#riceterea

Riceterea kicked off some weird creeping goop that attempted to stick to her foot with an annoyed growl. Why her wanderings so frequently took her to the Scarred Wasteland despite her hate for the place she had no idea. Travelling through the Ashfall Waste to check up on their primary lair was something she felt was necessary but seeing the exceedingly slow recovery of the land after that idiot got it all contaminated usually further angered her.

After that, passing through the Windsinger’s lands was usually a blur because everyone there was way too damn happy to put up with and then before she knew it she inevitably ended up traversing the wandering contagion.

A strange scent in the air distracted the wildclaw and she lifted her head to better catch it. Her lips lifted in a disgusted snarl and she changed course to stalk in the direction of the smell despite her better judgement. It wasn’t often that she came across such a strong smell of singed, rotting dragon flesh, after all. Usually that meant a larger battle than a simple skirmish.

Following the scent she found the remains of what once must have been an entire clan. What fire there had been had already finished running its course, though it didn’t look like it had been a natural fire. A few of the bodies had very obvious evidence of a fight that the flames hadn’t destroyed. Served them right. The strong fought and lived and the weak perished, that was the way it should be.

Riceterea gladly picked through the encampment for things of value or food. They certainly didn’t need their worldly things any longer and she was always hungry in the plague infested lands because none of the food ever smelled right. In her searching she stumbled, quite literally, across the smashed remains of a nest where one lone egg remained intact. It had been partially hidden under stained cloth that she moved out of the way with disgust.

It was still alive, near as she could tell. Riceterea knew little about eggs that weren’t of a fire nature. Fire eggs basked in the heat of lava and that was how they were kept warm. Did plague eggs need to be warmed too? In which case was it already too late for that egg?

Riceterea stared at it for a moment before ruffling her wings and stooping to grab the egg in her claws. She rearranged the mantle around her neck so that there was a place for the egg and placed it there. “If you’re strong you’ll survive, whatever you are,” she told it gruffly.