ever forward, yet, the rot has taken a root in me. Maybe, when Givontair was young, I wouldn't have attempted to sic a necromancer on him. He was such a bright child. Always with a book in his hands. His adoptive parents used to give me reports about him.
How he mastered reading and writing by the age of three. How he patched up his pet hamster, which survived another five years, before finally giving up the ghost. Any father would have been proud with such a son. These words, I realize now, are my mantra when it comes to my youngest.
I collapse on the forest floor, not having the strength to continue. My body knows something my mind refuses to acknowledge. I am dead already. There is only one cure for the plague of a Plague Lord. Something that is not within my reach.
But my youngest will survive. He will get to take care of his son, get to be happy with his mates. I guess, the price for that is not too steep.
I smile at that. Givontair is going to keep a grip on his sanity, I am certain. I should have done the same. Yet, my paranoia took the better of me. Was I ever a good father? For any of my children?
I remember leaving my sons and daughters with human parents. Every time I did so, I would check up on them in different forms. I missed out on so much. I have never seen the first steps of my children. Never fed them for the first time. Or, helped them learn how to fly.
I sigh, and try to make myself as comfortable as possible. No, I wasn't a good father. What sort of a father won't bother with any of his children? What sort of a father would try to kill one of them? All because an oracle decided to spew some words, that barely make any sense.
"Death is bringing me clarity," I whisper to the forest.
"Is it now?" I hear a voice from behind me. I don't bother trying to see who it is. I am dead, I remind myself. It is just a matter of time, before my brain catches on to the fact.
"It is certainly making me face my mistakes," I tell the stranger. He chuckles.
"You think so, but do you really? What if you were healed? Will the revelations persist?" What a strange question. Just who is this man, to hand a strow to a dying man?
"I can't be healed. I am infected with a plague from a Plague Lord," I say, my voice becoming weaker. Soon, the light in my eyes will fade. I wonder, if Hell is going to be a blazing inferno, or just warm enough, for me to feel at home?
"If you could be healed, will you fix your mistakes?" I narrow my eyes at that. Just who is this man? I hear footsteps, and then a figure loom over me. I recognize the tentacles right away. With a strength I didn't know I had left in me, I jump from my spot, and then get in a fighting stance. "Relax. If I wanted to use you as a puppet, I'd just wait for you to die."
"What are you doing in here?" I ask the Dread. He looks just like how he is depicted in his temples. Tentacles, coming out of his body. Two golden eyes, with slits. A flowing dark robe, hiding a body that is probably grotesque.
"These are my lands, dragon. The grasslands are Uruk territory, and the Uruk know only one God," he places a hand on my shoulder, and then makes me sit back on the grass. "Normally, I am not in the business of charity work."
"You are not in the mood for charity work now, either," I snap at the deity. Most men would have held their tongues. Yet, my moniker the Bold is well deserved. I will not hide away, in the face of the reason why I am dying.
"I am not the one who brought death to you, dragon," the Dread says. I suppose he is right. I was the one, who brought this on myself. Yes, I knew that my son hunted me, but he didn't do it actively. I should have known, back when he didn't take the chance to kill me in Trelia, that he would never muster the courage and mercilessness for such an act.
"What do you want from me?" My breath becomes ragged. I just hope that Givontair is well now. Gods, I still remember him as a small baby. With white puffs of hair, and the clearest and most trusting blue eyes, that I have ever seen. I gulp, as shame grips me.
"I am in need of a champion," the Dread says. I puff out some smoke. For, I am too weak to snort out fire. If I squint enough, I can see a black shadow coming from the tree line, towards me.
"I am not a necromancer," I tell the being. I have lived long enough. There is no way I will give up my place in the afterlife, for a couple of years. Worse, years of servitude. I have fallen low, but not this low.
"No, but you can go and speak with a promising young man. He is close to your son, even. I can smell the thirst for power in him. Bring him on my side, and you will get to live, and perhaps even get the forgiveness of your child," honeyed words have never swayed me. I stand up, and ready my fire glands.
"Ajax the Bold doesn't bow! There is only one king of the dragons, and we are a proud race," the stream of fire hits the being dead on. The Dread chuckles, and turns into black miasma.
"Think about my proposal," the being says in parting. I ready more fire in my flame glands. Yet, before I can breathe it out, the black miasma passes through me. My head becomes clearer, but I can feel it. A foreign presence, that makes me lean over, and empty the contents of my stomach.
