Long ago, that is, two-hundred years to be precise, there was a minor disturbance in the great caves where wyverns den. No, not the great red dragons of the Smoking Hills, where presently the queen Jilanpoth is awaiting her brother to age enough for their first and final flight, as is tradition of her peoples. These are the "wyrms" as they are called commonly by many species. They are vary hues, but always white, and none for many centuries have ever carried a stinger upon it's tail. Their eyes are red as Pan blood, and their teeth are uncountable and thinner than the tip of a unicorn's horn, ending in points sharp enough to prick flesh with but a gentle prod. However, they are not the vicious, blood-thirsty war mongers they might seem upon first glance.
Rather, they are eaters of the dead, scavengers of the deceased. They are dependent on water more than most creatures, needing to drink to swell their bodies and become vigorous with but one sip. Without it, they become haggard and weak. But they seek to harm none, though if they set their minds to war with others, the fight would rock the earth, as it once did in a battle long ago at Hallow Hills, where most unicorns now settle. But that is a tale for another time.
Wyrms can grow numerous heads with age, and become massive, living for ages, though it is rare they ever reach the average lifespan of the red wyverns in the Smoking Hills. Though the advantage of several craniums is but for more teeth to threaten with, otherwise there is little use for them, except perhaps for some company on restless winter nights which all of the white wyverns hibernate during. Though minor battles among themselves are common, none of the living have seen war, none have ever tasted live flesh and grown a yearning for it. They are not murderers. They cherish the peace with the unicorns, for were those four-legged beasts to fight, their warriors would overwhelm them.
Yet, enough of this talk about wyrm ways of life. Time waits for no one, and this night was certainly an important one that would become a grim one later, regretted and rarely spoken of...
Syrith was puzzled when Laquot requested him in her den. A messenger, one of his more favored sons called Ritel, had come and informed him. He knew Laquot was warming eggs, the first to hatch most likely since she was his favorite female in all the dens. The queen, for she really was valued enough to be such, was often at times his only one for as long as four decades once. This clan did not have a leader, but everyone know that Syrith and Laquot would refuse to not be together every time for breeding. If any other male dared approach Laquot, they would meet not only Syrith's teeth, but Laquot's as well.
Syrith was one of the older beasts in all the dens of the wyrms, carrying upon himself a second neck and head. This younger second seemed to have a slightly different personality than the original. Though very loving of Laquot, it was far more aggressive about her, and always got sulky when the original Syrith usually talked and courted her. They both eagerly awaited for the queen to grow her own second head and raise it, so that the other would be content and Syrith wouldn't have to listen to it's grumblings to itself when it thought he slept.
"What do you think of it?" his second head asked him, disturbing his thoughts.
The original Syrith blinked, glancing at his other. "I do not know. If our brood has hatched, she wouldn't call me to her den just for that. Usually she would wait, would she not, for those that would survive, and eat those that would not live enough days. It is a troubling matter. I hope that nothing is wrong." The other head nodded it's agreement.
Syrith reached the den of his most cherished jewel, Laquot. She was a single-headed wyvern, with a slight red tinge to her if her scales caught the light right. She was the most delicately built dragon he'd ever to meet (at least, that's what he thought. If your average unicorn took a glance at her, she'd appear to be just another of these monsters, if not a bit more thin that others). Her voice was soft and liquid, but could harden just as quickly, and spout thorns to lash at her enemies. Her wit made him cherish her, and her care for all chicks, reluctance to kill was touching. Yes, when these wyrms lost the taste for hot blood again, they were nothing but another crow pecking at carrion, though they regained respect for all life once more.
The chirping and sound of ripping of aged flesh told him he was right in his suspicions that their young this year had hatched, and once they left she might be prepared to court again. Practically crowing at the sight of his brood, Syrith glowed with pride and had that smug look on his face that yet again he managed a large batch of healthy young. Laquot slithered quickly to him, making a loving rumble in the back of her throat as she nuzzled the original head, while the other looked on her longingly, and a mixture of envy and loathing at the One. However, neither missed the look of concern in her beautiful, dewy red eyes. Ah, what a wonderful female. But alas, he could not simple stand her, goggling at the most gorgeous female in all the dens.
"Beloved, why do you call me to your den, when our sweet young have but hatched recently?" he inquired, while the second skull lowered itself to sniff at the young ones and nuzzle them, toppling each over in turn with an overestimation of their sturdiness.
"It troubles me, my dearest Syrith," Laquot said in return, looking down upon the recently hatched creatures. "One of our young has grown something peculiar, and I know all mutants are to be trampled, but I cannot find it in myself to kill something." She motioned one thin paw at the smallest dragon in the lot, but certainly the most boisterous.
It carried a slight blackish-green shine to it's scales, and muscled it's way past two siblings to the cut of the aged carcass of an elk deceased of old age Laquot had managed to find for the first feed. Upon it's tail, a sharp spike came up. He cast his mind about to name such a weird thing, and his mind fell upon the word 'sting'. His face darkened in memory of all the old hymns his people sang about how an old one with a sting one gained the taste for blood, and set his stinging children upon the unicorns, taking from them their home. And child born with a sting was to be killed, as agreed by all the wyrms who managed to escape the rule of this beast, all lacking stings.
"It is a sting," he declared. "You must kill it, or it shall be...unthinkable."
She looked at him with desperation, and his heart throbbed with her woe. "But surely there must be another way. Such young life, he has not even realized the mistake that he was even born," she whimpered.
Syrith parted his pale lips in contemplation, licking them and glancing at the young. His second head was sniffing at this sting-bladed young one. Finally he nodded. "Stingers cannot harm our allies, the unicorns. No unicorn can come to harm from them. But to be safe, we must remove the sting. I hear they grow back, like second heads, but while he is unable to defend himself again less forgiving others of our tribe, his true abilities must be hidden from all until he is old enough to fight or flee.
She sighed with relief and nuzzled him again. "What is his name?" inquired the second head eagerly.
"Myriz," she answered strongly. "I have called him Myriz."
Two of a hundred years later...
Young Bitter Flower was an average Plainsdweller, a mare whom a grandsire and granddam of many generations ago had run wild when the Hallow Hill unicorns had once dwelt in the Vale. And Javit, one of two local seers, and a stallion of the same molding, had fallen madly in love with her last year. She would be the third mare he'd courted, but he had decided to go with no other, and she the same, though he was but her second mate. The red roan mare lay panting, while the midwife Mada stood over her, offering a plant to heal the pain and cooing reassurance. Javit had been asked to make himself scarce and scout for hidden grasscats and other dangers to mares while birthing.
Javit himself was an unusual color, a dark brown grulla shade. The black stockings turned into light striping up his legs, all the way until the shoulders or hips. His dorsal was bold and his mane betwixt with a large feather from a kite. He was impatient, wanting to return to his love and gaze upon their new child, to crow the foal or fillies name to Alma's eyes and raise him together. All through the night, however, he loyally guarded the area surrounding the two mares, sometimes hearing a whinny of birth and his will failing, his heart aching to run and reassure his beloved.
Through the night he found only two grasscats lurking about, and struck them down with a swift strike of horn and hoof. When dawn at last broke, Mada found him, informing him the young had been done birthing when the first ray of the sun horse breached the horizon. Javit eagerly asked if he might venture to greet his beloved Flower and their young. This, Mada granted. Though she informed him Flower was now dozing, weary from the birth.
Javit quickly went to them, looking softly at the young mare sleeping on her side. And then his gaze drifted to the foal, and what a strange sight greeted him. It was a rusted color, pale cream dappled heavily with red. Stockings were on all the legs, a deep red that turned to stripes all the way to the shoulders. A tiny bump in the middle of it's forehead promised a horn. The Renegade scarcely draw breath as he stared upon his son. The foal blinked open one pale blue eye lazily. Javit suddenly found himself lost in a vision of this colt, his soft wispy mane grown into bright bloody strands, heavy feathering on his legs, and eyes still bright as an unclouded sky, same as his roan mother. His heart raced at the thought of this little fellow grown so large and handsome. He felt himself glow with pride at the sight. Javit felt his son could be King of the Plains, so handsome he was. Though, of course, no one ruled here, on the Plains.
"His name is Azith," said a quiet, shy voice.
The seer blinked and turned his gaze to Flower, who was looking up at him, smiling. "I named him in the old way, just for you," she teased gently. Javit could see weariness etched every cranny of the mare's face. "Shh. Sleep, my love. Mara will watch us until you are well enough." Flower smiled that smile that sent his heart galloping through his chest. She lay her head down, sleeping again. He buckled his legs and lay beside young Azith, his first son. His two other brood were both female, though Flower's first had been male as well, a strapping halfgrown by the name of Night Runner.
Javit had a strange feeling that his beloved son Azith was destined for great things indeed.
