Crimson

Chapter Twenty-Two

"What are we to do?" He wailed, his orbs flickered as the plasma reflected upon them, vigorously. "She was the light in this regiment. Her influence unmatched by all of the seywaw within three cycles of this pitiful land." Again, he wailed, his scales lightly twinkling as her emotion flooded the control center of his large frame.

Pligal watched, numb, detached from all of this as he processed his own grief. A mere death state before this, he saw her, the seeress, as she guided him back into their world after his journey. Now, in the midst of the four seywaw, and a blubbering Dorn, he remained aloof, cold to their grief.

Dorn moved to his pit, newly formed to accommodate his large frame, he shrunk within it. Augmenting his body into the shape, he spawned from his egg. The retainer so long ago, holding his youthful self, a surfacer. Regressing to this form, he allowed the sobs to soothe him, cascading down his face scales, the sorrow formed a deluge of pain.

As Pligal observed those around him fall into their bereavement, he marveled at the large Dorn in his pit, so youthful, so broken. Such a strong legionnaire, yet so gentle. Respect came easily with this eron. Growing with him, learning from him as a new recruit, understanding that this one did not merely contain outward strength. His strength came from their ancestors. Imbued with a blessing of wisdom, his mind worked, as four legionnaires housed in the structure two of his kind.

His orbs moved around the others. The four seywaw, who treated him previously, bringing him back from the brink. Pligal exuding veneration for them; as they allowed him to return to this plane, to maintain the undertaking of the beings of light. The same who blessed Pligal with the wisdom of old, the knowledge of his other, and the worlds far from his own.

A single red tear formed in his orb, before dropping downward. Sliding down his scaly cheek, he felt his light follow the path of the fluid. Burring his face in his talons, he allowed the surge to pour. Darkness obscured his previously brilliant yellow scales, slightly turning gray, they settled on dark brown, the shade of sorrow.

The loss of the seeress, his guide in the world unknown, the veil transcending the sky gods, pinned him downward. The soft crush of his emotions causing Pligal to droop slightly before pinning his talons to the blue and tangerine ground with his body, his face tucked deep in the thin pincers. A flood of scarlet fluid seeped out of his embrace and into the soft soil. Mixing in, soaking deep into the ground, staining it with his sadness, filling it with his gloom.

A tender touch met his shoulder as a startled Pligal shot up to see who encroached upon his boundary. Relinquishing their touch, a blurry image stood before him. Taking the time to wipe the melancholy from his face, Pligal witnessed an elderly figure before him. Draped in a heavy cloak, the garment appeared to weigh many over many stones as the limbs of him hung feebly.

"I know your sorrow, young one." The elderly eron stated before him. His voice wispy, carried in the wind delicately. "She meant much to me as well."

Pligal allowed his eyes to focus on the old scales of this creature before him. Queyan, the aide and advisor to Baron Richtol stood before him. Mere talon lengths from him, so close, that Pligal grew alarmed at the stealth of this creature, becoming distracted from his grief as he thought of the frailty of this being and the normal gait and shuffle of his garment, which did not alert him of his approach. Looking back at the others, he noticed them immersed in their grief to not care of this new party member. With somber orbs, he turned his attention to Queyan.

"Lord Queyan, what is to happen now?" Pligal asked with deep pain.

Sighing and surveying the others, Lord Queyan met the gaze of the boy for a couple of moments before answering softly conveying the wisdom of age, the knowledge of cycle upon cycle of loss.