Brirer: Avengaea

the continuing stories of the Taratus Clan
by Neishai

Avengaea | Dark's Night

• • •

He sat in the library of the Sanctuary, with the pretext that he was reading up on Avengaean history and information about the native dragon species, including their culture and magic. This was certainly mostly true. Though this world was vastly alien to his homeland, or anything he had known in his travels thus far, there were so many similar things to attract his wandering mind. Usually he was adept at fixating on a single task or goal, but lately, so much had happened lately that he was left feeling a little rattled. It was understandable, but his mind groped for something he knew and understood, and the one thing he knew all too well was his own past.

Brirer was one of the few tarati one fateful day not only Searched, but Searched quickly. For him there was no days-long struggle for survival in the wilds, simply stealth followed by gunfire and a quick retreat into the sky of all places! He remembered running across the trenches surrounding the compound. So many had died before even reaching the relative safety of the trees that their open-air graves littered the ground. Strife came from the air in the form of a helicopter, and from the ground as foot-soldiers and their dogs throwing grenades and bullets and themselves. Orders had been to stop Taratus at any cost.

They had failed.

The speediness of his discovery had astonished him; at first he had only considered hell coming from the heavens, but instead from it had been salvation on dragon-wings. His first time flying on the back of a living creature had left even him silent with awe. His mental silence had not been missed in House Rh'thaou. In fact, he thought with a combination of wry humor and bitterness, they're probably celebrating. But who cared about that now? Sure, he would return to pick up the pieces of his House someday, and probably laugh derisively at any survivors.

"Look what I managed to do in my absence. Am I still fit only to lick your boots? I think not." Oh yes, he would relish the day he could walk confidently up to Erloch and spit in his face. For that purpose alone he hoped the dark tiger-shifter would survive. The possibility that the Alpha of their House may also find a dragon to bond had entered into his mind, but what were the chances? Would he honestly be able to swallow his insatiable thirst for blood long enough to take a detour that would inevitably lead to the strengthening of their House tenfold?

Perhaps, if Caoiloch wasn't killed during the escape. She was, of the sibling co-alphas, what anyone would consider the "brains." Erloch simply had no patience for long-term plans.

Unfortunately, for all of his enthusiasm, Brirer's rescuers, a Search-rider and his Search-dragon, had almost come to regret their trip to the planet Earth. Sensing his very presence and then his promise as a future rider of dragons had lead to their near fatality. Few of the various offworld dragon-bonded pairs had come directly in the line of fire. This pair had not only done so, but strove to shield several other of the fleeing tarati until they could make for the trees, until Brirer had pointed out the foolishness of their actions. "The whole point of so many leaving at once was that inevitably some would escape to exact their revenge!" His words had been amazingly quick and well enunciated despite the maelstrom of noise swirling about their ears, though it was doubtful the man had been able to understand the language. The dragon however, blessed with similar gifts of telepathy to those of the tarati, had understood the hyena-shifter, and had urged his bond to make haste.

Over and over again, alarm bells had gone off in the rider's mind. The whole encounter thus far had been costing them far more than their catch seemed to be worth. Had they been from Earth, they would have noted the similarities this creature, introduced as "Brirer," to those of another creature native to the planet: the hyena. His form was unmistakable. Even encrusted with blood and grime it was easy to see his brown-pointed light golden-brown fur was freckled with black polka dots. He had a girth almost as large as his barrel-chest that spoke of overindulgence in the evenings, but even beneath fur and beer-belly were tough, sinewy muscles rock-hard from ceaseless toil and training. Overall he made for an almost comical character, with his short limbs and overlarge neck and head. If he had not carried the instrument of his trade, a strangely adamantine flute (it doubled as a club in some instances), the rider could have mistaken him for a wine-maker. Altogether it was, understandably, a very confusing visage.

There was, however, one aspect of his dependent that was most unsettling of all: Brirer's eyes. Of all the confusing paradoxes this shifter encompassed, within his eyes were the most disturbing.

The depthless intelligent eyes threatened to pull an individual in, not with a charming magnetism but rather, similar to a whirlpool, or a vacuum. Yes, that's it, he thought, looking over him with an appraising eye, I've heard of how if you open a porthole in a spaceship the outside vacuum is irresistible. But they were conscienceless beads of poison that dared the observer to pierce their thin amicable façade. They hid within their depths hidden agendas and the understanding of horrific truths. With their raw cynicism and disillusionment they also spoke of enough pain and neglect to drag a soul onto whatever path this creature now found himself upon. And observing to those unspoken secrets, the dragon and bond had finally begun to think of him as a person, rather than a "creature." It had finally spurred them on, to have him try for a dragon of his own, despite whatever the consequences might bring.

For whatever hope his saviors had invested in him, Brirer had given them little in return. He certainly repaid them however he could though only physically, but whenever asked of his home and background, the stories he could tell were so detailed and hideous as to inspire mental images they had never before imagined. "The tubes," he would say with dramatic yet heartfelt fervor, "were many vivid colors of pain piercing my skin, tunneling through my flesh like so many maggots... each experimental fluid pumping within invaded my veins with a new facet of that word… pain…" Blood and gore, these were flimsy descriptions of what he could weave within a listener's mind. He was the equivalent of a well-made horror movie leashed upon a child's mind before being sent to bed. He gave the shadows in the halls substance, even at midday. Even the adults found that their hearts skipped a beat whenever someone stepped out of those squirming shadows.

With (very little) time, his talents lost their peculiar appeal and even he began to wonder if he was capable of a truly entertaining tale anymore. Finally the establishment (they called themselves a castle or a caer or something, he could never quite remember despite his semi-photographic memory) had been more than happy to send him wherever he wanted to go…as long as it was far, far away!

Apparently the small planet of Avengaea was far enough away, though perhaps its inhabitants would disagree. If only he could focus long enough to be sure! Certainly in general these dragons seemed upstanding enough. Perhaps they were not the ones for him, but there were Demons and daemons, and of course humans that would probably value his services.

Even before becoming a member of House Rh'thaou he had displayed other talents besides storytelling that would have been invaluable to them, if the little caerlings had been able to see beyond his horrific past. He was a seasoned hunter and an integral part of any hunt, but by his very nature inspired revulsion on a basic level, and was therefore often forgotten or ignored. It was only natural, and certainly not surprising; there is just something about hyenas that turn most people's stomachs. He did not hold this against anyone; he knew it wasn't personal, but it did leave him repeatedly embittered.

He considered it some sort of cruel joke that his experimenters had infused his genes with those of such a universally hated creature. They certainly had not done it to shut him up. If anything, he was louder, and…chattier than he had been before. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it really was so ironic…perhaps it really was an apt choice for one like himself. He had always been among the dregs of society after all…

Bricriu Scorer had been almost literally born a bard. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when he was pounding on pots and other loud objects during his infancy, nor keyboards, but it soon became apparent that he had excellent pitch. He learned himself what sounded nice to the ear, and what was piercing. He taught himself to sing and once he had learned to read was soon memorizing lyrics (or simply putting words to song) and eventually moved on to the longer ballads known in some cultures as a style of storytelling.

Despite his talents, he never received much instruction. His family was poor and as he grew, he spent increasing amounts of time helping to support his family instead of playing an instrument. He lived in an area where the poor were approached with the same reluctance as the omnipresent muddy streets they were forced to travel daily; and it was a place where the street urchins were kicked at like so many flea-bitten mongrels.

At this stage of his life, he used his knowledge of music to glean knowledge from loose-mouthed travelers and locals in and around the inns and taverns. His father was disgusted with his son's habit of skulking about these places when he went to market, playing his infernal music when he should have come straight home to help around the house. But how could he complain when the boy actually brought in more money than the rest of the family combines? Times were simply too meager for morals to take precedence over survival.

His teenage years spent as a spy had set his path for the remainder of his life. As time passed and he began to travel, he became a tracker, and more proficient spy perfecting the technique of "hiding" in plain view. In this way he did his share of smuggling, trading of information, and the like before he was finally captured by bounty hunters and eventually sold into slavery, where he ended up a human guinea pig.

Ah well, he thought, perhaps they did have a sense of the ironic. People are more than happy to ignore something like me, what better way to walk around "invisibly" than as a disgusting eyesore?

He snorted once before erupting into fits of laughter. Most of it was silent he was laughing so hard, tears streaming down his dark face. One or two people sitting further down the table looked up at the motion of his shoulders shuddering convulsively, until they realized the cause. He was not choking at all, unless one could count his sense of humor as a valid airway inhibition. He gasped, hiccuping sounds escaping his blackened maw, white teeth contrasting sharply against his dark complexion like vampire fangs. He rocked back and forth, finally falling out of his chair and remained on his back until he could catch his breath. But by then, the maniacal giggles had attracted unwanted attention, and suddenly there was a dark shadow looming over him, of which he had a vague impression through tear-flooded eyes.

"Sir," the dragon said in a quiet voice strained with barely controlled anger, "you have been reminded before to please remain quiet. If you would be so kind as to finish up what you are reading, it would be best for our other patrons."

"Ohh-ho-ho-ho-ho…I'm so sorry…hee-hee-hee…I suppose it's best that I come back at a better time." Brirer grinned sheepishly and rolled over, picking himself up and righting the chair.

"Yes, I believe that would be an excellent idea."

He was still chuckling to himself as he left the library, his laughter bouncing softly off the walls. In his wake, a stack of reading material sprang from where they lay on the table, and back to their places on the shelves.

• • •

In an effort to fit in a little better, Brirer had altered his apparel to match those of the inhabitants, in fresh colors such as chocolate-brown and emerald green in billowing fabrics -- much more in one garment than he had ever seen in one entire outfit. He had taken up the habit of taking baths not once but twice a day, and of course, walked around in human form using his human name. Bricriu had used this form perhaps a handful of times in the past year before arriving on Avengaea; though it was the one he had been born with it took some getting used to.

And the grooming thing…it did not come automatically. As a human, unlike a tarat, his hair was slow in growing and difficult to manage, not for its unruly behavior but rather for the opposite reason. His hair was as limp as fresh kill. Of course, now that it was clean and trimmed in a tolerable style, it shone and bobbed and smelled of flowers. He wore a goatee that was several shades darker than his dirty-blonde hair, and tied in with the washed-out brown eyes.

Today he walked along one of the streets in Sanctuary admiring the scenery, especially the architecture, but when he got hungry, he sat down on a bench in the sun and pulled out a roll, some cheese, and a skin of ale and munched idly. When he was finished, he beat out a rhythmic beat with a small hand drum and began humming. His deep voice added an odd melodic quality to the underlying thrum that caught several passersby off-guard, for most did not notice the song before they had walked abreast of him and felt the vibration, well, in their breast!

For a moment, a great shadow passed over the sun, blanketing the open courtyard in darkness. Most of the inhabitants were used to the presence of dragons and paid it no mind, though he always looked up, an alien characteristic that would probably always make him stick out in a crowd. It did not help matters that several times later on he would look up, distinctly feeling eyes upon him from above, only to look up and see nothing at all…

Or…the shadows, did they just…move?

Grimacing slightly, he wondered if it was the sunlight bothering his eyes. Sometimes "sunspots" can render the eye blind or make one's vision riddled with splotches of phantom color. Although these, they did appear distinctly black…

Because he could not identify the source of his unease, he decided to leave. There was no point in staying anyway, for he was done resting. After all, his lunch break had made him feel rather restive.

As usual, he was off to find the library. He was more careful about his behavior there, and the librarian had grudgingly allowed him to return. On his way, he enjoyed taking a scenic tour to better acquaint himself with the city. It was a lovely city and easy to become sidetracked with. Today, because it was already a little late, he decided to walk along the outskirts of town in an effort not to be further distracted.

The sun was still shining brightly on the world, but as he rounded a house he fell into soft shadow. Something he noticed in his human form more readily than his furred half-hyena form was the drop in temperature. Briefly he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and with a shiver he was used to the change. As he did so, the same shadow passed overhead. He felt a gust of wind swirl about, kicking dust into his face and swirling his hair and clothes about. Shielding his eyes he stepped back in time for a huge shadow to drop from the sky before him.

He had been correct before, this sleek winged creature was a dragon, of sorts. The only difference was that it had many heads where it should only have one. Each of the four serpentine heads had a pair of glowing eyes, and as many tails were hooked with stingers reminiscent of a scorpion's. He was a shiny, the color of charcoal in such a way that whispered carbon in his mind.

No, Cheran.

Bricriu blinked and stared with an expression of awe. The utterance in his mind was not his own. It was somehow more fluent, more sibilant. Cheran…

Cheran'khan.

"Cheran'khan," he whispered, only just noticing the tall man, with long black hair and flowing cape and finer clothes than he had seen thus far, dismounting from the strange dragon, a hydra.

Yesss. You, Bricriu Scorer, also known as Brirer, will come with us. Cheran turned one set of eyes on the taratus, while using others to keep a watchful eye on their surroundings, and on his rider who now approached Bricriu.

"But…why?"

The serpent hissed with pleasure at the reverence and admiration with which this man regarded him, but now was not the time. I have need of your ilk. People with evil in their hearts with the need, desire, and will to handle my children.

"Your children," Bricriu repeated, "to bond to your children?"

"Precisely," the rider answered smoothly. "Will you come?" He tall, much taller than he had appeared on his dragon's back. In fact, suddenly Cheran seemed incredibly huge. Hedoro, as he was called, had a cold expression on his face, enhanced by his silvery eyes. Overall his looks were exotic despite their basic human form, and despite the journey his fine clothing nearly immaculate, leaving Bricriu's efforts at looking presentable seeming little more than a servant's game of dress-up.

But this was just what he wanted, wasn't it? He had wanted the use and companionship of a dragon…but not just any dragon, an anti-dragon. A hydra. Like hell he was going to pass this opportunity up. The hydra was already hissing with pleasure when he nodded, flashing a shark-like grin that had within seconds exploded with a rush of laughter. "Of course I'm coming. I've been waiting a long time for this."

• • •

Fifth and second-last came possibly the oddest personality of the bunch. Brirer, or Bricriu Scorer, was an artificial hybrid of human and some offworld beast called a hyena, and he called himself a tarati. Onithris had very nearly rejected him when Onithris had arrived with the man in tow, able to see the spark of goodness in him that, though it had been crushed early on, had still existed at some point and therefore had the possibility to rekindle itself. But his determination, and twisted soul, had grown on her and in the later days before the clutch hatched the Hathian had seeked out the bard to listen to his tales and songs. He’d fed her burning need for knowledge of other worlds with gusto, and though there was the typical distrust of one dark creature to another, he was her personal favorite of the candidates. She nodded to him, and he to her, as he went to stand.

A tense silence fell over the grounds, each candidate caught in his or her own thoughts as the eggs rocked. More than one of the smooth orbs had cracked now, and the largest was showing flashes of brown and red scales under cracked bits of shell. But Onithris was tense, waiting for the final candidate to show up.

~Exerpt from Kat's Dark Avengaean clutch

Two writhing masses of heads and tails righted themselves on unsteady baby-legs, and though both were revealed to have a magnificent four heads, all eyes were on the more vivid of the two – a purple dragonet, striped and membraned in brilliant, satin red. What was most striking about him, however, was the four sets of bright, vivid, sky blue eyes. Eyes that anyone could become entranced with, eyes that held frightening intensity, intelligence, and violence.

The massive kit took one look at the candidates and all his mouths opened in laughter or pride, and eight eyes settled all at once on Atrocity. But rather than going to the man, the bright dragon-child instead turned on his sibling.

The second four-headed male was brown, deep and smooth, with membranes in a calming tan shade. But on his extremities, wing-arms, four tails, four noses and all, he was brilliant red as if bloodstained. His eyes were black and wide with hate as he was knocked over by his slightly smaller sibling, and the resulting tussle was nothing short of a squirming, snapping, screeching mass of biting heads, gashing tails and scrabbling claws. Onithris roared her rage and finally moved, trampling brittle egg shards to get to the fight.

~Stop this! You are not beasts!~ She pried the two apart, throwing the purple-red half across the courtyard in the process. He hissed with his two crowned heads and righted himself, galloping back and earning another smack, as the brown-red he had attacked snarled at him passively from behind his mother’s legs. When Onithris had to bat the sadistic smaller hatchling away, the second brother stalked off, uninterested, towards the candidates.

Brirer straightened as the hatchling slinked towards him, locking gazes with the void-eyed dragonchild. “I’m yours, then,” he said with a note of sarcasm, beating the brown-red to the punch. He chortled, pleased, and nodded all four heads.

~Mine. And I am Bereran. Now… I’m hungry.~

“Of course, my pet, your breakfast is this way,” the tarati man informed his bond sardonically, though his eyes were wide and proud. The two ducked into the hallway.

The red-purple screeched after them, then snarled and sat down to pout. His prey was gone...

~Another exerpt from the Dark Hatching story

• • •

More coming soon.