Through The Boughs Of Hurricanes

[Ozoric]

At the heart of the Drakengard stands an impossible tower. Built on the foundations of an ancient library, its base is seven hundred yards wide. It is approximately one mile high, though the size of the fortress masquerades its true scale with a web of sky bridges, aerie, and scaffolding. Much of the tower is solid rock until halfway up. A single narrow bridge offers the only entrance on foot, and scaling the narrow, unlit staircase within to the top is a trial few would attempt. Fewer still have ever succeeded.

Atop the tower stands the Stormhold. It is a watch house from which the night sentry sounds the mile long horn mounted on the tower. Forged centuries ago by the first of the Dragoon Order and bound in chains of magic the Stormhold emulates the roar of an Elder dragon. The tower’s sheer face and extreme height channels the sound into a single, harrowing note out across the jagged peaks and down through the warren like halls of the fortress.

In a chamber two miles beneath the Stormhold, a wizened man stands vigil over an auspicious youth. The red headed pupil read from a tome older than either could fathom. The book’s pages were three foot tall and two wide. Its spine was encased in iron and steel clasps forged centuries ago in the fire of the Drakengard’s oldest dragons. The first Dragoons wrote the edicts and laws that still governed the fortress in the book’s first pages, in the very room they stood. It was the Library of Hesta, the Elder Dragon of Knowledge.

Only The Verger, the High Dragoon, and the Captain of the Guard knew of its existence. The only entrance was through a concealed door in the Great Hall. It was protected by a mile long spiral staircase wide enough for one and steep enough to have to climb. Dimly lit torches burnt faintly in rusty brackets. It was a forgotten place, and the chronicles contained in the miles of shelves stretched back through the millennia. To see the library was a privilege. To read the contents of the books was a birth right.

“There is a windswept heath between the eastern peaks and western cliffs of the valley. The Drakengard stands at heath’s Northern end, unassailable by land. The heath serves as a landmark, guiding dragoons back to the Aerie.”

Ozoric Newalla frowned. He stopped reading to take stock of a wealth of new information. Though learned, he found the book to be more comprehensive than anything he had studied prior. The tome, as the principle chronicle of the Drakengard stood pride of place on a black dragon lectern. The lectern had been carved out of obsidian burnt by the dragon fire of Chalazae, the Elder black dragon. After three hours of study the weight of expectation was beginning to get to him.

“Is something troubling you?” the Verger enquired softly.

“What happened to the heath?” Ozoric asked. He looked up at his mentor.

[Ozoric]

“If you read on, it will tell you that climate change turned the valley barren.” The Verger’s soft tone sharpened. He seemed to be uncomfortable discussing it.

“But…,” Ozoric encouraged. His penchant for discovering the truth threatened to undo the idyll.

“When your mother succumbed to the madness of power, she levelled it. Her breath, not the sun’s glare turned the valley into an arid wasteland.” The Verger bowed his head, as though he was remembering his own past.

“I am sorry.” Ozoric was not sure why he was apologising, but he felt to blame for his parent’s failings.

“What for?” The Verger spat.

“For you losing your home.” Ozoric knew that The Vergers of the Drakengard were in fact one man. He did not know if he was immortal, or just immeasurably old. Either way, here was a man who knew more of the Drakengard’s history than any book.

“My home remains. The beauty, however...the lemongrass in the wind and the ferns that marked old burial grounds…” The Verger lingered on a precipice. Ahead, anger. Behind, calm invigilation. He bit his lip beneath his cowl and returned to form.

Ozoric reflected on the information. After a few minutes of reverent silence he cleared his throat and found his place on the page. He continued to read.

“At the southern end of the valley the mountains descend through a narrow ravine to the plains of Corone. The steep path is long forgotten, and its trail changes with every earthquake and winter’s snowfall. The mountains are an eternal reminder to the citizens of Radasanth that much of the northern region of the island is uninhabitable.” Ozoric chuckled.

“Despite that fact, they still try to find us.” The Verger stepped into the chamber proper. “Your father wrote this particular chapter when he last visited.”

Ozoric watched his mentor cross the flagstones and stand to the right of the lectern. He stretched a finger to a passage on the page and traced a line of the text. Ozoric took it as an instruction and read it aloud.

“When a new Emperor takes the throne the Drakengard sounds the Stormhold. The newly appointment leader travels to the fortress to appoint new Royal Guard.” Ozoric stopped reading. “Wait. My father wrote this?” Confusion reigned.

“He did. I think it is time that you learnt the truth about your parents.” The soft and uncertain tone in the Verger’s voice did little to put Ozoric at ease.

In recent weeks, the Verger had come down hard on Ozoric. He had been made to recite every declaration in the Drakengard’s statutes and learn all of its laws verbatim. He had drilled in full armour and run up and down so many stairs he had lost count. Body and mind had been prepared, and until now, he had not known for what.

“Are you okay?” the Verger asked. He stepped forwards slowly, hand raised as though to caringly embrace his protégée.

Ozoric took a deep breath to steady nerves.

[Ozoric]

“I haven’t heard what you want to tell me yet.” He narrowed his gaze, pensive, and clenched his fists. “I will be fine after a drink,” he continued.

The Verger rolled his eyes. He admired the Lancer for his intellect and compassion. The red head was unwavering in fulfilling his duties to the Dragoons and their mounts. He admired the Lancer’s draconic traits, easily tempered and usurped by instinct less so.

“It is fortunate I know you all too well, then,” he chuckled softly.

The Verger walked to the eastern wall. His laughter echoed through the library and faded into history. He pulled a decanter from between two books of financial accounts and inventories stretching back to the first years of the Drakengard and scooped up two glasses with his other hand. They clinked together in a welcoming chorus.

“Captain Aelfric informed me you are partial to red wine?” He turned and raised the decanter for Ozoric’s inspection.

There was little to the decanter in the way of antiquity or decoration. It was simple cut crystal. Hundreds of similar vessels kept the soldiers and servants of the Drakengard warm through the intolerably cold winters. Ozoric was more interested in its contents, and hoped that the dark liquid was Salvarian Shiraz. One prolonged layover three years ago, during a particularly torrid snow storm had instilled the taste for it.

“I’m partial to a glass or three,” he replied glibly. His mind wandered, for just a moment, from the topic of his parents.

“You had best drink from the decanter, in which case.” The Verger held the vessel at arm’s length.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather not stoop to Captain Aelfric’s level.” Ozoric chuckled heartily. It was the first time he had laughed properly in days.

He pictured the Captain of the Guard’s scowl had he been in the room. He hesitated for a moment. Though the Verger was as much a friend as a mentor, he was still a senior officer in the hierarchy of the Drakengard. Forgetting his manners did not come easily to the Lancer, and he weighed up if there would be repercussions.

“Go on,” the Verger encouraged.

Ozoric stepped forwards and took the vessel with a polite nod of thanks. He tipped the decanter and found immediate relief when wine hit the back of his mouth. It reminded him of evenings spent by the fires in the Great Hall in less than polite company. Blackcurrant undertones ignited his pallet and bolstered his confidence.

“Give it a few more swigs and you’ll smell like him as well,” The Verger retorted. “Let us retire to a more suitable room. We’ve much still to discuss.”

Ozoric took another swig and watched his mentor move through into another chamber. Opposite the entrance, a small door lead along a smooth stone corridor to a domed room. In the centre stood a large, thick, oak table. Grandiose black wing back chairs surrounded it that were as old as The Verger.

[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.

[Ozoric]

The architects of the Drakengard had painted a vibrant depiction of the Day of the Dragon on the ceiling. When the Old Gods still walked the earth the Elder Dragons were created. The Ayvar, the First People, called them Dominars. Eight dragons twice as large as the largest dragons of today.

“The day the dragons conceived their firstborn.” Ozoric knew the story well. It had been part of his education, of every Dragoon’s education the first day he picked up a lance. “The day the great war started.”

The Verger nodded. He looked up and set his sights on Chalazae. Ever since they were first created, the Black Dragon had been the cruellest and most jealous of her siblings. Though Fenrir was cursed, and Dubik weak, it was Chalazae’s fate was truly saddest of all. It was a cautionary tale bar none.

“Soon, only five Elder Dragons remained.” The dragons of today were orphans. “Your mother conceived a plan to overthrow her greatest rival and reassert her dominance. Her plan succeeded, too well.”

Ozoric dropped his gaze and stared absent minded at the decanter’s brim. He finger the glass for a few moments, then took another swig. He knew what was coming, and no matter how many times he heard it, it still stung him. It hurt him to know that he was Chalazae’s son. That he was in some way responsible for all that had happened to the dragons.

“Only Fenrir and Dubik survived. Mortally wounded, Dubik carried Fenrir to safety and did his best to heal him. Though his body was repaired, the injuries on his mind never faded. It is why we call him the Red Fury. He knows only pain. He knows only war.”

Ozoric nodded slowly. “I have vowed to put him to rest when I strong enough.”

The Verger smiled warmly. He knew Ozoric meant well, but in the coming days empathy would not serve the Drakengard.

“Dubik died, his last days spent lamenting his failures in a cavern in the mountains north of Akashima. His spirit still remains, a kami of light the Spirit Warders call Doragun.” The Verger’s rusty Akashiman carried enough meaning for Ozoric to infer it meant ‘dragon’. They smiled together. “A fitting enough end, but also a lesson to be learned.”

“Do not dwell on the mistakes of the past,” Ozoric said. He remembered the lesson well enough. The Verger had taught it more times than either of them could remember.

“Well done,” his mentor chuckled. “That leaves Chalazae. She got her wish, in the end. She was the only Elder Dragon to remain in a position of power and from the Aerie she has ruled her kin since.”

The Aerie was the tallest peak in the mountains visible from the Drakengard. The peak was eternally shrouded in a storm that could crack mountains atwain. She slept, or so they say, on a bed of her fallen comrades. No other dragons went there unless called. No dragon ever returned.

[Ozoric]

“She’s not so different from a human ruler,” Ozoric said weakly. He lamented the parity between people’s perceptions of dragons and the oft carnal reality.

“Very true,” The Verger agreed.

He examined his student in silence. Though one of the learned men of Corone, the Verger was, despite the rumours, still human himself. He felt emotions just like the rest of the Drakengard’s citizens. He, unlike the tempestuous Ozoric Newalla, had simply learned when to, and when not to display such feelings.

“So. My mother lords it over us from afar. That is not what you brought me here to say, surely?”

Ozoric tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Though an attractive, well-kept men, his digits were scarred and calloused from days spent tacking mounts and sweeping corridors. He watched the Verger as the man pulled back his cowl. It took a few moments of awkward silence to realise that he had never seen his mentor’s face before he mumbled.

“I know,” The Verger cut him off. “We look alike.”

The resemblance was uncanny. Sat opposite Ozoric was a man who appeared to be the Lancer in ten years. His hair was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, and his tattoos darker…but, there was no denying they were staring at one another through time.

“What on earth?” Ozoric pushed away from the table and scrabbled out of his chair. “I don’t understand!” he cried. He scuttled to the door, his stance defensive, as though he felt threatened.

The Verger rose slowly. He pressed the air with flattened palms to encourage the youth to calm down.

“Ozoric. Please. Sit down and let me explain.”

“No!” he roared in reply. His defiance echoed around the chamber and along the corridor into the dusty library. As his emotions boiled his tattoos began to re-appear, hidden by practice and a training routine bordering on obsession. Now they truly looked alike.

“Please…,” the Verger pleaded.

“Tell me!”

Recognising defeat when he saw it, the Verger slumped back into his chair and sighed.

“I am your brother.”

The room span. Ozoric clumsily returned to his seat, nearly falling over the chair’s arm as he was overcome with emotion and alcohol and a hungry desire to burn the chamber to the ground. The more he thought about the Verger, the more he felt like an animal. Instinct fought with logic in his mind in the maelstrom of an intense headache.

“Chalazae has three sons,” the Verger continued. Now that he had started, he did not see any point in sparing his brother the hardships to come. Now was the time, at least in the Verger’s mind. “One son with each of the three previous emperors of Corone.”

“Why have you waited years to tell me this?” Ozoric pinched the bridge of his nose to try and distract himself from his pain. He looked up at the Verger, for just long enough to show his contempt before dropping his gaze.

“Ozoric…you came to the Drakengard centuries ago.”

[Philomel]

Name of Judgement: Through the Boughs Of Hurricanes
Judgement Type: No Judgement

Rewards:
Ozoric receives:
575 EXP
70 GP

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!