The Infernal Summit Gothic
Let’s see if this fits! @golden-lionsnake‘s trendy thing!
Inside the Summit at night you can faintly hear them breathing, ragged as though the air around them is on fire. They do not seem to emote, nor do they seem to be in pain anymore. They are keeping a vigil.
The hatchlings all seem to be healthy season after season, except that one little firestarter that nobody seems to see except the Lonely Road… He scoffs with disgust when she pesters him.
Last week, you watched one of the warwagon drivers eat the ash in a serious rollover crash on the plateau… Tonight, you watched her take up her post atop one of the spires outside the Summit’s walls - the very fringe of your clan’s territory. Her name was scratched off of the Organic Mechanic’s ledger.
You awake one night in a hot, feverish sweat to be sole witness to the Mechanic’s Apprentice tending to a nest that doesn’t belong to her. If memory serves, she doesn’t even like hatchlings. As the magma from the nest laps at her claws, you notice that what she’s tending isn’t actually complete at all…
The constant companion signs you something in your palm, frantic, unnerving. His mate pulls him away, unable to understand, trying to calm him down. You do not yet speak his signing, but you’ve never seen him so upset before.
She who reads the bones hasn’t been seen in a few weeks. She can still be heard from her respite, speaking to an unknown entity.
Amidst the yucca and the thick haze of midday, a figure stalks. He looks familiar, but he doesn’t recognize you. He makes no effort to communicate, but you know he is not a threat. His apparent breathing sounds like the gasping rattle you heard the other night.
The clan’s vehicle coordinator has been having violent fits more often than usual, and you can tell he’s grown weary of the figures keeping watch from the spires outside our fortress.
During your stay, you have not been able to shake the heavy feeling that you are overly welcome. Your neighbors are definitely not the ones welcoming you in visions, 8 weeks into your time here.
The Warlord makes no sound, even in passing on the hot volcanic rock. Claws as long as daggers make no effort to herald her appearance with any sort of tapping. This is believed to keep the figures in the haze at bay.
