(This
story references some terms and items that you may find further
explanation about on https://www.worldanvil.com/w/midrast-wain-sayeth
. The most important facts are however explained within.)

The
hatchet within Goreclaw's grip split open a log of wood with a dull
thud. The deep red fire dragon has remained focused on her work as
she threw the split open pieces of wood aside on a pile that rivaled
her own size. Yellow eyes regarded the pile with satisfaction. Yes,
this will do. Shouts and laughter resonated from the treeline ahead.

"Charhorn,
Lighthorn, its time to go!" Goreclaw shouted and listened to the
hum of leaves rustled by the late Fertilan's wind. The weather was
warm and sunny, perfect day to prepare some supplies before the cold
Freezan arrives and freezes the land over. Her tail brushed some of
the small splinters of wood onto a pile as she started to gather it
all into a large leather sack. The two smaller sacks were laying
nearby, ready to be carried by her children.

The
form of a adolescent dragon that inherited its rare black color from
Goreclaw's granddad darted out of the treeline, holding onto a branch
that was nearly twice his size. Charhorn's hide was prominently black
and red, even his horns neared the jet black which was unusual for a
fire dragon. In general, Fires were brown, orange or even grey, so it
was truly a blessing from Perseverance that she granted them two
healthy dragonets, one of which was truly blessed by spirits of her
ancestors.

Lighthorn
was chasing right after him, and seemed to be keen on trying to steal
his branch. Her hide was grey and orange, which nearly perfectly
represented her father's coloration. With the twinkling blue eyes,
she snapped and grasped it with a loud crunch. And so the two
youngsters ended up with two twigs instead of one.

Much
as their games were amusing to watch, Goreclaw was tired and wanted
nothing less than to sprawl back in her lair with her mate and rest.
Her head turned towards the sun that was slowly reaching the horizon.
They still had plenty of time. "Stop with your nonsense and help
me carry the wood back home. We are leaving."

They
weren't exactly thrilled about it but the young dragons were left
with no choice. They knew how to fly now, and that meant they had to
start helping with chores and gained new obligations of their own.
Much like everyone else in their tribe, they had to learn the basics
of combat and fighting but thankfully, it was not up to her to teach
them. Much as she loved them, it was also delightful to get some time
off from having to watch over them - and more importantly - they
returned back home utterly exhausted.

With
their bags full, and securely tied on their backs, the trio of
dragons finally took off and headed back north, towards their home
tribe, six wings beating in near unison. They flied in orderly
fashion, something that impressed deep red dragoness as she watched
over her children. Seems that the Clawstopper drills paid off, after
all. Or perhaps they lost all appetite for troublemaking now that
they had a heavy burden to carry. Regardless, her mind was lost in
thought and didn't notice a foreign shape take off from the river in
the distance.

"Mom?
Who's that?" Lighthorn's voice was curious as she pointed out a
dragon that flied on towards them. Charhorn at first ignored the
dragon, but now that his sister mentioned it, something was off about
his flying pattern.

"Let's
keep on flying..." The voice of her mother sounded concerned,
although perhaps that was just his imagination. The odd dragon kept
on chasing after them, and given their burden, he was gaining. And
yet, most curious of all, he didn't make any attempts to contact
them. No reason was stated why he follows them, yet it was still too
far to tell what was so odd. "Hail! We are in a hurry."
Goreclaw's voice echoed loudly.

Silence.

The
distance between them closed ever more. A terrifying animalistic roar
echoed from the unknown pursuer, and now that he was closer, one
could clearly see that he was definitely not an ordinary dragon. At a
distance, he looked exactly alike any fire dragon, yet up closer, it
was clear that something was very wrong with him. The eyes bulged out
and were unnaturally red and white, his hide was scarred all over,
missing a claw digit on his left paw but most importantly, he was
massive. Much larger than anyone Charhorn has ever seen in their
tribe! The only sign of him that seemed to indicate he was ever
civilized was a half-torn leather band affixed to his foreclaw.

"What
does he wa..."

"Children.
You have to go." Much to Charhorn's surprise, her mother started
unstrapping her bag of wood and unchalantly tossed it from her
shoulder towards the ground. It sailed freely towards the forest
below. All day of work would be undone, from this high up - there's
no way the bag would survive the fall! Goreclaw stopped still and
hovered in air, the mighty beats of her red wings pumped with renewed
vigor and eyes squinted towards the oncoming dragon.

Charhorn
looked at his sister and she returned his gaze, neither of them knew
what was going on. Is this stranger going to fight their mother? "But
what about..."

"No
questions! Forget the bags and fly! Tell your father!" Her voice
interrupted him harshly, the otherwise ever-patient and kind mother
he knew looked at him so angrily he missed a beat and nearly lost all
his cargo. The young Charhorn took the hint and immediately tossed
his bag out, Lighthorn after a moment of hesitation followed suit.

Now
that they all hovered in mid-air, their pusuer caught up and
outstretched his salivating jaws, aiming to collide with Goreclaw.
"Didn't you hear me?! Fly!" Was the last words Charhorn
heard her mother say. His heart pounding, he turned around and soared
on towards their home as fast as he could, trembling in fear. The
thud of collission and noises of dragons fighting echoed behind him.

He
dared not to look.

A
thunderous roar reached up to him and his heart was gripped with ice
cold claws. That was not the voice of his mother. Surely she is okay.
She must be. It's not right that she would fall. Perhaps she managed
to evade him and escape. Definitely.

Wings
carried him for good five minutes on the power of fear alone. His
mind was fueled by images of claws and teeth sinking into him if he
slows down even by a fraction of his top speed and so he didn't.
Charhorn's flight lasted for five more minutes before he realized
that he is alone. Where is his sister? Where is Lighthorn?! Despite
his body screaming in protest, he stopped to whip his head around and
scan the horizon. There was no trace of her, nor of his pursuer.
Something inside him cracked. Surely she must have fled too, right?
He tried to scurry his memory for her taking flight with him towards
their home but... He couldn't recall seeing her leave her mother's
side. His heart pounded heavily. Surely they must be alright -
although a nagging feeling deep inside his head doubted him. He
should have stayed. He should have stayed and helped, perhaps then
they all would have been alright!

----

Charhorn's
claws clenched his own elbow. The pain that manifested inside his
brain soothed him. It was nowhere close to the painful grieving
memory over the loss of his mother and sister, but seeing himself
bleed felt oddly relaxing. He deserved to suffer for what he has
done. With a snort, he released his punctured wound and carelessly
smeared some Slaf ointment onto it. It was wasteful to use such an
expensive healing elixir on something so minor but today is the day
when he was called before his tribe's Rada - a collection of priests
and leaders - and he didn't want to appear weak. If anything, he
despised his tribe's Rada. They have never allowed him the peace of
mind to see the killer of his sister and mother dead. And now, they
wanted him to once again stand before them and describe the Witless
that has murdered half of his family.

His
home was empty, that meant that Fireseer, his father, was already
awake and out doing whatever it is Greencarers do. Charhorn didn't
care. In one fell swoop, he jumped from the ledge and descended
towards the large dome built out of tanned hide and smoothed out
Shystone. It was exactly two Passes ago that the tragic event
happened and despite everyone offering their condolescences, nobody
really provided him with any comfort. Some came to say he was truly
blessed by Strife to have survived an attack by Witless but Charhorn
only saw it for what it truly was. His own weakness got his family
killed. Worst of all, his sister's body was never even found.

However,
the Ash-god Strife was useful in a different way. Within the temple
he frequented, Strife's visage was portrayed as that of a gaunt black
dragon with empty eyes. Charhorn could sympthize with this god the
most. "Strength is born of struggle." He murmurred to
himself. One's failures and suffering lead them to grow stronger. No
nonsense about protecting the weak from the strong. The weak were to
be tested and trialed until they themselves grew stronger. This was
his new life goal - become stronger. And oddly enough, as he flew on
towards Rada, he saw a couple young dragons look up towards him. They
too, understood that strength was not being respected as much as it
should be.

"The
menace himself." The venomous tone greeted him as soon as he
landed near the dome of Rada. He hated this place. It was full of old
dragons and smelled like rot. Yet even more than Rada, he despised
the dragoness that stood before him now.

"The
priestess of weakness." He snarled towards Seardream. The
dragoness' blue eyes reminded him awfully close of Lighthorn, yet her
hide was brown and white with horns protruding in a goat-like
fashion. Despite his words, he knew that she was physically strong,
but he couldn't stomach the idea of being close to anyone that
reminded him of his sister. Seardream grinned at him but didn't move
out of his way.

"You
better watch your tongue when you speak with Rada. Compared to me,
they have a much lesser tolerance for insults."

"Are
you done pretending to be my mother?"

"Not
quite. If you wish to get a rematch and get humiliated again in front
of your friends, you know where to find me." Almost teasingly,
Seardream flicked her tongue at him and finally stepped away from the
entrance, watching him smugly.

This
day was not getting any better. A gruff snarl resonated from within
his core. "Don't underestimate me." Eyes slitted, he
seriously considered challenging her again. Perhaps even here and
now, so that he can postpone seeing Rada for a couple more minutes.

Almost
as if to see his thoughts, Seardream turned her back to him and
snorted. "Well then, don't get yourself exiled. Fires bless
you."

The
black-red dragon didn't reciprocate her farewell and instead just
headed inside the dragon-built dome. The structure was ornamented
with texts and pictures carved within shystone walls, documenting the
history of the tribe back to its humble beginnings up to the
near-present times. Suffice to say, nothing interesting happened in
the past twenty or so Passes, since the last entry was about the
plague that has been overcome with minimal losses. In his mind, this
by itself was hardly worth an entry.

The
clack of his claws announced his presence as he entered a half-circle
of open space. Rada was comprised of masters of their crafts and
presided over by two highest priests of each major god. The
representative of Perseverance wore a skull-mask, with three teeth
hanging on threads at the sides of her cheeks while the
representative of Strife opted to paint his face with white and blue
bodypaint. In times of war, Rada's role was purely advisory, and the
Clawmaster was the one that had direct control over the tribe's
actions. Much to Charhorn's chagrin, he has never experienced
anything aside from the boring peace.

The
five dragons that looked down upon him from their elevated positions
seemed bored, and that by itself annoyed the black-red dragon even
more. They all waited.

"I
stand here." Charhorn took several long seconds to say his
greeting, hoping the sentiment of his annoyance will be noted.

"We
called upon you to ask for clarifications in regards to the Witless
attack you encountered two Passes ago." A grey-brown dragon,
Soarprey stood up to speak. He was the Master Wingbinder, healer of
his tribe. "We would like to confirm our suspicions."

"Why?"

The
rude question was followed by silence. All five dragons looked
displeased, which delighted Charhorn a little. "Why by the moons
do you care about the Witless that was slain two Passes ago?"

The
two priests presiding over the hearing looked at each other and
muttered something to one another. Clearly, they were discussing his
disobedience to answer, but Charhorn didn't care. In fact, his yellow
eyes stared at each and every one of them. And each and every one of
them averted their gaze.

Something
was wrong.

"We
have received a report of another Witless attack." Soarprey
spoke up as he was the only one that didn't flinch from his gaze.
"Redfear was killed. Blessclaw disappeared."

For
the first time in two Passes, Charhorn's heart was gripped by the
same cold talons of fear again. He didn't particularly cared about
either Redfear or his mate Blessclaw, but... The change of expression
on his muzzle must have been notable as the Master Wingbinder
continued.

"Normally,
we would have interpreted that as an attack from Wild ones, but a Red
and white dragon was seen on the fringes by a group of our Hunters a
day ago. Naturally, they assumed this was merely an Exile trying to
steal food..."

Flashes
of teeth and terrifying roars echoed in his mind. Details he wasn't
aware of before came back to him. "Did he have a torn leather
band on his paw? White eyes? Missing claw on his left paw? Clawmarks
all across his body??"

Stunned
silence followed.

"Charhorn,
we..."

"How
come the beast is still alive?!" The fear was instantly
transformed into hatred. He was told that they killed him! Those two
Passes, the killer of his mother and... Was he still alive? What if
the reason Lighthorn's body was never discovered was that she was
kindapped and infected?! Charhorn's gagged as his stomach threatened
to empty itself at the thought.

The
guilty expressions on all of their faces told him everything he
needed to know. "You lied to me, my father. All our tribe..."

"That's
not true... We..." Greatspear spoke aloud. The Master Huntress'
body was decorated with numerous skull-like trophies and bones that
were affixed to her tail and forelegs with leather bands. The orange
form of hers stepped forth and jumped down from the small podium to
level herself with Charhorn. "We simply found a Witless and we
killed her. Her description didn't entirely match yours, but since
you were young and under duress, we assumed we killed the scourge."

Charhorn's
claws scratched along the leather-covered floor, tearing the furs
meant for comfort. "It was a male! He is now out there and... My
sister might be now Witless because of you!" His yellow eyes
swirled with fury as he looked up at Greatspear. "You could have
saved her!"

"The
hearing is over."

Soarprey's
form descended from his podium and he flanked Greatspear. "We
will take matters into our own claws and deal with them. You better
get back to your tutors now." His expression was hard to read,
but Charhorn didn't care. He knew what he had to do. He turned his
back towards them and stomped out without a word. The hallway of
Shytone clacked aloud as he walked, informing Rada that he was
leaving. And yet, what they didn't realize was that he was leaving
the tribe for good - and he was taking his followers with him.