The moment I step out of the portal, I'm assaulted by chaos.
The Spinal Shrine is within the ribcage of a dragon's skeleton so enormous that it contains an entire mountain, and the mortal denizens of Avi who are assembled here on this night are locked in fierce, cantankerous debate. I'm not certain anyone has noticed I've arrived. I don't care to announce my presence, so I take the moment to gaze up at the rest of the gigantic skeleton, framed by the moons, the dazzling stars, and the Rings of Avi.
Nyth. The Goddess's firstborn son. The legends claim he buried the tip of his tail into the world's core, while his horns likewise pierce the Heavens. Like this, he chose to sacrifice himself for the sake of mortal kind, such that his bones would provide an eternal bridge between Avi and the Heavens.
Which never made much sense to me.
If his tail goes that deep, isn't he also a bridge to the Hells?
"Hark, believers!" someone bellows over all the rest. "Behold! The Goddess has delivered unto us the Red Storm!"
Then suddenly they're all prostrating before me, directing muted gratitudes to the Goddess Above and to me for endeavoring to combat the Wretched on their behalf. Makes my scales crawl. I disdain this odd reverence, which so many of the noble elite Fables can't seem to get enough of. Still, it's nice that they've all quieted down.
"Greetings," I say simply, swishing my tail and tasting the air with a flicker of my white forked tongue. Humid. Rich. Floral. The beginning of the growing season, then. "These summons seem urgent, so let's not waste any time."
They stare at me in awe, confusion, and befuddlement.
Wait, I need to speak in the common tongue.
"Tell me the situation," I say, moving toward them. Most mortal species of Avi are quite small compared to us Fables. Even the tallest among those present only reach hip height. "The Wretched, I've been informed. They've breached from the Hells?"
One man begins to answer but another talks over him, and then everyone's back to arguing. With a sigh, I cross my arms and thump my tail around, praying to the Goddess for patience. I briefly consider waiting it out just to make a point, but the sooner I can get back to my castle in the sky, the better.
"That's enough," I declare, then point a red claw tipped finger at the first person who catches my eye–a shadowy man near the back who looks like he doesn't want to be here either. "You. Let's hear it."
With a cold look left and right, he sighs. "Aye, Lord Crimson. They've pierced the lines, out in Settesia. Much of the Ardhor Peninsula was taken practically overnight. Not much left to save, if anything at all. Last I heard, the capital is under siege."
"Then it's already lost." I scratch at a horn, frowning in thought. "Strange. Why Settesia?"
"Border conflict with the Hatfords. Dropped their guard to reinforce it. The Wretched stole the opportunity. You ask me, it was devised. The Fallen Queen likely instigated the clash."
"Likely indeed. That's all I need to know. Do you travel?"
"I wander wherever I'm needed."
"Good, I'm taking you with me."
"And I'll go gladly away from these noble pricks."
"Wonderful. Just a moment."
I take flight and make some distance before shifting to my draconic form. Unlike Hilde as a true dragon–two wings, two arms, and two legs–I'm actually a wyvern–two wings that double as arms and two hind legs–with scales the color of snow save for the hardened plating down my spine and at the crest of my head, my claws and talons, and the vicious curved blade at the end of my tail, which are all blood red. The webbing of my wings is a lighter shade of red, which is my namesake. Crimson.
Darting between Nyth's ribs, I circle back around and take hold of the mountainside, lowering my horns before the congregation. "The closer to my head, the smoother it will be."
He climbs on right behind it, minding the spikes. "No reason to make things any rougher, is there?"
"Right you are. The rest of you, man your borders and watch the fissures. Stay on guard for anything, and cooperate. Whatever conflicts stir in your midst are now irrelevant. Enemies you may be, but the Wretched are an enemy to us all, and will not discriminate between you when they begin the slaughter. Protect yourselves and each other at all costs."
I don't delay any longer than that, taking flight once more at speeds only amphitheres can rival. I'm just as fast as they are but thrice as lethal. Checking to make sure I haven't lost my newest acquaintance, I ascend above the clouds to catch the airstream going westward across the Feldon Sea–the gap between the Ashbour and Cambrid continents.
Here's a chance to talk, but neither he nor I seize it. I'm grateful he keeps his mouth shut. I don't particularly care for idle chatter or any conversation at all while I'm flying. It's meditative for me. I simply shut my mind off and soar.
It's a long distance, something like eight hundred kilometers, but with my pace we clear it swiftly enough within a couple hours. When I spot land, I pump my wings and accelerate, eager to see just how bad the damage is. With a fair warning to my acquaintance that I'm about to dive, I drop beneath the clouds for a better look.
The moonslight and Avi's rings reveal plenty. There's little to nothing remaining of the coastline. As far as my eyes can see, it's all been taken. The Wretched Overgrowth has swallowed the lands of Settesia.
Roses. It's all roses. Giant ones, some of them bigger than I am. Twisting lengths of stems like vines are tangled up with one another, covered in thorns ranging from normal sized to the breadth of my wings. The deep red blossoms' petals are like treetop canopies over a forest of dark green vegetation so thick I can't see through it. Even in the low light of dark, there's a thin haze of something like blood-tinged fog hanging low over the horrific garden. The rich, sweet, and decadent scent of the flowers carries far and wide through the air, tantalizing to the mind and a bit numbing to the senses. Or perhaps dulling would be a better word. The effect is akin to being a touch inebriated. Clouded. Dazed.
"I hope you have something to breathe through," I tell the man.
"Aye. I'll make do. No need to concern yourself with me, Lord Crimson."
I decide to take him for his word. Descending lower, I follow the coast a short way southwest, heading for the capital port city of Petonwich. It sits right at the mouth of the… Barmouth River, I believe. In and amidst the verdant Green plains of the Northamia Shire.
At least, under normal circumstances.
When it comes into sight, I drag to a standstill, beating my wings to maintain my altitude. The biggest roses of them all stand towering before me, reaching for the clouds, and rooted amidst the cemetery that once was a city. I sincerely doubt there are any survivors. Nothing for us there, not unless the Fell Queen's forces are still active in the area.
Better to check, I suppose. At the very least, I may find some leads on which direction they came from. My first priority is to slam the door shut behind them, so to speak, by finding and sealing whatever breach they made. At that point, it becomes a task of simply cleaning up.
Resuming my flight, I circle above the city a few times, weaving through the gargantuan rose vines and trying to pick out anything remotely of particular interest–most specifically, motion. Once I find a small section of a towering stem with fewer thorns on it than most, I sink my claws in deep, perching high above to watch far below.
The dreadful garden is still. Quiet. Only disturbed by the wind off the ocean. No, I don't see anything of note here, and I'm not going down here to dig around with no idea what I'm looking for. My next best bet is to circle the peninsula as a whole and seek out where the corruption is the densest. Most likely inland, near or within the mountain ranges farther to the west.
"Lord Crimson," the man says, tapping my crest. "What's that up there?"
"Hm?" I look up.
It's too late.
A streak of black dives from the clouds and crashes into me, something so catastrophically large it rivals even the biggest of roses. The impact rips me from my perch and nearly snaps the stem in two. Like I'm nothing more than a doll, the thing grips me by the neck and swings me around to bash my spine against the castle walls, shattering the palisade like it's a lineup of twigs. Astonished by the sudden onslaught, shocked by the sheer aggression, dazed by the rosy mist, and now stunned by the fierce brutality, I struggle to fight back against the grip around my neck.
I'm lifted high into the air, kicking and thrashing, trying to claw my way free. All in vain. It's all in vain. So much for my chance at glory. I lost this battle the moment it began. The man I carried here is gone. Certainly dead already.
Wings plume. The webbing is made of rose petals. The scales are red as wine, accented with black protrusions the shade of midnight. A slender, agile, streamlined true dragon of mythic proportions, twice as big as Hilde and at least four times bigger than me, rises to its hind legs and lifts me even higher. Sharp, serrated teeth and vicious fangs are bared as the monstrous leviathan growls like a roll of thunder. To my horror, I take notice that its eyes are clouded and milky white, unfocused and somewhat glazed over.
This is no Wretched draconid.
This is the Fallen Queen.
With a low purr of mirth, she whispers in the night.
"You're coming with me, little wyvern."
Fighting for my life, I'm dragged by the neck into the Hells.