| Sasayaki |
Sanguinaxia the Bloodletter, the crimson dragon, watched her hatchling's blood continue to trickle onto the stone floor and knew, despairingly, that her son's heart grew weaker. The paladin's blade had done its work well.
She hated the paladins beyond all other mortal fleshbags. Infernal servants of the do-gooder gods, they could bless their weapons to slice through a dragon's considerable defences, bypassing their supernatural resistance to harm, their iron scales, the tough bone and sinew beneath. Even a humble blade of mundane manufacture became a terrible weapon in their hands.
They were the worst of monsters. Their hearts knew no fear, their swords sharp and their bodies strong.
Not strong enough, though. That paladin's crumpled body lay nearby, her bones broken by the mother dragon's incomprehensible rage. The intruder party had a wizard, too, and his burned corpse still smoldered nearby. All that was left of their archer was a pair of smoking boots.
A dragon's wrath was a mighty sight to behold, especially to murderous fleshbag intruders unwelcome in her lair. Although she desired vengeance, the crimson dragoness had not pursued the fleeing, broken remanence of the invaders when they had wisely chosen to withdraw. Her attention was drawn elsewhere.
The paladin had mortally wounded her son.
Red dragons were almost exclusively chaotic and extremely wicked, vain creatures without a care for those they considered less than themselves, which at most times was almost everyone. Sanguinaxia was no different, holding even other members of her species in open and abject disdain, but sometimes they had their uses.
Sometimes.
“Hold fast to courage, my son,” she said, leaning down to bump her nose against the broken form of the hatchling, exhaling a thick sooty cloud of ash over his body through her nose, trying to keep the fire of life stoked within him. “Salvation your way comes.”
On cue, a faint whine filled the air followed by a dull pop. A tall, lanky elven man with a permanent scowl affixed to his face and a pale, sickly gnome appeared in her lair. Sanguinaxia’s nostrils flared as their stench, sweat and oil and rancid perfumes washed down with the faint tinge of human, assaulted her nose.
Fleshlings, willingly invited to her lair. The thought rankled her.
“I am Vaarden, archwizard of the Pathfinder Society,” droned the elf, a lofty title Sanguinaxia was certain he had not earned. He spoke draconic, haughty and arrogant as though he considered himself a master of the tongue, although the accent--a subtle inflection imperceptible to non-dragons--implied it was the kobold variant. “I am responding to your summons.”
“You are late,” snarled the dragon, raising herself up to her full forty feet of height, towering over the two lessers who dared to defile her noble tongue with their butchery of her language. “I instructed you not to tarry.”
“These matters take time,” responded Vaarden, “a willing subject had to be located. The procedure is so unusual.”
“What do I pay you for, if not results?” Sanguinaxia snapped her head forward, baring her large, yellowed teeth, her rage barely kept in check as her catlike eyes studied the grey haired, trembling gnome who cowered by Vaarden’s side. “This is what you bring me? The gnome is sickly. Frail. Weak. He cannot be a bond for my son.”
“He was the only one who was willing.”
The dragoness’s heart clenched with anger, her blood pressure rising. Thick, ominous clouds pumped out of her nostrils and she inhaled, causing the elf’s long hair to billow towards her open maw. “What care have I if it is willing? My son’s life hangs in the balance, the wants and desires of fleshings are of no concern to me.”
“The spell requires the subject not resist,” said Vaarden, “and no amount of magic can compel them to complete the bond. Besides, this one is perfect.” A faint sneer crossed his elven features. “He seeks to escape the bleaching, believing the bond will sustain his mortal shell even as his passion for life crumbles around him.”
“The feyling wishes to drain my son’s life energy?” Sanguinaxia clenched her sharp teeth. “You thought I would agree to this?”
Vaarden held up both his hands. “It is not a parasitic entanglement, but a mutually beneficial one. Your son’s spirit is healthy but his body is broken. Sivian’s body is unmarked but his spirit fades. Together they can sustain each other.”
“Can they, now.” Sanguinaxia turned her terrible gaze upon the pale skinned gnome, who visibly retreated under her stern gaze. “Tell me, fleshling, how can you serve me?”
“Y-Your magnificence,” the gnome stuttered, “I have lived nearly two hundred years. I have wandered the world. I have seen all I fear I can see with these eyes, but those eyes dim. My hair whitens. My body aches. I feel Phrasma’s cold, uncaring breath on the nape of my neck, and I fear her judgement. If your son were to become my eidolon, I would escape that terrible fate.”
Sanguinaxia snorted derisively, twin smoke rings floating out of her nostrils and washing over the two humanoids. “Pharsma’s judgement is not so easily spurned. You are a fool if you believe whatever inept, bumbling, mortal magic this elf has offered you can outwit Death herself.”
Vaarden’s expression of offence was priceless to her but Sivian remained resolute.
“I can but try, mighty dragon. I have few options left.”
Sanguinaxia narrowed her eyes at the feyling, but a faint groan from her dying son washed away her hesitation. “Very well,” she intoned, wrinkling her nose and slowly stepping aside, “proceed with the binding.”
Vaarden stepped forward, unhooking a small pouch of reagents from his belt, but Sanguinaxia raised a colossal claw and pressed it to his chest. “Fail,” she warned, her tone as icy as her breath was hot, “and tales of your suffering shall be used to frighten Pathfinder Society recruits for a thousand years.”
Vaarden nodded his acceptance and Sanguinaxia slid back to give him room, her eyes never leaving the broken, bleeding form of her only surviving hatchling.
| Sasayaki |
Sanguinaxia watched with supernaturally intelligent eyes as the elven wizard she kept on retainer began the magic to save her son.
Many would think the wicked red dragons uncaring for all save themselves, but even these purveyors of vile thoughts and deeds held the safety of the next generation, their own blood, in high regard. The hatchling was her last surviving child and, although dragonkind live a long time, eventually they too faced Pharasma’s judgement. The only two ways to leave a mark on the world when they vanished were through deeds, or through blood.
Sanguinaxia was too cautious to have her deeds provide her legacy, having seen so many of her kind fall at the business end of spears and blades, so blood was the only way to cement a lasting impact on Golarion.
She would not see her legacy die today.
Vaarden withdrew a small pouch from his reagent bag which seemed much larger on the inside than it did on the outside. The pouch’s contents, a pinch of powdered diamond, was upended into a small clay bowl, then the pouch returned to Vaarden’s reagent bag.
“Diamond dust, for persistence.”
The next ingredient was a small vial of a glowing blue liquid. The elf added a single drop of the fluid to the bowl, which hissed as it touched the powder, creating a small cloud of cyan fumes that rose with a flash of light.
“Liquid catalyst, for potency.”
Sivian the gnome, as though expecting what would come next, extended his hand. Vaarden drew a slender elven dagger from his hip with his other hand and pierced the tip of Sivian’s finger, letting the crimson fluid drip into the bowl. He then crouched beside the bleeding dragon hatchling, using the vial to collect some of its red, molten blood, which was in turn added to the mixture.
“Blood of both parties, for binding.”
The delay seemed agonizingly slow to Sanguinaxia. Her acute draconic senses could tell much of her hatchling’s status; the rate of his breathing, his heartbeat, the faint twitch of a leg or his tail. Life was leaving him faster, it seemed, than Vaarden was able to work.
Another pouch left Vaarden’s reagent bag, and this one wiggled and roiled as he upended it, tipping a half-dozen live spiders into the mixture. Sivian handed Vaarden a pestle and the elf ground the living creatures, the blood, the blue fluid and the diamond into a thick blue paste.
“Death, to conquer death.”
Vaarden dipped a finger into the mixture, then took it to Sivian’s forehead, dragging it across his flesh. Where the finger moved a bright blue trail was left, inscribing a mark that Sanguinaxia recognised as a rune in the draconic language: the rune of binding. The action was repeated on Sivian’s forehead.
“A mark of binding completes the ritual.”
Sanguinaxia inhaled, watching as Vaarden closed his eyes. “Repeat after me,” he said.
“I, Sivian,”
“I, Sivian,”
“Swear to bind this flesh to mine,”
“Swear to bind this flesh to mine,”
“And forever shall our paths be one,”
“And forever shall our paths be one,”
“Until Sarenrae’s last dawn fades from the world and everything returns to dust.”
“Until Sarenrae’s last dawn fades from the world and everything returns to dust.”
The body of the gnome and the dragon hatchling were enveloped in a faint light that started at the edges of their form and spread out until both were merely blobs of glowing blue luminescence. Sanguinaxia’s cavern was bathed in the bright radiance and she squinted, trying to make out what was happening. Her draconic senses could feel the palpable waves of energy radiating out from both of them and, most reassuringly, she could hear her hatchling’s heartbeat strengthen.
A shriek stole her attention. The gnome’s form writhed in agony, thrashing around and clawing at the mark on his forehead as though it were burning him. The scent of seared flesh filled her nose.
“Wizard!” she cried, “Is the binding complete?”
“Quiet!” Vaarden shouted in return, his voice high pitched, concentration wrinkling his face. “The spell is at its apex!”
Sanguinaxia stared, wide eyed, as white bolts of energy bounced between her child and the gnome, each one seeming to cause the two bodies to jump and jerk as though in pain. Smoke rose from the mark on the gnome’s face and he pitched forward, slumping into unconsciousness. The light faded, once again bathing the cavern in darkness. Sivian didn’t move, his breathing faint and his heartbeat quiet, seeming to be as wounded as her child was.
The mighty dragon cared not for the fate of the gnome, though, and all her attention was on the hatchling.
For a moment nothing happened. The hatchling’s faint breathing was mirrored by that of the gnome’s. Then he inhaled a gasp, jerking his head up, wide eyed, looking around him.
“What in the brackish hell of Phrasma’s undergarmets?”
Sanguinaxia stepped up to him, smiling a relieved, wide smile. “My son,” she said, her voice echoing around the expansive cavern, “you’re alive.”
“I am indeed,” he answered, holding up a foreclaw, inspecting it curiously. “The binding was a success, then?”
Sanguinaxia’s smile faded. “How did you know of this?”
The hatchling tapped on the side of his draconic skull, just before his left horn. “Sivian’s memories are within me,” he explained, “in a manner of speaking. We are not the same, but we are not entirely different either. I see his mind, his memories, his thoughts. Kindred spirits we are.”
Sanguinaxia draped her claws around her child’s body, drawing him close, closing her eyes and giving the hatchling a tight, lingering squeeze. “Kherolan, I thought I lost you.”
The hatchling shook his head. “Kheroldan was who I was,” he said, “and that word is not as... accurate, now.”
“Surely you do not wish to be called Sivian,” Sanguinaxia said, her tone dripping with displeasure. The hatchling, to her infinite relief, snorted derisively.
“To bear the name of a fey? I would not belittle myself so, mother.” He paused in momentary consideration. “Instead, I take the name Servare. ‘To Be Saved’ in our language. I find it... fitting.”
“Servare,” Sanguinaxia said, testing the word on her tongue. “Not my first choice of word, but fitting.” Thick, joyous tears rolled down the red dragon’s face as she dipped her snout and kissed the top of the hatchling’s head. “My son by any other name is still my son.”
Silence reigned for a time, then Vaarden coughed to break the spell. “We have yet to discuss the matter of payment,” he said.
Sanguinaxia waved her claw dismissively towards the deeper part of the cavern. “Take an item from my horde, for your ‘society’. Any, as you wish, I care not. None are more precious than my blood.”
She could smell his hesitation. “The Society does indeed value artifacts,” Vaarden explained, “but they also desire... the service of powerful creatures.”
“A favour I will owe each of the faction heads,” she answered, “and more.”
“A tempting offer,” answered Vaarden, his tone suggesting that he was expecting something more.
“What do you want, fleshling?” Sanguinaxia snarled, her patience running short. “Speak plainly, or you shall not be the only wizard who feels the heat of my breath today.”
“We have given your son life,” Vaarden said, “and done you both a great service. It seems fitting that we expect a service from you. If it would please you, we could settle the debt fairly easily. You have learned, today, that dragon hatchlings are at their most vulnerable while they are young. You cannot be in all places at once, and even with all your strength, your might, you could not protect your child from harm. None of us are as strong as you, lady dragon, but our numbers are many. If you would permit it, I have authorization to allow your son to apply to join the Pathfinder Society... his bondmate, included.”
At the mention of the bondmate Sanguinaxia turned her gaze back to the gnome. The creature seemed entirely inert, unmoving and barely alive. How terribly, she mused, that creature must have feared his final fate to trade oblivion for unconsciousness.
Sanguinaxia turned back to Vaarden. “I offer you all the riches of a dragon’s horde, and yet you take what is most valuable to me?”
“The service of a dragon, even a young one, is valuable to many.”
“Fifty years in the life of one of our kind is not so long,” she admitted, “and as you have astutely indicated, my son will be better protected in the halls of the Grand Lodge. Perhaps this is agreeable to me.”
“The decision is ultimately yours,” Vaarden said, “and Servare’s, of course.”
The hatchling twisted his neck, looking up to his mother. “Fifty years is not so long,” he said, “and I will need my strength if I am to become as powerful as you are.”
Sanguinaxia considered, turning the prospect over and over in her mind before giving a slow, accepting nod. “Fifty years of my son’s service,” she said, “and not one day longer.”
“Not one day longer. So swear I, Vaarden, on my life.”
Servare moved away from his mother, stepping beside the fallen gnome. He casually hooked a claw under the unconscious fey’s body and draped him over his back. Then he moved to Vaarden’s side.
“I’ll see you again soon, mother,” he said.
“Soon,” Sanguinaxia promised, and then the two vanished with a whine-pop, leaving the mother dragon alone in her cave with nothing but her riches and five decades of waiting for her precious son to return to her.
