"You better be almost done, brother."

"Almost," Morrodor assured, watching the color shift in the vial in his dark talons.

"Well work faster," Byrnthos growled. The oversized sand territe had to bend his head just to fit in the dilapidated shed. He hardly had an inch of space without knocking over Morrow's myriad of jars and containers. "My client will not be kept waiting--"

"I'm done." Morrodor held out the vial. Byrnthos snatched it from Morrow's claws, and swiftly made to exit. "Wait--" he called, rummaging through the shelf beneath his workbench. He pulled out another vial. "Take this to mother. It's on your way."

Byrn narrowed his golden eyes. "How do you know where I'm going?"

Morrow busied himself with resetting the tools of his makeshift laboratory. "Where you always go when you're not scavenging for food or gold. To see him."

Byrn thrashed his tail, shattering glass bottles across the floor. "Have you been spying on me, imp?"

Morrodor sighed. "No. I'm just far more perceptive than you give me credit for."

The territe snarled, and took the second vile so harshly it nearly broke. "It's not like any of your other cures have worked. It'll be a wasted trip." He turned again for the door. "And if anyone-- anyone, hears of this, it'll be your carcass for dinner." With that, Byrnthos bust through the door, leaving it swinging behind him.

Morrodor stood for a moment, watching the dust hang in the air, illuminated by the rays of pale light that seeped through the patchy shed's roof. "Would it be such a waste if it worked?" he muttered.

He glanced again through the holes in the roof. Nearly midday, he realized. Dacht. I'm late.

Throwing some supplies into a satchel, he threw it around his neck and dashed out the door. The dusty streets of the warrens greeted him, sloppy rows of deteriorating hovels for those who couldn't afford better, the roads all shaded by ancient cloths hung between the roofs of the buildings to make the place less noticeable from the air. Wide-eyed ryss' and ryns watched him from where they crowded in their doorways to cool off, all of them just as bony and emaciated as he was. Some of them looked around five hundred years of age, no older than he. The occasional haggard arwyn or merwyss wandered down the earthen paths, all of which he avoided cautiously. Too many of them reeked of strange substances he didn't care to become familiar with. He kept his head low, walking quickly and quietly.

He was so absorbed in walking that he nearly stumbled over a young dragonet.

It was but a hatchling, with large, round eyes and pale scales still developing their pigmentation. Alarmed, Morrodor glanced around, looking for the parent. Dragons under fifty were completely defenseless, hardly able to walk. "Hun-gy..." the little ryss mumbled. "Hun-gee..." Morrodor blinked. This was not a part of his plan. The food he kept in his pack was for his family— he needed it for him. He was the one who needed to survive. He was the one who planned to grow up and change things around here. He was the only one with the brains to do it. It was most important for him to survive. The mumbling little dragonet was unlikely to change the world. It would probably grow up hungry, with no education, and live out it's pitiful life as a potato farmer.

What did Anfeiddreidd need most, someone to save its peoples or potatoes? The equation was as simple as that.

But then the dragonet reached out and grabbed his narrow arm with a clumsy, fat talon.

Morrodor really had no clue what to do about hatchlings.

"Hun-geeeeeeee!" The dragonet complained again, eyes growing shiny with wetness. "Hu-hu-hungeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Well, perhaps if he gave it some food it would go away. He used his free arm to reach into his satchel and grab a strip of the dried meat, and held it out to the dragonet. "You want?" he offered.

The dragonet eyed the reddish brown strip in fascination, before removing its talon from Morrodor and reaching out with both arms for the meat. The ryss' young white claws closed around the strip as if it held a most delicious candy, and contentedly began to nibble on it.

Free from the hatchling's clutches, Morrodor turned away and started down the street again. It would be no use looking for the parent. For all he knew it could be any of the ragged dragons stumbling about the place, if the hatchling even had a parent. In that case, he had just wasted good food.

But... He had given it a better chance.

And he would be saving them all eventually, anyway.

Meanwhile, the sun continued to fall. He doubted the Burning Rose would wait on him. He dropped his head and picked up his pace.

His snout collided into stone-hard scales.

Morrodor stumbled to the dusty ground. He looked up, and blinked against the glare of bright golden scales beneath obsidian armor.

Royal armor.

The snarling, scarlet face of an oversized fire volcanic glared down at him. "Rat! Mind yourself if you know what's good for you."

Morrodor instantly sank into a bow as he slowly backed away. Subservience worked best on the haughty ones. "Yes sir, my apologies. It won't happen again."

He didn't stick around for forgiveness. Morrow spun and bolted down the nearest alleyway, wishing he'd had more time to calculate the best route. Pure adrenaline kept him running for countless blocks, yet soon his flanks were heaving and his muscles burning.

I could just collapse right here. That wouldn't be terrible.

He didn't hear pursuing talonsteps, but he knew better than to think it was safe.

Just keep going. It'll be easier to keep going than to stop and move again.

His talons and his head didn't concur, but he forced himself along. He had raced right out of the warrens, and now trodded the glimmering cobblestones of the commercial district. Loaded stalls lined the streets, merchants all trying to yell above each other. All trying to garner the attention of the wealthy nobles perusing the goods.

Bright silks glared at him from clothier's stalls, and the scent of seasoned, dried meat had his mouth watering. He paused, considering the stall where a butcher tended spitted meats over smoke.

Usually, the place was prime to hit up a few pockets or unattended stalls. On a good day he could bring home enough to feed his entire family, or something valuable enough to pawn for the gold to do so.

Yet not today. Focus, Morrow. Focus.

He slipped his way through the commercial district, avoiding the corner guards till the commercial and residential city began to blend, and eventually deteriorate. He turned in to a small house not much better than one from the warrens. The weather-worn door swung open upon his touch, and he slipped inside to be greeted by darkness.

A dim pair of glowing eyes was all that told him someone else was in the room. The eyes narrowed, then nodded.

Morrow followed a trail of candles down into the depths, the path becoming more rocky and uneven as he went down. The cave, he suspected, had been there before the house. How it's owners had known it was there was beyond him. But the place served its purpose.

More eyes greeted him in the sliver of a room at the bottom. His eyes slowly adjusted, aided by burning flower in the center of the room, casting everyone in bronze light.

One stood farthest from the flame, still cast in shadow, so that only glowing violet eyes could be seen. Those eyes turned to him.

"You're late."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Osiris must die.

The words of the Burning Rose echoed with him as he climbed the candled path.

But how? Do we just bust in and kill him? We all know that wouldn't work.

Time. Time is how we play this game.

Too many resistance groups were gatherings of dragons that wanted to sit around and complain, but never get their claws dirty. The Burning Rose was the only one he'd found that stood a chance of making a difference. Partially, because they were the only one to take him seriously.

Killing the king isn't going to help. He has far too many sons, and none would make a better monarch. Except for me. We need to start by making me a legal heir again.

How?

Morrodor sighed. He'd answered their questions, set his plan in motion. He could only hope the legwork would succeed.

He pushed his way through the door, dusk light harsh on his eyes. Blinking to adjust, his heart skipped a beat when he realized that figures had crowded around the entrance to the hovel.

In the twilight, it took him a moment to recognize the face of the closest one.

The fire volcanic grinned, his obsidian armor glinting.

"Hello, little rat. Looks like we've found your nest."

Morrodor hardly heard the words.

Next thing he knew, his face was smashed into the earth. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Welcome to Morrodor's side of Anfeiliadd. I'd love to hear what you think of my dear Morrow, his brother Byrn, and the story he's setting in motion!

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