This dreadful humidity reminded me of a character snapshot I wrote up of my really-not-a-good-person highborne. I'm afraid to reread it out of cringe, but the concept is still 👌.
A small idea element for a larger story spawned this, and I really needed the practice before working on something bigger. Lots of lore and headcanons about the Dire Maul and its goings-on crammed in here. (and vague descriptions of supporting characters because no info at all about if the Shen’dralar use hired outside help or not)
Shar’diel is not a nice person. Please keep that in mind.
The Shen’dralar’s High Magus met the huntsmen at the gates of the Dire Maul arena, a dour look upon her face. Shar’diel had been summoned to view a rare prize they had bagged -a dragon!- and judge its worth for inclusion in the Crimson Ring. Though she found the gladiatorial fights as enjoyable as any other inhabitant bound to Eldre’Thalas did, workings of the event itself were not normally under her influence. Prince Tortheldrin, however, was an outspoken enthusiast of the event, and it was through her closeness to the Prince that the messenger expressed the party’s insistence. She decided to humor them and thus she stood to judge.
The huntmaster lead the party, followed by their quarry, with majestic elven steeds bearing large wrapped bundles in tow far behind them, on loan from their benefactors. It was an unimposing size, a small drake, but what it lacked in girth it made up for in spirit. Despite its stature, it was an even match for the four men tasked with restraining it. They bore it upon a hovering sled more suited for larger loads; through both fear and nature-bound respect, no steed would pull it, so they pushed their cargo manually. Though it was wrapped and immobile, the men were still adverse to be so near it. Their heads were wrapped in a thick fabric that obscured their faces, even their eyes. Most inappropriate for ventures in the humid Feralas Jungle, mild as the climate may be.
Its snout was muzzled with rope and chain, wrapped in the same leathery fabric they wore on their heads. Where it could breathe it could spew, and though it snorted fiercely, only tiny wisps of acidic vapors puffed from its binding mask. Its eyes were covered, for what little protection that afforded. The Green Dragonflight saw without sight, being bound to both this realm and the Emerald Dream, and thus privy to vision no mortal eye ever would be. It strained against its ties, cursing its captors in raspy desperation in a language they didn’t clearly understand.
Dark blood, darker than normal, oozed from its bound wings. Its flight membranes had been slashed and stripped, eliminating airborne escape. That was what the huntsmen wore about their heads; using the hide of their kin is one of the few ways to resist the Flight’s telepathic tendencies, as well as its poisoned breath. That explained the muzzle as well. The Magus admired their ingenuity, though noted the crew returning on foot was fewer in number than had left.
Deep black gashes furrowed into its exposed hind limbs. They looked old and infected, but to her knowledge no impurity could affect the Flight in such a way. And its muffled rantings, though demented, were alarming.
The lead huntsman rapped on the cart as they neared her, and the party halted. The crew dug their fingers into their masks to see what was going on, and, upon realizing who it was they greeted, all dropped to their knees immediately.
The lead huntsman freed his face from his wrap, and, smiling bright, bowed with a flourish.
“My fair Magus,” the huntmaster began, “it’s with tremendous pride we present t’ you such a great and…rare…”
He faltered, for she ignored him entirely and glided past, feet never once touching the stone pathway.
The hunting crew rose and looked uncomfortable as she approached, while their bundled, sensing it rather that seeing outright, writhed and hissed. They exchanged darting glances with one another, but dare not interfere. If she wanted to succumb to the emerald lunacy, that was on her. Still, they restrained themselves from acting out of concern. Seeing an unarmed woman stride up so boldly to that which had claimed no small number of their fellow hunters didn’t set well with any of them, regardless of her reputation.
Their conflicting thoughts amused her.
She perched upon the sled near the dragon’s head, abandoned ropes and ties moving away under their own accord. The young dragon strained its head back, away as much as allowed by the bindings, and growled in warning. It rumbled in its coarse tongue and shook, rattling the straps and chains on its face. The Magus gestured to the hunters, who stepped back eagerly, glad to be dismissed. *What did they do to you, these brutes?* she cooed in the same harsh language, and stroked its neck through the bindings. Its skin was much smoother than she expected, more like that of a python than a lizard, with no calcified or protruding scales like those of the Blue. Was this fresh skin or simply due to its age? She didn’t know, or really care, but the effect on the thing was immediate. Surprise replaced anger in the dragon’s demeanor, and was mirrored in all others present. The crew gathered with their leader, who shifted uncomfortably. It froze at the sound of her voice, at her touch, and tilted its head to face her, ceasing its struggle. *Yes, I speak as you do, dragon,* the Magus began, *If I remove your chains, you give me your word that will not harm us or flee.*
It moved as if to give its captors a sidelong glare, then huffed, and gave a shaky nod.
She took the young dragon’s blindfolded head within her filigreed hands, cradling its jaws against her metal-clad palms. It shirked at her touch, due in equal parts to the chill they induced and unexpected gentleness they imparted. She rubbed its cheeks with her thumbs in a slow, comforting manner as she unclasped the chains and pulled away its bindings.
Before her eyes and between her thoughts the dragon’s image flickered and changed. No longer was she attending an elusive green drake, but an elven youth just barely peeking into adulthood. He still sported injuries echoing that of his other form, and was similarly bound in leather and canvas, bearing messy pine-colored hair and dusty, violet-hued skin. And, most surprising of all: bright, tear-filled, open sapphire eyes.
*Thank you, kind stranger,* he coughed. The acrid smell of his toxic breath hung in the still air. *I cannot see your thoughts, though your actions speak of benevolence. I’m grateful for your assistance, Kaldorei friend.*
*No doubt a result of your improper handling,* she assured him, and made no mention of his grievous casting error. After all, she did still resemble her lowborne kin and, by extension, his chosen mortal form. An honest mistake. *Tell me, precious child of dreams, what madness afflicts you so? You speak of great terrors, your eyes are open, and these blackened wounds were not acquired this day. What weapons made them?*
*No mere weapon caused this, but a blight of the soul,* the young dragon began, voice shaking. *A darkness no light can breach. It plagues us, steals our minds and bends us to its will. It has vanquished my kin, I am the last of my brood to succumb.* The boy had not blinked since his blindfold had been removed. *All of Ysera’s Flight is at risk. The Nightmare shackles us. Our Dream is corrupted; it consumes all life, and it spreads to the mortal realm as we speak. Please, even now I teeter on the brink. There is no time to lose!*
Shar’diel frowned, showing pensive concern. *My poor dear. All this pressure on one so young. All this talk of death,* she said, tracing a reddened bruise on the side of the trembling boy’s face. *You’re clearly burdened with such a quest. And time is clearly of the essence, if the darkness has already contaminated you. What would you have me do, child?*
The youth’s eyes shone with relief. *Your trappers do not understand, but you do. Only you can help. I bear important knowledge and must to get word to the disciples of Cenarius, or all is lost!!* He suddenly crumpled and pressed his bound hands to his head, shuddering. “The whispers, I cannot escape them!! They call to me, feed me lies, pull me to insanity.* Shrieking with desperation, he pleaded. *Please, help me. Do not let my fall to the abyss be in vain.*
She brushed his wild hair from his wild eyes, and pulled his bound hands back down. *Worry not, young drake, you’re in good hands. We’ll see your labors are rewarded. Now, relax, if you can. This will all be over soon.*
She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead in what would ordinarily be a distinctly maternal manner, and the dragon’s blood ran cold. They locked eyes and he froze, then recoiled as if struck, staring at her in betrayal.
*You…you hear the old whispers, too. I can see it now, why your thoughts have been hidden. And worse, you heed the call! In your pursuit for the stars’ power you walk in the shadow of an empty god. No…There is still hope. Release me now and I shall grant you salvation!!*
Shar’diel smiled in a sympathetic manner, false as he now knew it to be. The hazy afternoon sunlight began to dim far too quickly, and her eyes glowed like embers as a shadow fell over her face.
A tear rolled down his cheek. *Please,* he sobbed, wide eyes pleading, *the Nightmare will claim us all.*
She cupped his face, sharp nails curling around his jaw. *I’m afraid you’re far too late, little one. This is nothing personal; it wasn’t supposed to happen to you. But worry not, the knowledge you impart shall live on, and your sacrifice will be greatly valued* she said, and plunged her talons into his mind. His body seized, face contorting in a shocked grimace of mute screams, eyes radiating the black-limned light of the machinations occurring within. The crew leapt back in astonishment and fear. The steeds reared up and took off running, carrying away the crew’s dead. What they saw she did not know, nor care. She thirsted for the knowledge he stored.
Memories, thousands upon thousands, flitted by in an instant. She marveled at the wealth of information, verdant and rich and streaked in garish black. Anything valuable, even in passing, she plucked from his mind like wildflowers. He howled in pain and grief, but it sounded so distant, even to him. No, he whisper-cried, and tried ejecting her from his mind, but even had he the strength of being injury-free, he could not hope to overpower her. She bid him stand down, for her power was a force of nature and she wouldn’t be denied this opportunity. He still resisted, cursing her for dooming the world. For his disobedience she grasped trivial things, awe and reverence for beauty, kinship and sentimentality with his kin and mortals, and discarded them in turn, rending each to shreds. He wept at seeing his life vanish, the crumbling details of his short life turning to dust before his mind’s eye. Still, he futilely begged for her to stop, to cease the encroaching emptiness she wrought.
She moved to all corners of his mind, to the subconscious, the involuntary, seeking the deep-rooted secrets he and his kind intrinsically bore. Deeper she went, into parts foreign to mortal minds, to sites distinctly and unmistakably draconic. At each turn he tried to halt her progress, each time more in earnest. His mental wards were basic in effect, though much more advanced than most race’s. She blew past them like a hurricane, without pause and without mercy.
At last, she found it, his glowing, fiery core. Ancestral knowledge, ancient wisdom innate and unlearned, was now at her fingertips. A treasure trove bursting with invaluable jewels, secrets of life and magic known only to the Flight. With abandon she plundered, and he wailed in dismay as his heritage was ransacked, helpless to stop it. The echoes of his cries rang through the Dream and were then swallowed up in silence. The deeper she ventured, the murkier it became, grotesque and slashed through with darkness. Mutating tar dripped from the ancient memories, crystalizing them and cracking to dust. This “Nightmare” as the youth had called it, was both new and well known, and she looked forward to deciphering it as much as the nature-bound secrets. In here was the message he sought to share with the drudic council, for what little that meant to her. She drew the black magic in, all of it, relishing its familiar power as the walls of his mind began collapsing.
As she returned, she dragged her claws, ripping the looted chambers to tatters in her wake. He was little more than an empty husk already, her pillaging having also thoroughly destroyed his body systems’ controls. His slitted eyes were wide and rolled back, and his body convulsed in phantom pain. He heaved and gasped, tongue limp and lolling from his gaping fanged maw. His limbs no longer festered with black stains; the only damage visible was that which occurred when restraining him. Even his open wounds had brightened to a more natural color. What little of his mind remained was struck with horror, though a tiny fragment remained content that in her ravagement, she had cleansed his corruption, and his soul would join his kin at the shattered mother tree. He moaned once, wisps of acidic smoke belching out, then lay still.
The Magus rose, pulling her hand from within the dragon’s dead mind, and paused. What a dizzying sensation, holding such raw, unrefined power. She straightened, and then turned as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Your crew should no longer have trouble handling this beast, Huntmaster,” she said, approaching the terrified band. “Tell your men to take it to the butcher for harvesting, and to collect your trophies there. It’s of no use in the arena.”
The party stared at her, huddled and unmoving, still in shock from the display. “Now, lest the same fate befall you.” Spooked, the crew shook themselves into action. Pulling their face wraps tight, they collected the fallen bindings and, careful not to touch the still twitching reptile, began guiding the sled away.
The leader made to rejoin his crew, but was frozen in place midstep. A sinking feeling gripped his gut.
“Huntmaster. A word?”
He made to gulp, but nothing happened. He couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, but he could very well break out in a cold sweat. She appeared as she had upon their arrival: elaborately dressed and imposingly tall, and without any of the fearsome magic he’d just witnessed. Her delicate clawed gauntlets were steepled in an amicable request for understanding, though he now knew the true weapons she bore were not blades. “I’m sure you value honesty as much as we do,” she began, and began to circle him. He followed, ever facing her, but his foot remained firmly planted upon the stone. “Answer me this: when you’re in the market for bait hounds, do you tend to pick the weakened, crippled, or otherwise lame animals?” Tighter still he twisted, he could feel the tendons straining. “No, of course not. You wouldn’t send a compromised fighter into the ring unless you wanted to throw the fight. And that’s cheating everyone out of a good time, participants and spectators alike. You can imagine what events follow a situation like that.” He could feel popping in his knee, and his leg screamed, though he himself made no sound. “That’s not to mention what befell that poor young man. I’d much prefer that didn’t happen again, wouldn’t you?” She stopped, nearly opposite from where she began, and looked out to the jungle, beyond the border of their crumbling kingdom. “I trust you understand what to do now.” She released control of his head, and he nodded emphatically, tears leaking from his eyes. “Good, that’s very good.” She dropped him, and he crumpled to the ground, holding his knee. “Now go. You have a job to do.” She finished with a grin, and vanished in a sparkling cloud of dark arcane dust. After remembering to breathe, he collected his wits and hobbled away as fast as he could, gasping sobs of pain and fright.
