And so, while the Pack is unwinding after being cooped up on the ship
that delivered them from the Isle of Dragon Moreau (which now is just a
molten cinder of what it was), other factions are out and about.
********************************
"Is it REALLY necessary?" Malachi asks the other dragon.
"Damnit, you know . . . . I won't last another hour if you don't!" whispers
the wounded dragon. "They left me for dead! And if you don't use that .
. . . thing . . . I won't be able to avenge our fallen brothers and sisters!"
"Oh, ****ing stop with the 'I'll avenge our comrades' speech!" mutters
Malachi as she pulls out a bootleg copy of her rivals . . . . admittedly
brilliant spell/curse. "If you are going to . . . lower yourself instead
of keeping the form you were born with . . . .at least use you brain, Synizn!"
"You want me to . . . . be an envoy?" the wounded dragon says, looking
up at his leader with pain glazed eyes . . . or eye . . . . the other one
was a bloody wreck . . . . along with a good portion of his right side!
"Those golems won't slow down for anything!" Malachi explains. "Anything,
that is, except a human or . . . ."
"A lycanthrope . . . . a human variant in their book," the wounded dragon
gasps, then breaks down into a coughing fit, a froth of blood forms on
it's mouth. "They'll . . . . cough, cough . . . . listen to one." The wounded
dragon shifts into an equally wounded human, just as Malachi finishes the
incantation of the spell.
The wounded man form writhes, and shifts into . . . . a were-bear. Synizn
is still wounded, but even as Malachi is laying down the spell scroll,
wounds are closing, and damaged and destroyed extremities are regenerating.
Soon, the newly healed Synizn stands up in his new form.
"It's . . . .going to be hard getting used to being a mammal," the former
dragon mutters. "And not being able to breath fire or fly with wings. Then
again . . . . being a dead dragon rather than a live lycanthrope is not
something I wanted!"
"Well, unless Minestus actually came up with a cure . . . .which I rather
doubt," the dragonness sighs. "You're stuck. Unlike a regular transformation
spell, that enforces an unnatural shape onto the 'matrix' that determines
what form a being takes . . . ."
"Lycanthropy attacks the matrix directly, mutating it into something
else." Synizn agrees. "It's the only thing out their known to be able to
do that. How that crazy dragon . . . ."
Both sigh.
***************************************
Minestus stares off into the middle distance. Even in his madness, he
doesn't like what he's found. Not even a little bit!
He wipes his claws to remove the pulp that came from the werewolf he
had . . . .examined. What he had pulled from the Forsaken beast was rather
disturbing. And . . . . he wasn't sure who was pulling those golems strings
. . . . if that was what they really were . . . . . if they were really
under someone else's control. Whatever the case, the game had changed and
gone someplace that Minestus DIDN'T want it!
"But we'll beat them, won't we," the mad dragon whispers. "We will avenge
you, sister/friend. We will . . . .'
Despite those words, even in it's madness, the wyrm nervously looked
around. No golems, YET!
However, the other enclaves still were intact, even though the his friends
had taken flight. Magical wards were still functioning.
"A moving target is harder to hit than a sitting target." the wyrm mutters
to itself. "We need to do something about those annoy creatures. Those
murdering bastards!"
The wyrm, remembering his friend, begins to weep again.
*******************************************************
The man shaped creature looks down at the devastated town. An uncharacteristic
sneer graces it's usually immobile face. The Enemy had arrived . . . .
and was dining on the carrion that used to be living, breathing human beings!
A slow rage burned in the red spots where the eyes should be on the "golem's"
face. They would pay, the Enemy and It's damn allies on this backwards
world!
The humanoid reptile chews a few more fingers off the rotting hand of
a ten year old girl, and then screams as a plasma bolt tears into it's
back.
*******************************************************
Unaware of the developments about, the werefolk enjoy a day on a floor
that doesn't rock beneath them. Fred and Alicia especially enjoy a day
of running together, playing. The wind whipping through their pelts and
their paw like feet leaving prints in the sand.
Latter, refreshed, the werefolk pile back into the ship and . . . .
.
-
 Finally arrive at the pirate
base . . . . it's unnervingly quiet. Here, also, just like back on the
beach of the island that they had fled, people have dropped dead in their
tracks!
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