Through The Boughs Of Hurricanes

[Ozoric]

For a few moments after he stepped into the room Ozoric forgot about the Verger’s looming revelations. He looked around the chamber and examined the intricate map embedded on the table top in stained glass and precious gems. It depicted Corone as it had been during the years after its founding.

“Where shall I sit?” Ozoric fanned a hand across the room.

Each of the chairs were identical, save for the dragon carving that sat on the top. They depicted the progenitors of the Elder dragon races. They were scowling, roaring, or guarding edifices to an age long passed.

The Verger cycled around the table and sat on the chair opposite Ozoric. The Lancer recognised the dragon as a representation of Diazole, the Elder Dragon of Fire. The Verger was a descendent of the Dragoon who first tamed him. A spark of understanding began to focus the Lancer’s mind through a fugue of wine and a long day’s study.

“This is the Aerie of the Primarch. You are the last descendant of an Elder Dragon. Need I explain further?” The Verger’s condescending tone aside, he made his point expertly.

Ozoric examined each of the carvings in closer detail. He recognised Fenrir, the Red Dragon. His spiked maw was immutable. His pronged tail a deadly weapon. The third he examined, the closest chair, was another familiar sight. A dragon, much larger than any of the others stooped mid-roar, wings pointing skyward.

“That would be my seat, then,” Ozoric said meekly. He shuffled towards it.

He set the decanter down on the table and pulled back the chair. It was heavier that it looked, and he scraped its legs noisily over the worn stone floor.

“Your mother is quite the dragon,” The Verger said with a bemused smile on his face. Ozoric shot him a glance. “She earned her name rightly through her deeds.”

“So people keep telling me, over and over.” Ozoric, finally seated, rested his hands on his lap. The statue of his mother loomed overhead.

“No Primarch has sat here for a century, Ozoric. Only I and the High Dragoon know this chamber exists.” The Verger recognised the expectant stare on his protégées face. “Forgive me. I have been putting this conversation off for three years…”

Ozoric struggled to get comfortable. He had to wonder what giants of men and women sat around the table in days gone by. How was the lineage of the half dragons watered down to his scrawny, red-headed self?

“Then don’t put it off any longer,” the Lancer suggested. He drew the decanter near. Another smack of the lips turned the wine into a hedonistic release, and then, after one swig too many, a lethargic kick to the teeth. “We have all night.”

“Before I can tell you that, I need to tell you something.” The Verger pointed to the ceiling with an index finger. “I need to tell you what this chamber represents.”

Ozoric looked up and set the decanter down in awe.