The Wyrm's Fury

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt, 'The Basilisk'

Slarathys glared at the town from her perch on the promontory island, hidden in the early morning fog. She matched the height of the banal cathedral the humans had built when she was young, their vain celebrations of a God who was, in many ways, foreign to the land. Unlike it, she had been born on the land, and her kind was known to the people. They were respected, loved, and sometimes feared if the humans didn't treat the bay with the respect it deserved.

Until they came. Foreigners from across the ocean. Strangers, in strange garb, with a strange God. They drove her kind and all others not human, out and away. Shredded their numbers. They even dared to now pretend that the history of bloodshed was but fables. Exaggerations. Her own kind were forced to withdraw, to hide away from the lands and waters that were their birthright, by cowards who swore she never existed.

How the humans and her elders couldn't see it, she didn't understand. Their cathedral wasn't even congruous with the castle beside it, one that her mother had told her was not always present. She could hear them even now, the humdrum of their infernal machinations, even distant, drowning out the swell of the sea, the call of the birds, and the subtle shifting of fish scales. This town, city, whatever filthy word they created to describe it, had blighted this bay too long. Even if she stood alone in her will to see it destroyed, she didn't mind. The horrors this foreign God claimed to have vanquished, then claimed never existed, would begin to revisit them. For too long, they had acted unopposed. No longer.

Three weeks later

"Don't you damn say it. I heard the bells on the docks. Don't tell me it's another kid." The Mayor of Willisburg looked at the pale face of his secretary, blood draining away as the ringing of the millennia-old brass bell still echoed in his mind. It was the fifth time it had rung in the last seventeen days, after many centuries of blissful quiet. He'd even considered gifting it to the local museum; as part of the town's history, the Bell of Mourning had particular prominence. Traditions claimed that it was made in pact with creatures of the sea, that they'd ring it to warn sailors to avoid the waves, or that they'd been offended in some fashion. No less than a dozen different stories attested to it. Stories that had, for many generations now, been thought to have been something to keep kids from drowning in ill-favoured weather or thick fog.

"No, it took Martin today. There were witnesses this time, though." Frederick spoke hollowly, as Fisher Martin was his Uncle by marriage. His wife would no doubt be crushed by the news. Even as an old coot, he was known and well-loved across town.

"I'm sorry, Fred. The witnesses are at the constabulary, yes?" Frederick nodded before the Mayor sent him home with pay for the week. The town had been on edge, especially with children being the principal victims. Still, without witnesses or bodies, the only thing to do was remind them to be careful at the water's edge. Now, he had to see what the poor blighters who saw Martin get snatched had to say and pray that the answers would be of any help.

Half an hour later, he was reading the statements taken in the Chief's office. They were clear as mud on all but a few things. Whatever had snatched Martin off the dock and right out of his boots was fast, powerful, silent, and vividly green, almost glowing in the dawn light. One of the witnesses, the local chemist, claimed it was like a dragon, a serpentine body covered in hard scales, with powerful legs to launch from the water. Another, the Carpenter's boy, said it was covered in fur, with thin membranous wings, like a flying fish crossed with a dog. The third, a known drunk, claimed it was a sturgeon what had snatched Martin. And now he wondered if no information was better than three crackpot competing theories. Whatever the case, it was agreed that these were not random accidents. That something was at work. And something can be hunted down, not merely cowered from.

The next day

Slarathys's plan had been working. The humans had started to avoid the water, but it seemed she'd overplayed her hand by taking the old man. She neither knew nor could fathom why he'd matter more to a town than their children. But this morning, it was as though every blasted bucket and tub that could float was crisscrossing the bay and emitting horrid noises to boot, worse than any thrum of their engines had ever been. It made breathing, even just thinking, harder. And she couldn't surface, or she'd be spotted, and even though she wanted them gone, she was not quite so foolish to believe that they were no threat to her. She knew too well her own kind's stories of how humans had turned on them. There was no doubt in her mind that their forgetting of her kind would only extend so far, and likely not be so complete as to forget how to kill.

She needed to lay low, literally, as she buried herself in the silt and mud of the bay. The noise became less painful to her ears as she did; the high-pitch pings, worse than a whale party, were deafened by the thick mud. But now she felt every one of the rippling invisible waves along her body. It was as though someone was rubbing sand under her scales, which made keeping herself still almost impossible. She understood that any movement would be noticed if the stories of the fish were to be believed. She would never know how the screeching noise let humans see in water, but she had heard enough warnings to err on the side of caution. Even caution can fail, though, as the intolerable ripples passed all along her body, she felt her right foreleg spasm against the uncomfortable feeling, hoping it would go unnoticed. Judging from the feeling of the anchor landing, almost crushing her powerful tail, it did not go unseen.

On the water

"Captain! Something on the scope, there's movement on the bottom!" First mate Charlie cried out as the radar map changed suddenly, an abnormal shape shifting directly below the Salamander.

"Drop anchor! Show me Charlie. Bill! Have the radio ready." Captain Johnny Kildonan gave his commands as he crossed the bridge of his vessel, keen to verify the anomaly before he dared radio out to the improvised Willisburg Fleet.

"It's moving again, Captain! Massive, at least 140 feet, along the bottom, due west!" Charlie called out again as Slarathys swam towards deeper parts, closer to the open ocean. Before the Captain even gave an order, Bill relayed the message to the entire fleet, and the chase began in earnest.

Radio reports came screaming through as ship after ship spotted. They lost the slippery creature speeding along the bottom of the bay, each heading west, following after her. Until she slipped past the furthest ships and was seen on no scope for a quarter-hour. Trawler ships eventually began searching the area where the creature was last seen, massive nylon nets stirring up the mud, blinding any scopes too close or too weak to cut through the disturbed sea bed. Nearly two hours passed before a trawler reported catching something massive in its nets. It quickly became evident to all which ship it was as it began moving counter to its engines.

The beast was overpowering the ship!

But all her struggle was for nought as the net was winched up and out of the water, and Slarathys came into full view of all. 145 feet of writhing, angry muscle, trapped only because her claws couldn't quite reach all of the netting she'd trapped herself in in her struggle. She shortly resigned herself to whatever fate had placed in store for her as the trawler hauled her off to shore for Willisburg to do with her what she had tried to do to them.