(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.