Scales
by TheApexSovereign
Whether you were a famous sorcerer in search for knowledge, a man with an insatiable lust for adventure, or just some hapless knight struggling to get by, there was one, chilling fact that forever reigned true in Lordran: no matter where you are, what you did, or why you exist, he is always watching.
When you think you’re secure within the comfort of friends, or the unpleasant emptiness of his frigid lair, one could still feel that icy-blue stare, spying on you, waiting; those angry, piercing eyes that effortlessly cut through the most bodacious of men and bore themselves into your soul like daggers—eyes that eternally cried out in madness and bloodshed, and any unfortunate enough to be caught underneath their gaze would endure a most slow, painful demise. These were the eyes of Seath the Scaleless, killer of his own kin and one of the last dragons in existence.
But today, for perhaps the first time in centuries, Seath the Scaleless may have finally met his match. A fabled warrior who goes only by the name of the “Chosen Undead” has these eyes trained on him at this very moment. Despite his perilous ascent through Seath’s twisted citadel, seeing the horrible things this maniacal drake has done in the name of progress, he stood before the master himself with his chin held high and blade steadied on the towering creature. If Seath still had any semblance of his sanity left, he would have surrendered his Lord Soul to this brave warrior without a fight.
The man was like an armored boar; his brittle Undead shell encased within the legendary armor set of Black Iron Tarkus and brandishing a greatsword as big as a man with just one hand. His free hand boldly gripped no shield, but was instead squeezing an orb of lambent red flame, swelling and raging, threatening to detonate at a moment’s notice and take his arm off.
With a guttural wheeze and a mighty swing of the arm, the knight hurled his charged pyromancy through the air, aiming for Seath’s malnourished bosom. The ball of crackling flame careened through the raw mist in a wide arc, detonating below his rib cage in a chaotic discharge of agony and heat. Seath smacked his undercarriage with a single claw, extinguishing the searing flame that left behind a tremendous burn reeking of cooked flesh; smoke incessantly slipped between his fingertips.
Seeing the perfect opportunity for attack, the Undead took a single leap towards his opponent, using the momentum to bring his greatsword in a wide, horizontal arc, and cleanly slice into the dragon’s soft, assailable flesh. Regarding the offense without so much as a contempt growl, Seath craned his head back and bore a near-toothless scowl. His jaws parted, revealing a colorless glow building up in the back of his throat.
Oh, no! The hero’s armor plating suddenly felt a hundred pounds heavier as he spastically clasped onto the greatsword’s hilt with both hands and ripped the bloodless blade from the Seath’s body.
He clumsily threw himself against the jagged crystalline walls to the right, just as a volley of cold death bellowed from the creature’s maw. Wherever the attack hit, wide stretches of pale crystals erected from the surface and shattered into dust as quickly as they came.
The Chosen Undead panted, ragged breath produced a fog underneath his helm. A horrible, gravely roar trembled the entire cavern; every minute of the fight slowly began meshing together into a monotonous waiting game. But Seath’s strength was beginning to wane, and they both knew it; he was getting sloppy, making errors in his offensive and leaving himself susceptible to attack on multiple accounts.
In one fluid motion, the Undead’s fingers brushed past his belt and came up to eye-level with a couple throwing knives clutched in his ironclad hand. With a crook of the arm, four knives sailed a short distance and lodged themselves within the ancient dragon’s scaleless, white husk, adding to the many scars and lacerations he had attained over the course of this brutal slog.
Most wounds were like paper cuts to the great creature, peppering his prism-encased hide like the fractures of a desolate, grey earth. Others were jagged, splayed, exposing flesh that never bled and was glazed in a thin layer of what resembled frost. A distinct chill crept down the Undead’s spine whenever the thought of such attempted to breach his mind.
He was immediately snapped out of his stupor when Seath brought both fists down upon the Hollow that stood before him. Instinctively, he threw his lumbering person aside, narrowly missing the initial attack but was still thrown off by its rage-fueled impact. Another raucous shriek escaped the dragon’s throat—the fury behind his cries were almost palpable.
Resting the greatsword’s blade on his shoulder, the Undead made a bold dash across the cavern, trying to put as much space between himself and Seath as possible. The abomination’s tendrils rose up into the air, preparing to smash him if he had threatened to stop for so much as a second. Just as before, he threw himself against the wall and paused a spell to catch his breath.
This momentary pause allowed Seath to make a sluggish turn; his deformities pushed and pulled at the black crystal earth as if he were an octopus trying to walk on land. Such an unnatural sight humored and terrified many over the course of history.
To quicken his pace, Seath raked his talons into the wall’s azure surface, twisting his upper body and catching a glimpse of the Undead invading his home. There were those eyes again, as mad as ever, and accompanied with one hell of a snarl.
The scrawny, burned body sitting inside his bulky suit of armor shuddered with adrenaline, anxiously preparing for an opportune moment to strike. Frantically, he scanned the albino’s towering frame for an opening as he began closing in; one disfigured leg after the other pulled Seath closer and closer to his prey, each broadcasting a tremor into the floor and up the knight’s armor that grew in power with every passing second.
A bed of resplendent haze in the center of the cavern had developed from the warmth of Seath’s body radiating throughout the frigid atmosphere. When sifting through it, the pure brightness of his ivory skin was amplified to a blinding extent.
The Undead averted his gaze, pupils aching at the sheer intensity of it. He returned seconds later, squinting, and noticed that Seath’s malformed wings had unfurled; the frailest and lowest set of the four were clung tightly against his sides, but the upper set dragged along the ground with the largest pair located just above them overlapping, as did the topmost, forming a garish wall of veiny sapphire between the Chosen Undead and any form of escape.
If his face were capable of expression, Seath would be grinning maliciously, so he settled with baring jagged teeth and emitting a throaty growl.
Clever, thought the Undead. Very clever, Scaleless One. Just not clever enough.
The flame in his hand perished with a single thought, and then was brought up to clutch the hilt of his greatsword and hold it in an offensive stance, blade pointed at the dragon’s heart. He glanced at his feet, making sure to square them despite their obscurity underneath the frigid mist blanketing the cavern.
Seath’s long, bony digits clenched into tight fists as he raised one over his head; the knight’s lips curled into a chapped grin when lowering into a squat, resting one foot on the wall behind him. He knew it was vital that his timing be impeccable, for that in the coming moments, he would either stand victorious or perish as another nameless Hollow that dared to challenge Seath the Scaleless.
The dragon let out a gravelly roar before his fist was brought down with earth-shattering force. The Undead’s muscles tensed, as did his breathing still. In a burst of adrenaline, his own fist released its hold on the sword’s grip and pummeled into the firm stone below. He lurched forward, kicking off the wall behind him with all his might and launching into a great leap.
He sensed the heavy drag of air sweep just over his head, and immediately after heard a great force impact straight into the dense crystalline walls behind him. By the time the Chosen Undead had recovered from his roll, both hands were once again clasped around the greatsword’s hilt and pointed mere inches away from Seath’s prism-encased belly.
Utilizing the momentum to skip forward, the warrior drew his arms back, elbows brought up to ear level as he prepared to bring them down in a wide arc. Left foot touched down; like steam pistons, his arms exploded downward, bringing the sword in a great curve of silver. He tilted far to the side, so far he almost toppled over, turning the overhead strike into a diagonal slash.
Blade made contact with flesh, slicing into it with little effort as if Seath’s scaleless hide were made of nothing but air; he was still processing his failed attack. If he were capable, his face would be one of pure shock; his mouth hung open, as if emitting a soundless scream.
The greatsword carved a deep, scabrous wound that stretched to either side of Seath’s belly, just above the stone shell encasing it. He could feel his crystallized innards being pulled out as the blade made its clean slice, easily cutting through his assailable flesh and dextrous skin with little to no resistance.
Breath hitched itself in his throat, and Seath quickly found his black world growing much, much darker. The warm numbness overtaking his body wasn’t even registered, he was in such a deep shock. Seath’s wings all splayed out in opposing directions, only moving to the occasional twitch. As a daze began to overtake him, the dragon slammed his palms into the jagged walls for support; arms immediately started trembling, as though completely drained of energy.
The Chosen Undead gazed up at the dying abomination with a quiet resignation, mostly out of respect than anything else. His looming figure started to lose its form and dissolve into a pure, colorless energy. Wisps of similar light flecked off of the dragons body by the thousands, creating synergy with the mist and sparkles swirling about the cove before vanishing into nothingness.
A final, defying howl into the heavens and Seath the Scaleless remained in this realm no longer. All that was left behind was his fragment of the Lord Soul, a sparkling orb of gold, flickering in the center of a crystal mausoleum. The Chosen Undead slung his greatsword over his shoulder and bowed to the empty cavern.
Until Twilight Sparkle made her bed in the Golden Oaks Library, Ponyville was oftentimes regarded as nothing more than a humble little town, immediately overlooked by the more illustrious settlements of Manehatten or Canterlot. It was easy-going, simple, and quiet; a town where a pony could start a business as easily as one, two, three. It was a place where every day felt like a blessing from Celestia herself, and as such, was lived up to the fullest.
Springtime in particular was always considered a momentous occasion. For most ponies, it mainly signified the end of another long, raw winter. But in Ponyville, it represented nothing but warm afternoons, the suburbs blooming with Equestria’s richly vivid flora, and more of a season’s growth than the sleepy little town could handle. The young minds of Ponyville breathe with ease as the midpoint of their school year passes by, mostly unnoticed amidst the excitement of Hearth’s Warming Eve and Winter Wrap-Up.
But for one pony in particular, it meant so much more. On the very edge of town, boldly erected along the border of the treacherous Everfree Forest, was a cottage. That’s what it was to the townsfolk: a hut constructed from adobe walls and a grass roof, sporting what many would call an “infection” of birdhouses. The winded path leading up to her front door advertised a great number of burrows, dens, and a babbling brook that looped around the territory. Trees sparsely dotted the perimeter, with all but their canopies stripped and boasting nests and homes for a variety of winged creatures, avian or otherwise.
This was home to a bashful little pegasus aptly named Fluttershy. The day was as typical any other; she woke up at the crack of dawn, just as the sun was beginning to peek its head over the mountains, to the sound of her roosters squawking into the heavens. From there, she would visit every burrow, den and nest based around the sanctuary with a cart in tow, stacked to near-mountainous heights with breakfast for every critter and beast living docily under her care.
The sun was nearing its apex by the time Fluttershy had reached her backyard. The chickens were already up and milling about their pen, periodically freezing in place to peck at the ground.
“Alright, little ones,” sang their owner, her voice gentle and smooth like a mother’s. “I’ve got enough here for everyone.”
Fluttershy reached behind her cart, its once staggering cargo nearly depleted, and returned with a swelling burlap sack clenched between her teeth; several heads reared to their breakfast trickling out from a rip in the corner.
Fluttershy heaved it over the fence and quietly watched as two-dozen chickens rushed to the spilled feed in droves. As several arrived and began jabbing at the ground, Fluttershy leaned over the fence and bit down on the sack’s corner, giving it a few light jolts to shake out its remaining contents.
Several fowls were taking their time at joining the flock. “Eat up, friends! Yum, yum, yum!” she called, hoping it would quicken their pace.
The bushels of brown and white feathers were hungrily prodding at the dirt, as if they haven’t been fed a day in their life. “No need to rush, little friends,” cooed Fluttershy. “There’s plenty for everyone.” Like witchcraft, the chickens clacks and clucks obediently subsided, as did their impulsive dining.
“Good,” she murmured, eyes drawn closed.
Like every day since she first moved to Ponyville, Fluttershy topped her morning ritual by lifting her face to the sun, basking in its rays, and taking a large inhale of nature’s rejuvenating scent; the aroma of pine, moisture, hay and mildew from the Everfree all joined into a wondrous essence filled her mind and body with pleasant thoughts and a cheerful outlook on the day ahead.
But before Fluttershy even lifted her muzzle, she was snapped out of her light stupor to the sound of her chickens erupting into a flurry of terrified screeches. Not even giving it a second thought, she dove into the pen with a single beat of her wings and landed in the center of the scurrying fowls.
“What is it?” she asked, her meek voice unable to be carried over the chicken’s cries, their talons clawing at the dirt, or their rather large wings making spastic flaps in an attempt at hopping the fence.
“Friends, what’s wrong!?” she cried, her voice growing in volume and fear.
Fluttershy’s world came to a grinding halt at the thunderous snap of a tree trunk, immediately followed with what felt like a meteor pummeling the earth behind her. Before she was given the chance to turn around, a long shadow cast itself over the chicken pen, and a low, dangerous growl spawned heart-stopping tremors into the earth at her heels.
Fluttershy’s back went rigid; her face turned pale as she felt the blood drain from it at an alarming rate, leaving only beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. Her cyan eyes shifted from side to side, taking careful note of the jagged shadow’s narrow form.
“It’s not a… It’s… It’s not a… not a…” Fluttershy’s eyesight became clouded with tears as she struggled to finish her sentence. “It’s not a… a…”
Against all better judgement, the trembling pony’s head made a cautious bend to the left, stare glued to the corner of her eye. A claw as big as a stagecoach and whiter than snow latched around the fallen tree like a support rail came into view; Fluttershy’s heart felt as though it tried to burst out of her chest.
The long, faintly muscled arm attached connected to a knobbly shoulder that was partially obscured by pairs of wide, angular fins extruding from a skeletal muzzle like it was some sort of macabre, organic crown. Eyes that were such a stony grey practically blended with the paleness of their concave sockets, and were fixed on some arbitrary point in the distance, as though Fluttershy and her screeching chickens weren’t even there.
“D-... D-D…Dra-a…” Fluttershy’s voice wavered, never rising above a shrill whisper.
The dragon’s abnormal wings hung limply from his back and splayed over the lush grass, glimmering hues of red and violet under the morning sun. Short, ragged breaths emitting from the creature’s nostrils were cold, like arctic winds, like the blood in Fluttershy’s veins. It’s large head lifted ever so slightly and took a few sharp whiffs of the morning Equestria air. His lips savagely bared yellow teeth and grotesque blue gums, as if the scent was unfamiliar, and therefore, posed danger.
Fluttershy attempted to move her legs, to make a slow retreat before the beast took notice, but found that her entire body was petrified with fear. All’s she could do was utter one, solitary word:
“Dragon.”
The monster seemed to have acted in response to her proclamation, as his pale, snake-like neck curved into the air, jaws parted and exuding breath that reeked of raw clams; back curved, famished breast inflated with air, and a growl rising briefly within his throat was released as a blaring, husky roar. Its echo traveled the length of the Everfree Forest, overlapping with itself in a seemingly never-ending cycle. The many animals and forest critters lingering about the cottage scurried back into their homes; flocks of crow, phoenix, and other winged creatures darkened the blue skies as they made a startled escape from the woods, spooked by the drake’s ill-boding resonance.
When that happened, when the dragon let out its earth-trembling cry, Fluttershy screamed. On normal occasions, most ponies wouldn’t be surprised if she did. Heck, anypony in their right mind would be screaming right about now. After all, she was scared of her own shadow, and would make a dash into the nearest bush and hide until a friend would try luring her out of hiding.
But this wasn’t a startled little shriek, or a yelp of surprise like many were so accustomed to. No, what Fluttershy let out was a sob-ridden, blood-curdling scream; the kind one would make if a psychopath were chasing after them down a corridor with a kitchen knife, or if someone deathly afraid of dragons would suddenly find one that made a crash landing in their backyard.
Such an act was enough to catch even Angel Bunny’s attention, who threw himself against the living room window to find his owner being stared down by a massive white dragon. He pounded on the glass, squeaking, desperately trying to gain her attention but to no avail.
Fluttershy felt as though all of her strength and energy were put into this one scream, as she suddenly felt fatigued and her vocal chords painfully raw. It echoed louder than the dragon’s, probably reaching as far as Canterlot, and surely that meant all of Ponyville. She could already imagine her friends dashing up the hill, ready to find what’s got their friend so upset, only to discover a sleepy white dragon picking out yellow feathers caught between his teeth.
The thought of which made Fluttershy’s eyes light up on the spot, and let out another cry of bloody murder. Her resounding wails seemed to have finally caught the attention of the great dragon, for he pointed his muzzle directly at their producer and took a sharp snuff in her direction. After several tense moments of what almost seemed like contemplating, a series of bestial grunts and growls resounded within his gullet.
“Uh-oh.”
The earth beneath Fluttershy’s hooves trembled as the dragon lifted his claw up from off the ground; dirt and grass cemented into his palms fell as crumbled hunks into the cavity it left behind. As it ascended high into the air, ready to squash the shrieking pony like she was a common housefly, Fluttershy was suddenly overcome with the distinctive urge to preserve her own life, and immediately snapped out of her fear-induced petrification. Her eyes, glazed with tears, gaped widely as she observed the dragon’s bony hand beginning to reel back.
Without even giving it a second thought, she spun round and made a frantic dash up the hill her cottage sat upon; the sheer momentum from Fluttershy’s panic-fueled outbreak was enough for her to spring off the ground and enter flight, carrying her over the cottage just as the world was felt trembling from the dragon’s palm slamming into it.
What Fluttershy did not see, however, was the true source of the tremendous force impacting the earth, for it actually wasn’t the dragon’s attempted strike. As he was preparing to bring his paw down upon the shrieking pony, a sudden agonizing pain shot through his stomach as if someone were carving into it with a serrated blade. The burn’s swift arrival sapped the rage and power coursing through his veins and was replaced by pure anguish.
The albino’s weakened figure collapsed into a crumpled heap, head tucked close to his body and back rising slowly, erratically, with uneven breaths; great tremors were produced upon impact. Any attempt at movement sent a spike of pain ripping through his belly. The most he could do was allow his right claw to feebly grope at the plush grass beneath it, and the left remain clenched around the base of a fallen oak tree. The pure softness of this fertile pasture tickling his raw nerves sent waves of displeasure down the drake’s spine. It was strange; pure.
Everything felt different; everything sounded different, and smelled different, too. He couldn’t care less about the wailing creature from just moments ago, or those incessantly clucking chickens. Where was the bitter cold? The everlasting aroma of ancient tomes and cinder floating about the air, or the soft patter of a servant’s footsteps marching down the waxed tile corridors?
He could see only darkness; from the day his loathed existence was first brought upon the world, he could see only darkness, and remained dependant upon attuned senses of hearing, smell and touch. But here, wherever here may be, felt wrong. It smelled wrong and sounded wrong, but he could not see why.
For the first time in centuries, within his darkest pits of his demented mind, the one thing Seath the Scaleless had ever feared has been rekindled:
A fear of the unknown, a fear of not knowing what lies ahead and not being able to do anything about it.
Fluttershy remained a quivering ball swaddled in quilt from the safety of her home for the remainder of that day. Sitting at the very end of her spring-green sofa, her tail hung over the edge and was occasionally tugged at by a scowling Angel Bunny, or one of the many woodland critters that retreated into the cottage upon the the dragon’s arrival. From owls to parrots to even a bear or two, they all fled in fear upon the great beast’s arrival.
Behind Fluttershy, sunbeams pouring in through her massive picture window signified the day drawing to a close. She hadn’t even realized that she wasted an entire day, as it was mainly spent stealing peeks of the albino drake still curled up in the clearing, and then cowering back under the covers when even the slightest twitch of a finger was made. It seemed he barely moved an inch since he first arrived.
“Fwooom,” the dragon exhaled like icy and strong like a blizzard; Angel Bunny’s hairs stood on ends whenever the walls around him would creak and groan, as if they were daring to give out at a moment’s notice.
“Fwooom.” Fluttershy’s body trembled every time a ragged gust of wind would blow against her home. “Why?” she thought aloud. “Wh-Why won’t he just leave? And wh-where’s Twilight? Where’s Applejack?”
“Fwooom.” The wind chimes in her backyard clattered and clanged in a squall of discordance, tugging against the piece of rope that tethered them to the tree limb.
From below came a flurry of wild squeaks. Fluttershy tensley peered over the cushion and found Angel Bunny with his face compressed into his trademark scowl, complete with paws folded and foot tapping.
Fluttershy moaned, hooves moving to cover her eyes. “I just don’t know what to do, Angel.” What can I do?
“Fwooom.”
Angel’s foreleg jerked outward, directing to a point beyond his owner’s head and out the window. Fluttershy only made a glance in that direction before snapping the covers back over her head. “I can’t go out there, Angel! I really, really can’t!”
“Fwooom… fwoo-fwooom!” A mighty blast of wind rocked Fluttershy’s cottage, forcing a shiver down her spine and drawing the birds perched about into a frenzy.
Angel narrowed his eyes, giving her a look that said, “If you won’t, then I will,” which Fluttershy immediately picked up on.
“Don’t go out there, Angel! It’s dangerous . . . and scary.”
“Fwom!”
Fluttershy buried her face in the nearest pillow and let out a shrill cry. She remained there for a short spell, soaking in her situation, and returned with hopeful smile on her face.
“Maybe . . . Maybe he’ll be gone tomorrow morning?” she asked Angel, who thought for a moment before throwing his paws up in puzzlement. “Yeah! Maybe he just stopped for a rest. It’s still trying to warm up outside, right? Wait, are dragons cold-blooded?”
Once more, Angel shrugged, but not in response to his owner’s question; when she started mumbling herself to sleep, he simply left Fluttershy to her thoughts. Maybe she was right, or maybe she’d wake up in the morning to find her chicken coop vandalized and abandoned, with nothing but tufts of feathers and a dragon-sized depression printed into the earth it left behind.
The chicken coop . . .
Angel Bunny froze in mid-step. His beady little eyes darted around the living room and the animals and his little round bed space before they settled on Fluttershy, who was now fast asleep and bundled up in blue quilt like a cocoon. A squeal hitched itself in his throat as his drum of a heart pounded at an impossible rate.
Angel had always prided himself as being one of the braver pets living at Fluttershy’s cottage. He needed to be, as she would likely never leave the abundant safety of her home if it weren’t for him. But what Angel realized, what suddenly dropped on his shoulders like Celestia herself, terrified the brash little rabbit in more ways than he could imagine:
it was that the house had gone still; the dragon’s ragged breath had fallen silent.
While many would see this as a sign of relief, that the drake may have finally left on his own, Angel’s hearing was superior to ponies’, and what he heard, even at a faint muffle, was a low, predatory growl carried over the frantic cries of two dozen chickens. It was a growl Angel heard many times growing up in Fluttershy’s cottage: a growl made by hungry predators when a meal is spotted.
Without even giving it a second thought, Angel dashed his way up the couch, using Fluttershy as a platform and launching extra-hard off of her in an effort to wake her up. His mild effort was in vain, but he ascended to the windowsill to find that his fears rang truth. The pearly-skinned dragon had his claw clasped around the chicken coop like it were just a little foal’s toy, preparing to rip it from its foundations. The drool pouring from his spearhead of a muzzle pooled below. Angel’s mouth fell open to scream and a girlish cry came.
He didn’t even need to give a moment’s pause. With little regard for his owner’s comfort, he leapt from the windowsill as hard as he could manage, praying the entire way down that this one and only chance would give purchase. Angel landed on Fluttershy’s laxed face, paw-on-cheek giving off a light smack. Her eyes were just beginning to crack open as Angel grasped the end of her mane and tugged, sitting her up.
Fluttershy was rubbing her eyes in a slow, almost deliberate manner while her pet continued to frantically pull at her mane. “Angel what is—”
The snap and rumble of splitting wood resonated throughout the cottage. Fluttershy turned her head, slow, as though in a trance without even thinking about the . . . the . . .
The dragon.
Her blood ran cold at the sight of the white drake lazily moving the chicken coop into his great maw. The screams and cries of the chickens inside were heard across the yard and through the window.
No. “NO!” Flying at speeds even her friend Rainbow Dash would be proud of, Fluttershy whipped out her backdoor and in the blink of an eye found herself standing on a clammy white muzzle, staring into the empty voids of the great white dragon. “Stop!” she begged, lightly stamping her hoof to punctuate her command.
Either the dragon chose to ignore her, or he truly did not notice; those clumps of ice that may or may not have been his eyes betrayed no emotion, and Fluttershy felt the muzzle beneath her hooves descend.
“I said STOP!”
This time, the dragon did listen. His mouth abruptly slammed shut, almost making Fluttershy lose her footing, and she found the coop still in the beast’s claw, but safely out of his mouth. And then came the growl. That low, beastial rumble that was like the gurgle of a threatening sabercat.
Invigorated by adrenaline and her motherly instincts, Fluttershy cast aside her fears like they were just another layer of skin and asked the very first question in her mind with care but also a certain protectiveness edging her voice: “Hello, Mister Dragon. My name’s Fluttershy. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here in the middle of Equestria?”
The beast did not answer right away. And for a minute, Fluttershy truly believed the creature was deaf. “Mister Dragon?”
Without warning, the monster’s entire body trembled. Fluttershy took to air right as the beast shifted his knobbly shoulders, twisting his body around and giving her an eyeful of an ugly pink scar gashed deep above his . . . belly. The wound had split while making the effort to move, turning a fresh red that seeped down the side he was leaning on.
“Oh my gosh!”
Seath thought the female named Fluttershy cried in dismay at his horrific lack of proper legs, swapped instead for a pair of useless tendrils. And for just a second he thought of smashing the four-legged flier into the dirt.
But then he sensed her hovering like a curious fly around his torso, near the wound that bled once again. Seath gurgled in pain.
“You poor, poor thing!” she cried, tracing the fold of what remained around the gouge with a touch as light as the wind. “I’m sorry for thinking you were here to scare me, Mister Dragon! You poor little . . . Just hang on! I’ll go get you something for the pain. A-And some food!” And just like that, the creature with a tiny voice was gone, as well as her feather-light touch.
She came back minutes later when the flow from Seath’s wound had already stopped, the blood caking his belly drying and browning under the setting sun.
“Here you go, urgh, Mister Dragon.” She sounded as though she were heaving something heavy, and dropped it beside his weary head.
Seath wanted to say his name, to recall the cruel nickname given by the common people, but he could never find the voice to speak, and the sense of loneliness as he was cut off completely from his Channelers added an extra layer of helplessness for the old blind dragon.
As the suspiciously benign creature began to cleanse his scar with something cold and curdled, Seath sniffed whatever she dropped nearby but smelled nothing. At least nothing familiar. He returned to resting his head in the plush grass and listened to the female as she hummed to herself a merry tune while she toiled.
Several minutes passed until the female ceased her singing and tending. “There,” she said. “If you just take it easy for a couple of days, then your hurt will heal itself and you’ll be back on your . . . feet? In no time!”
Seath suddenly became furious at the jape and slammed his tendrils only once into the dirt before a spear of pain shot up his belly. A raucous cry rang throughout the clearing.
“Easy now!” urged the female. “Easy!” He felt her land beside his ear, but did not care until she pushed the pile of scentless rubbish towards him. “Please eat, Mister Dragon. I’m sure it’s not as . . . as tasty as my . . . my ch-chicken friends . . . but I have a friend like you that loves sapphires and rubies!”
No one is like me, he wanted to say, growing sick of the yapping creature’s folly. Her ignorance and swift change of face between terrified to kind brought an ugly, wary taste in Seath’s mouth.
“You don’t like jewels?” she pressed. “Oh, my. Um . . . I have barrels of salted fish for my bear friends in the cellar?”
Meat is good, that finally resonated with Seath and was something he could appreciate right about now. Anything to stamp out the frailty hurting both his joints and spirit.
The creature returned once more, though took a bit longer than the time prior, as the stars were out and crickets sang when she did, heaving a wooden something that creaked with every step she made and reeked of rotting fish. After a millenium of nothing but the giant clams that prowled his lair, it was one of the few memories that made Seath feel truly alive.
“Here you go, Mister Dragon.” The barrel fell into the grass, contents churning inside. He heard her remove the lid. Seconds later, something raw and reeking smacked him lightly at the tip of his muzzle. Seath slowly reared his head up and looked in the direction of the projectile, where he heard the female’s voice, once again filled with the same fear she held for him when first they met. “I’m sorry I’m sorry! I thought—I mean I just assumed, though it was very wrong of me—that you and you were . . . were . . . eep!”
The little thing made an even smaller squeak when Seath reached out towards her and clasped the barrel in between two fingers. He turned it upside, pouring its salty contents into his open maw and settled it back where he picked it up.
“I’m sorry about that,” she repeated, but punctuating it with a small titter. The feather-light touch came once more, but along the outline of his jaw. As she made small, drawn strokes, Seath felt an odd sense of calm that slowed his heart to a relaxing pace. Who was this? What is she and why is she doing this for the most loathed creature in all of Lordran? Is she truly kind, or ignorant? Seath didn’t have the energy to analyze her behavior. He just suddenly felt overbearingly tired, his eyelids growing heavy. Just when was the last time he had actually slept anyway? All that time working for years turned centuries in his library . . .
“Your skin is really pretty.”
Seath’s sightless eyes sprang open. Liar! he roared in his head, emitting a throaty growl and trembled the corners of his mouth. The feather-light touch was gone, as was the soothe in the creature’s little voice as she yelped and took flight.
“Wh-Wha—I’m sorry Mister Dragon! I-It’s just that, you don’t have any of those rough, uncomfortable-looking scales covering your body! I’m sorry! Your skin though, it just looks really shiny and soft in the moonlight."
Seath’s anger was deposited with a gusty snort. He had enough of this creature’s juvenile mind games. He had faced crueler naysayers than she in his years of living amongst the legendary in Anor Londo, long before he went mad and locked himself in the Archives.
And yet, he did not sense the critter fly away either. She seemed to have waited until he had fallen asleep, or looked as though, as he tricked her with long, guttural noises that resembled snoring. As the wind shifted and he felt her presence leave, he could have sworn he heard her whispering urgently to some other deity or maybe herself about writing to a princess.
Princess . . .
But Seath truly succumbed to sleep before he could dwell for long. She must have put something in the fish barrel? To make him sleep? That made sense, and he had to spend his last lingering thoughts admiring her for the deceit.
