| A great wind spread across the island and a great roar filled the air.
The Dragon's rage had become a thing alive and burning. The Forsaken had
seen him come and had cowered in their cave wall dens. But that had not
protected them. After the massacre of last night, there were few enough
of them left alive, but Minestus found them out regardless. His terrible
voice raged within their minds as he sought to discover what had happened,
and who was to pay. But the snarling beasts that were less than men could
tell him nothing he did not already know. The great mountain had been destroyed,
and Moreau had died.
So he sought out the others, those animal-men he had created that still held onto their humanity. But their village was empty, their crude homes ransacked. There was no one there to tell him what had happened. His madness grew, fed by his frustration, and he spread his wings and shot into the sky. His black blood boiled within his scaly veins and his heart cried out for vengeance. Swooping down low across the trees and hills of the idyllic little island, he consigned that earthly paradise to the flame. Dark smoke and the screams of living things billowed and bellowed out into the afternoon sky. Rock melted and the sea boiled as he called upon his mystical might to create a pyre for his sister-wyrm. A pyre the size of the island. No one and nothing would survive. Minestus swore it. And then he would seek out whoever or whatever had done this terrible thing. The Forsaken cowered still in their rocky holes, hiding from the wrath of the Dragon. But soon the fire, the heat and the smoke would force them out for one last painful dance with life. And then they would all die too. Except for one, that is. Minestus reached out with his magic and grabbed hold of one single werewolf. One moment he was there and the next he wasn't. When Minestus returned home, the beast would be waiting for him. Though it knew nothing itself, it had been there when the deed had been done. And Minestus knew of many tricks to strip bare the truth that was hid from him. Sometimes knowledge hid itself in the flesh, and one simply needed to apply pressure to work that knowledge out. The werewolf would soon envy its dead brothers. But first he set the island aflame. And he watched, and he sailed the hot currents and he breathed red fire. And even as the sun set red on the horizon, Minestus still circled that flaming rock that had once been a green oasis in the blue desert of the sea. And he cried. Go Back
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