From an ancient clan, fiercely devout to the Pestilent Mother.

Your upbringing was harsh, and you grew harsher to withstand it. Your siblings, who you first sparred with for play, you then fought tooth and nail for scraps of food. You fought your rivals, you fought your parents.

You clawed your way to the head of the clan, and chose a strong mate. You raised children just as strong and callous as you, accepting no other.

You fought off challenger after challenger, and against the odds, lived to be an elder, respected by your devoted clan and held in high honor.

Until, one day, you finally stumbled.

Your strength was bound to wane eventually. You were getting old, as far as leaders go. It was only a matter of time until something got you.

Illness finally taking hold in your system, a challenger's stamina overcoming your decades of experience in battle, or your own child betraying you in your sleep, knowing they couldn't win a fair fight.

It doesn't matter. You've been bested, and as you abandoned the weak, so does your clan abandon you.

You are left for dead there on the moist, reeking soil, and your family and followers are no more. The clan moves on without a second look, strengthened by your absence.

You accept your fate, for there is nothing else to do.

You lived a proud life as the Plaguebringer's most devout, and now you will die and become one with the damp earth, nourishing her and future generations.

You shut your eyes, and try to find peace with that thought.

You did not expect to be found, out in that empty place so far from other clans.

You did not expect to be bothered as your life slowly ebbed away.

You did not expect to be healed, to be denied your warrior's death.

But you could not fight them off, either. You lacked even the strength to speak.

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One of my Flight Rising dragons and her lore.