Cryptic Imperium

There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley.

Rain began to patter stone. Dismal rock at the top of the world stretched from mountain shrubs to a precipitous drop. Ebony waters lapped placidly leagues below. The day’s last sunlight clung to the gulf’s horizon, blotted out by thickly laid, cinder grey clouds. Lucid lightning reflected off the brackish abyss; thunder growled and bellowed in the distance. The storm had come. The somber and subdued scene was beginning to be washed away by a gelid rain, like lasting consciousness dissolving a nightmare.

A crippled, fallen figure shuddered by the cliff’s edge, starving for the sight of familiarity amidst confusion. Double edged swords rested nearby the warrior, weapons slick with crimson from pommel to point. An eerie silence reigned, iron tainting the landscape as both blood and relinquished arms. The figure’s face was taught with pain as she attempted to pull herself to her feet. She lurched forward with an exhale, right hand gripping her savaged torso in an effort to stop the bleeding.

“Renzo.”

The woman let out a strangled cough as she crawled to her comrade. That handful of strides felt like a lifetime as she tore herself away from her deathbed to force final goodbyes. The woman slumped down beside a clothed body, propping herself up against it with rigor. Her breaths were heavy. She glanced over at Renzo with tired, drooping eyes, reaching out with a hand to pull at his sleeve.

“Renzo?”

She forced out shakily. She yanked harder at his sleeve, feeling the heat of life drain out between her fingers. She leaned back with a few pained, shaky exhales, hands sliding slowly to the ground. She grew quiet, and eventually, still.

Renzo had been dead for a while.

Thunder crackled violently above. Lightning fractured the leaden clouds moment by moment, and rain began falling heavier, cold tears slickening the stone ledge. Most of the Slims had already scavenged through the bodies, relieving the dead of their valuables. No one wanted to wait behind for the last soldier: the plainly dressed warrioress. They had conceded that the storm was more profound than what her pockets could have yielded.

Larue was a lingering silhouette. She watched. She waited for the storm to wash away the warmth from the carnage, and when all was unmoving, she walked calmly to the woman. The turnout seemed rather unimpressive, and Larue found herself questioning her delayed departure. Matches, files, an unimpressive dagger… Larue pondered, ruffling delicately through the outfit, working her way down to a very nicely made pair of boots.

Except, she wouldn’t go to the ends of “undressing” the dead. Just as she was about to turn away, a small sparkle of silver drew her eye. Her hand opened up as she reached for the woman’s neck, brushing the grimy clothing aside. Revealed was a pendant, secured to the woman’s neck by a fine chain. Larue couldn’t help but unfasten the jewelry and wipe away from its intricate surface the unbecoming of battle. A man with a staff, carrying a small child. How quaint. Larue noted as she stowed the necklace away among the other things.

Not much else was there though, and within minutes of gathering, the world had grown dark and the pitter patter of droplets turned to downpour. Larue grabbed the warrioress beneath the arms and dragged her to the edge of the cliff. A cold, wet finger pressed on the woman’s neck beneath her cheekbone. No pulse. She rolled the woman off of the cliff into blackness below, and soon her comrade had followed.

Larue was grateful that the wingsuits were waterproof, but her boots were not. She had begun to question whether or not she should have challenged morality for the sake of practicality when she pushed a fine, freshly polished pair off of the cliff, but suspicion overpowered both.

It is known that wearing death’s clothes brought terrible things the wearer’s way.

Larue trotted to the bushes and undergrowth that accented the base of the stone ledge, worn, leather shoes squelching with each step. Her grey wingsuit had darkened slightly, but still tactfully shed water. Her leather vest that laid overtop her suit, however, had turned dark with moisture. Larue sheltered at the base of a low hanging tree, inspecting her wear for cuts and tears. All Dragons donned a uniform.

The wingsuit was a one-piece jumpsuit connecting the sleeves of the arms from wrist to waist, and the inside sleeves of the legs down to the knees. Most wingsuits were a neutral grey with particularly colored lining based on the Wingman’s experience.

Slims were given grey lining.

Scouts were given white lining.

Spies were given black lining.

Larue was a Slim. She never could pass the test-on-entry that was needed to qualify for Scout training. Thieving trinkets was enough for her: she wasn’t stingy enough to take someone’s life too. The things people will sacrifice to satisfy their ambitions. Larue thought, finding a fairly comfortable spot to sit at the tree’s base. She leaned back and let out a sigh.

The sigh was responded by a hoarse cough. Larue froze and stiffened, listening intently through the sibilance of rain on stone. Ever so faintly she heard a wheezing close behind her, and in one sharp movement she crouched to her feet and spun around, brandishing a pair of daggers with such speed they almost seemed summoned.

Nothing.

The tree’s trunk emerged from a small outcrop of boulders, wrinkled and gnarled by both element and time. Larue swiped out her ears and wiped the water from her eyes, daggers still outstretched like talons, then creeped forward. Her gaze pried at the darkness, noticing a small bulge of fabric protruding from behind the moss-laden rocks.

Without thinking, she grasped at it with an iron hold and yanked viciously backwards, tearing the outsider from their perch to the ground at her feet. The stranger was writhing and growling, albeit weakly.

The outlier squirmed on the ground like a snake amidst waves of black cloak. She couldn’t decipher much, but she did know snakes bite.

Larue took a step back, daggers bared like fangs. Her heart pounded: she had never taken a life before. She couldn’t even kill a fly. She had tried once, washing it somehow into a bowl of water, but ultimately resorted to exiling it instead. She had flung it outside with guilt, watching it splutter for a second before the creature dried its wings and crawled away. She had probably let at least two or three more fly in on her way out.

Larue blinked.

This situation felt more like that one time she was tasked to retrieve venom from some rattlers up in the Serpentines. That didn’t end well. She noted regretfully. Hopefully this wasn’t a “third time’s a charm” scenario.

The foreigner quieted, palms exposed and free. Blood had soaked their hands and droplets of venetian vanished int0 his dark, wool cloak. The outsider protected a leather satchel behind a slumped right elbow.

“Pl-ease,” A shaking, bloodied hand pulled the clothing away from a tanned face. It was hard to tell if the man had been sweating, or if the beads of moisture trickling down his face were simply a ramification of the weather. She couldn’t see much in the darkness, but his features were altogether…dark. Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes…

The man’s hands dropped suddenly, and Larue braced, only to see the figure rest back on the stone with heavy breaths and his left hand cradling his torso.

Larue slowly stalked forward and stowed one of her daggers away in its sheath on her leather belt, keeping one secured in her left hand as she rifled through the man’s clothing, glancing over at his features ever so often. He squirmed slightly and made a soft groaning noises, but did not resist. He seemed dazed. Why did he dress so heavily? Larue stowed her other dagger and used both hands to tug the leather satchel from his grasp.

It was the only thing of value here it seemed.

“Give…” The man growled through his teeth, jolting forward to reach at it, only to slump backwards with a sharp inhale. “Give that back.”

Larue sifted through the contents, unimpressed. It was a bag of dried plants, medical dressings, and a pretty necklace holding hostage a pallid, white gem.

“What is this?” She crowed, its beauty adding a sparkle to her normally chilly gaze. Larue turned, showing the round, jewel necklace to the wounded with a grin. She wasn’t expecting an answer, and quickly turned away, depositing it with her other robbed valuables.

The man saw her pillaging his bag and quickly drug his body backwards towards the tree.

“You don’t want that.” He forced gruffly from his jaws. “It’s cursed, you know.”

Larue paused and glanced sharply at the man before rummaging back through her things. She pulled the "cursed" necklace carefully from her pillaged goods. She glanced at him, then at the gem. The Slim walked slowly over to the injured rogue and dangled the pendant close to his face. He refused to look at it and a faint smile broke through the creases of his mouth. It was hard to see in the dark. Larue relieved herself of the leather bag of dead plants and rest it beside the trickster before motioning to leave.

The man muttered something under his breath.

“You have to come up with something better than that.” Larue chided, grimacing as she turned away. She looked down at the pendant, only to rid herself of it with a yelp and two leaps backwards. She had drawn her daggers in an instant.

The white gem levitated, and was glowing!

The hairs all over her body stood on end, and her heart pounded like the hooves of a thousand horses.

"What is this witchery?" Larue barked, not once taking her eyes off of the luminous, pale stone. She was crouched and poised for action.

"It's magic." The man driveled with a raspy voice.

"Magic?" Larue scoffed, glancing down at the mistaken stranger.

That was it. This man was delusional. The rain had died, and yet somehow the man still hadn't. Larue glanced suspiciously at the glowing orb, then decided that even if the necklace was magic, it wasn't enough of a threat to keep her from her bed any longer. She was starting to think that she was far more tired than she thought.

Larue stooped down on one knee and began parting the clothes away from the outsider's wound. Left lower quadrant. The oozing had slowed, and it looked like it was clotting well for a stab wound. It must have been a small knife, which is rather peculiar since...well, nevermind. She pushed away the dilemmas of politics. This was hardly a life-threatening injury. He could catch an infection that may dispatch him.

But if he survives? Larue felt her heart drop to her toes, dread embracing her like an old friend.

The Dragons never were the forgiving type. The policy was non-negotiable.

A tumble off of the cliff? A well placed dagger? Poison? Suffocation?

Larue swallowed, but it didn't relieve the lump of apprehension in her throat, or the tightness in her chest. She couldn't even drown a fly. Her hand found the hilt of her dagger, and fingers wrapped around it slowly. She drew it from its sheath, hiding it out of sight. Larue glanced at the floating necklace, watching the light flicker and fade. She looked at the man, dagger at the ready.

Then she heard it. The necklace hit the stone with a clink as its last light died.

Larue let out a strangled exhale, collapsing backwards with defeat. She didn't know that she had been holding her breath. The Slim took a moment of contemplation before lurching forward with renewed energy. Larue searched through her belongings. She brandished a needle and thread in a matter of moments, hunching over the stranger and battling the clotting wound with sword and string.

Only a few stitches and it was done.

"Who are you and why are you here?" Larue inquired curiously, only to hear a deep grumble behind her, making her nearly jump out of her skin.

"As far as you're concerned, he was never here."

Larue felt a hand grasp the side of her head, then, before she could let out a startled gasp...blackness.