Round Three

[Atzar]

Welcome to round one of the Vignette Tournament! With a nod to the Chinese New Year, the following is your prompt:

Look! A dragon!

As always, the details of the story are up to you. A giant, fire-breathing beast could very well be descending on your home... but that's only one way to respond. Dragons come in many shapes and sizes, have many personalities and appear in many different settings - from the highest mountains of Althanas to the pages of a book.

The round officially begins at 12:01 AM, an hour and a half from now. It ends this Friday at 11:59 PM.

Have fun!

[MetalDrago]

An unbearable heat assailed his senses. Crouching in deep meditation, the Captain-Commander of the Dark Dragon Corps of the Cult of N’Jal, could feel flames licking at his body, though he knew deep down that he was suffering no wounds and the only fire for over three hundred feet came from the fireplace in front of him. Relaxing his mind further, the pain only seemed to intensify, and he was beginning to consider stopping his meditation early before he felt his consciousness pulled violently deep within himself. A pair of glowing green eyes greeted him on the plane of his soul. He could feel the eyes upon him, even with his eyes closed.

Slowly, the shadowy creature’s mouth opened and a white-hot flame poured out and surrounded the Dragonian warrior, burning his flesh and charring his cape. Howling in agony, Drago tried to force his eyes open, but couldn’t. A low, growling chuckle escaped from the shadowy figure before him as it began to push against what could only be called ground, though it was the same inky blackness that was everywhere else in this realm. Looking up at the beast, Drago could tell that the creature was not only gargantuan in size, but also very familiar.

The green eyes surveyed him for awhile longer before the creature opened its gaping maw once again, only this time to speak. “You will not escape me so easily this time, Scorpio.”

“This time? I have no idea who you are!” the man lashed back, trying to find purchase on the sword at his waist, only to find nothing there. He balked for a moment before screaming at the creature before him, “What the hell are you and where have you taken me?!”

The beast looked slightly perplexed as he looked at the smaller creature before him. “Do you not recognize this place? This is the plane of your soul, the very essence of your being, and I…” The creature stepped forward slightly into a light that had not been there before, revealing its face. What Drago saw, while not surprising in the least, still shocked him enough that he could not even speak. This creature, this impossibly large creature, was a dragon. Silver scales covered the creature’s carapace, its eyes were a startling emerald green, and it must have stood at least twenty-five feet tall.

“I am your inner dragon.”

“My… what?”

“Your inner dragon. I am the soular manifestation of your dragonic heritage. I have been calling to you for years now, since you gave your faith to the black goddess. Only recently, with Her grip on you faltering, have I been able to reach you.” The dragon stretched, his wings blowing away the darkness and allowing even more warming light in.

Drago flinched back into the shadows, drawing his singed cape around himself and breathing in quick, shallow breaths.

“My faith is not shaken, no matter what you say…” Even saying that, the Dragonian himself did not believe his words. Since his battle with the silent swordsman, Arden, he’d been unable to shake this belief that there was something wrong with his actions. He knew that he had been serving evil all this time, but it felt so right that he had never questioned it. Lately, however, he could feel bits and pieces of his former kindness and respect for life and passion coming back, and it was beginning to trouble him.

The dragon seemed to be unimpressed with his rebuttal and growled softly, blackened flames billowing from its mouth. The thrall of the black goddess cringed at the sight and the dragon chuckled slightly, a deep, guttural sound completely out of place in a creature so monstrous in size.

“Drago Scorpio, hear me well. Your darkness is beginning to break down and collapse around you. You have a choice. Either embrace the darkness within and fall with it, or seek to break it yourself, and by breaking it, overcoming the influence of the Dark One. If you manage that, you will be able to command the awesome power you have gained from your contact with the Thayne for yourself, toward your own ends, and no one, Thayne or mortal, will stand in judgment.”

“You make it all sound very nice, but who am I to break the bonds forged by the divine powers of a Thayne?”

“The gods of Althanas are not as omnipotent as you think. There is one power that no being, god, mortal, immortal, or otherwise can subjugate forever. The power of choice, of free will, is the ultimate power, and one that most take for granted. Only those who truly grasp the truth of this ever rise to become anything great.”

The dragon reared back and unleashed another torrent of black flames, specked with white, at the Dragonian. Bracing for the attack, Drago was surprised to find that the flames did not burn, merely surrounded him in a tempest, breaking through the darkness and revealing a bleak, desolate wasteland within his soul plane.

“This is what has happened to your soul under Her influence. These once lush lands… They’ve changed. They’ve fallen into a darkness and desolation from which they cannot awaken. Yet, look at your feet.”

The Dragonian raised his eyebrow slightly, but obeyed. When he looked down, he saw something that he would not expect in this realm, a small green sprout was sticking out of the ground. “See, my young friend, the seed of hope within your soul has already begun to grow. Soon, given the proper care and a bit of work, it will grow into a mighty tree, dwarfing even me in size. Where hope blossoms, if it is properly cared for and nurtured, it can become a beast even greater than the Thayne. You have seen this beast in action before, in your fights against Lilith Kazumi and Arden the Silent Swordsman. It’s called conviction.”

“Conviction…” the half dragon man muttered under his breath. He thought back to his battles against the Tantalum Troupe and nodded. They had seemed convinced of their path. They knew what they were there for, and were in service to something greater than themselves, something that they wanted to protect or give new life to.

“Do you see now?” the dragon asked. When the smaller being nodded, a patch of green appeared around the small plant as it grew to almost half a foot in height.

“I do. I have much soul searching to do, but I think I know where to start at the very least.”

“In that case, I shall release you back to your body. I have said what I felt was needed, as a part of you. The choice you make from here is you own, untainted, unashamed, and no one, not even I will stand in Judgment of you.” The dragon blew smoke toward Drago, and even as he breathed it in, he felt himself lifted by it and thrust back into the physical world.

Standing from his sitting position and dusting himself off, the Paladin of the Dark Goddess left his room and made it down to the front of the inn. He left without a word to the owners, not even to ask for his money back. His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke to no one in particular, “I’m going to Scara Brae.” With those words, the Dragonian seemed to vanish from Radasanth that night, not to be heard from again for the next few months, not even at the Citadel.

[SirArtemis]

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Artemis said to his dwarven friend, Nalin Norlond, as the two sat at their vending stall waiting for the distraction to pass. Nalin didn't seem to hear as he crunched on some lunch, taking the opportunity to sneak in a meal.

A large crowd stood gawking openly at a small escort passing through the main market of Knife's Edge. The stone road, worn smooth through the countless years of bustle, was crammed full of shoppers and vendors, with stalls lining the perimeter. The celebration of the Summer Solstice and the warmest time of year brought with it the most activity, leaving the market bustling with activity.

Today though was an exceptional day; a hexagon of guards wearing crimson armor trimmed with vibrant gold marched faithfully, surrounding an elf who wore luxurious robes of matching colors. His hair shone a brilliant white in the afternoon sun and his short strides showed he wasn't troubled much by time. They walked slowly and steadily through the market and the elf seemed to not notice a single person in the crowd; his eyes looked straight ahead and never wavered.

Artemis, who worked for the Norland forge, knew that as soon as the escort passed the crowd would filter to the shops, and so they waited patiently to sell their wares.

“So...” Artemis sighed, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat. “Who's that?” After a moment of silence, he looked over to the dwarf, the burnt orange of his beard speckled with white. “And what are you eating?”

Nalin took another bite of his food with a loud crunch as Artemis watched, and looked up at the young man. He took a moment to chew before responding. “It's some sorta salad. Harki says I'm putting on weight and not the good kind. He told me to eat this bundle o' leaves and such, sayin' it'll help.” He took another crunchy bite, spraying the dressing everywhere. “This ranch stuff makes it taste a whole lot better, that's for sure, and the bit o' chicken helps me not feel like I'm a durn rabbit.”

“Smells a bit... rancid,” Artemis remarked, his face cringing as he caught a good whif.

“Aye, but if I ignore the smell, it tastes great!” He finished up his lunch and put the metal lunch box away under his stall, wiping his mouth and beard while Artemis watched with a sour expression. “Anyways, that there's a Dragon.”

“A what?”

“Dragon,” the dwarf said through a cough, clearing his throat of the viscous ranch. “A member of the Dragon Council.”

“Never heard of it,” Artemis said with a shrug, kicking his boots up onto a crate that stood by the vending stall.

“Don't see 'em often, truth be told. Not ones to be trifled with though, don't ye doubt.”

“Just looks like an old elf to me.”

Nalin laughed, taking a moment to let down his shoulder-length burnt orange hair and tie it back up into a fresh pony tail. “Trust me, he's not just an old elf.”

Artemis turned, giving the dwarf a hard look before looking back out through the crowd at the Dragon. He took his feet off the crate and leaned forward, running a hand through his short brown hair before resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you know about them?”

Nalin leaned back in his own seat this time, lifting a flask of dark ale to his lips before answering. “The Dragon Council is small – about ten or so, and all elves, some men and some women. This one, based on what I've read, I think is Lord Davian – a sorcerer that could sneeze away a continent.”

“So what's with the guard then?” Artemis smirked, not impressed.

“Well, would ye rather his guard protected him, or that some dust tickled his nose?” Nalin laughed with a wink, easily wiping the smirk off of Artemis' face. “Let's just say that it's best not to rile up a guy like him.”

“What about the other members? Are they just as strong?”

It was Nalin's turn to smirk this time, turning to Artemis. “Ye ever heard o' a weak dragon?”

“Don't really know much about any dragons to be honest.”

“Then let me tell ye a bit about 'em. Maybe it'll clue ye in a bit about the Dragon Council.” Nalin took another sip from his flask before setting down the bitter ale. “Dragons are creatures o' legend, both respected and feared. They live centuries, millennia even, and the older they get, the stronger they get. They're known fer their overwhelming power an' size, able to destroy a city like Knife's Edge in a night; they're also known fer their wisdom, courage, honor and patience. Some let their fear o' dragons turn to hatred, and so ye hear stories o' the evil behind dragons, but that's only when they're forced to defend themselves and their homes, just like we would.”

Artemis listened quietly while watching the elf before him stride gracefully to the edge of the market and disappear behind a building. “So the Dragon Council members are like dragons, is that what you're saying?”

“Exactly,” Nalin said, preparing the stall for the ensuing swarm of customers. “Lord Davian is already nearly two millennia old, and he doesn't look like he's gonna die just yet.”

Artemis sat thinking to himself as the crowd dispersed and continued on with their day. 'First time I've ever seen a dragon,' he thought with a smirk, standing up to greet the first customer. "Hi there, how can I help you?"

The man ran his hands through a head of greasy hair nervously, glancing about as he spoke to Artemis. "Yeah, I need a weapon. I don't care what, just give me something so I can fight. I have three gold pieces."

Artemis gave the man a cautious look. "You seem in a hurry. Is there a particular reason you're so antsy to get your hands on a weapon?"

The man scoffed, looking at Artemis as if he were nothing but a naive child. "Were you not paying attention? A Dragon is walking around the streets, weaving spells of Thaynes know what, and you don't know why I want a weapon? He shouldn't be here. Wizards only bring trouble as it is, but guys like him are on another level. I just want to be prepared in case things go sour."

Artemis stood with hands on hips, unsure of what to do with the man, but Nalin intervened. "Three gold? Here's a steel dagger. Best of luck to you."

The man grinned, taking the weapon and heading off while sliding the blade into his belt. Artemis looked over to Nalin, wondering why he had sold the man a weapon, but the dwarf just continued on handling another customer. Once the crowd had cleared, the pair was left with a moment of peace.

"Artie, lad..." the dwarf said with a sigh. "I told ye dragons inspire fear in people, didn't I?"

"And?"

"Well, let the guy be afraid. If it gives us business and his reason is to protect himself from somethin' that won't happen, then so be it." The dwarf shrugged, counting the money that the rush had earned them. "The Dragon won't start any trouble, so we'll get business, he'll get a dagger to protect himself, and that's where it'll end."

______________________________________________

Hours passed before the pair left the market and returned whatever stock they had left to the Forge. The sun had set and the stars lit the evening sky, and Artemis made his way back to the inn where he lived for some dinner before bed, taking his normal route.

“Greetings,” said a low voice behind Artemis. He turned to see the crimson and gold robes of the old elf – the Dragon. His white hair hung glistening under the moonlight. His eyes, slits of silver, seemed to glow much like Artemis' own blue ones. A tattoo of a silver dragon wrapped around his right eye as if perched upon his brow. “May I speak with you?”

Artemis stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with his hands and tapping them on his thighs. “Um... sure. What can I do for you?”

The elf smiled, lifting a hand and gesturing for the young man to relax. “Please, this visit is nothing to worry about. I simply wanted to ask you something.” Artemis smiled, trying to hide his nervousness and wiping his hands on his black leather armor – which of course did nothing. “That bow you are holding... may I ask where you acquired it?”

Artemis gave a confused look to the elf, wondering why he had asked such a question. “Well, I bought it... from a bowyer in the city... must have been over a year ago at this point. Why do you ask?”

The elf's smile and warm features made Artemis wonder about the title of Dragon. His power seemed hidden and difficult to discern. His manner was much like Nalin described - a controlled patience and wisdom in his eyes. “May I hold it for a moment?” he asked with a smile, raising his arms and reaching out to Artemis.

Artemis did not know why the elf would request to hold Judicis, his sentient bow, but he also felt it unwise to refuse him, so he took the bow off his shoulder and extended the beautiful white weapon out to the elf. Before the Dragon could take the bow, a man stumbled around a corner.

"Hey, you!" he shouted, stumbling and swaying as he went. "Take yer magic nonsense... somewhere else!" he said with a hiccup. Both Artemis and Lord Davian turned to look at the man, his greasy hair matted to his face as he blindly swung his steel dagger. Artemis recognized the man as the one he had been cautious about earlier, and a scowl found its way onto his face.

The elf turned, smiling to the drunken man. "I will be on my way shortly, I assure you. No need for trouble."

"You brought trouble here as soon as... (hiccup) you walked through those city gates!" The Dragon waved a hand lightly, and instantly the dagger turned into a bottle of some kind. "Hey! What'd you do that... oh..." The man paused to look at what he now held, squinting in the moonlight to read the label. "Look at that! Radasanth Rum!" The man seemed to instantly forget the dagger that had been there moments ago and lifted the bottle to his mouth, gulping down the burning liquid. As he lowered the bottle and smacked his lips, the man seemed to calm instantly and the effects of the liquor left his body. He looked at the bottle, then up to the elf who continued to smile, and then rushed off in embarrassment in the direction he had come.

The Dragon turned back to Artemis. "What did you do?" Artemis asked, extending the bow once more.

The man accepted it gently, closing his eyes as he held it and not even bothering to move. A state of absolute peace seemed to wash over him as he stood there, and after just a few seconds, he opened his eyes and extended the bow back to Artemis. "I countered the effects of the liquor in his body and took away that weapon of his. I'd rather he didn't make a silly decision or harm someone accidentally."

Artemis took the bow hesitantly, confused as he slowly slung the bow over his shoulder once again.

“It's been a while since I've held this bow, Artemis,” the man smiled knowingly. “Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to feel its magic once again.”

“Again?” he asked.

“I've lived a long time, and I am an elf. Bows are revered by our people, and the one you wield is one of the finest I've seen in all my years. Cherish it.”

Artemis didn't say a word, completely stunned by what had transpired and unsure what to make of the events.

“Here,” the elf said, reaching into his robes and extending his hand. “Take this charm. It will help you.” The elf said nothing else and began to walk off in the direction Artemis had come from.

The young man looked down at the small charm: a deep blue pearl, barely a centimeter in diameter, strung with a thin strand of sifan cloth. “What do you mean it will help?” he asked, looking up in the direction of the elf, but the Dragon was gone.

Artemis looked around quickly, seeing where the old elf might have went, but he was nowhere to be found. He looked back down to the charm, trying to understand what the Dragon may have meant, but then he heard another more familiar voice.

'It's good to see that Davian is doing well,' Judicis said. 'Many centuries have passed since he and I fought together.'

The comment, though obvious in its implications, left Artemis dazed. 'So I have a Dragon's ex-weapon?'

Artemis could feel the humor that Judicis experienced in that moment, something Artemis had never been able to do before. He looked back down to the charm, wondering what it did exactly, but he was beginning to get an idea. With that, he smiled, stringing the charm around his neck and turning to walk home once more before a thought struck him.

"Wait a second," he thought aloud, "how did he know my name?"

[Captain on the Wind]

Gale stumbled through two wooden doors which let the warm light of a rowdy bar engulf a cold, dark, ally in Corone. Before he could turn to walk back in and rejoin a freshly started brawl, a large hairy fist made its home in the drifter's cheek. Gale reeled, spinning from the blow and crashed into a mound of freshly thrown garbage. Gale could barely focus his eyes, the world seemed to spin around him, as the dark figure of the man who floored him moved closer.

"Hey man," the drunk drifter managed to slur, before a hand pulled open his mouth and pushed something down his throat.

At first nothing seemed different, the world still spun and Gale could not help shake the feeling of impending doom. Then, as if on cue, someone turned the lights on to the world. Gale sobered up, immediately taking his would-be attacker by the arm and pulling him, head first, on a collision course with a large hard wall.

Brushing some of the garbage and dirt off his clothes, the drifter decided it would be prudent to avoid going back into the bar. Gale was not sure why, but he did not crave alcohol.

This isn't right a voice seemed to yell from every direction. But the drifter shook his head and shrugged, unable to see anyone he continued his walk. Although he did not have a home for the night, he was not concerned: this was no ordinary walk.

Colors were brighter. All the sounds around him melded together to form an masterful song that aroused emotions the drifter did not know he had. Gale felt a profound warmth wash over him like a wave. He seemed to almost float above the ground as though he was weightless. The stars in the sky were brighter than he had ever seen, although he could have sworn that an hour ago the sky was black with clouds.

Gale walked for what seemed like moments, yet found himself at the edge of town. He looked around and wondered how he had gone so far in so short a time, until the answer dawned on him, clear as the stars.

I must be god... his eyes widened as the realization came forth. He could not contain his gleeful expression and ran off into the woods, prancing about, creating miracles.

A shadow loomed on the rooftops behind him, following the fools erratic path. The sinister shape darted faster than the wind, and gave chase to the merry blasphemer.

_________________________________________________


Gale ran through the woods, turning his head in every direction to admire the very many, very vibrant colors. With a look of constant, sincere, astonishment, the drifter made his own path through the trees: darting from side to side, weaving between the many trees in his path. It wasn't long before the drifter stopped in the middle of a circular, empty, field. In the center stood a single giant, wilted, white oak tree. It's leaves seemed to have fallen ages ago, but the majestic oak stood proud.

Gale was filled with a feeling of utter depression, as tears fell in streams completing his somber expression.

The drifter took slow, shaky steps towards the roots of the noble tree. He placed his hand on the bark, which felt warm to his touch. Gale muffled a whimper with his other hand, trying hard to contain himself.

But very soon, he could no longer refrain.

His hand slipped down the length of his body and into his pants. Gale let out a powerful sigh, as a hot stream of urine trickled down the side of the tree and between the roots. A course steam rose from beneath the tree, giving the once elegant image a more demonic feel. Gale did not track the time, but the stream held in strength and duration for minutes before letting up.

Gale fastened his pants and turned to continue his gay trek through the woods when a noise from behind startled him. The colors around him swirled and darkened. The white tree turned black and the steam which was still rising from below turned red. Gale fell backward and gasped, bringing his hand to his face, and quickly recoiling from the wet touch. He wiped some of the yellow liquid from his face with his coat, and from his hand on the ground.

Gale looked back to the source of the noise and noticed a pair of bright eyes looking at him from between the trees. Gale did not care to stay and find out what horrible beast of the wilds the gaze belonged to and frantically moved from it. Before he could move more than ten feet from the tree the bright orbs vanished.

Gale held his breath, unable to move.

Before he could muster the courage to move, a voice bellowed from behind him. The drifter heard a thunderous sound, like a giant war-hammer pounding against the ground. He turned to see the bright eyes staring at him from the top of the trees.

"DON'T YOU DARE GO NEAR MY TREE," the voice howled.

"Great... Holy... Divine... Things..." Gale whispered, trying to find someone to pray to. But the drifter knew there was no praying. He heard of creatures like these: massive monsters, with thundering footsteps, bigger than trees, who spoke many languages.

"DRAGON!!" He screamed, turning from the great beast, which stared, unmoving with bright pale eyes. Gale stumbled away in an attempt to escape but collapsed fully when some heavy objected found its home on his head.

The colors faded and the music stopped.

__________________________________________________


Gale awoke, several days later in a daze. His hand fell upon his head, which was bandaged, and he sucked in a long breath from pain. Gale sighed, knowing he should be glad to be alive, but angry at his confusion. The drifter stood slowly from where he lay and walked to an open door. He stood in the threshold of an old, but well kept, cabin. The cabin was made from wood, probably of the trees which formerly stood in the area.

The field before Gale was strangely familiar, as though he had seen it in a dream: a circular, empty field with but on tree in the center.

Before any more questions bubbled to the surface, a grizzly voice shouted from behind him.

"Don't you go pissin' all over my porch too!" Gale turned to see a little gnome, running around the side of the cabin, jumping up to the porch and kicking the hung-over drifter in the shin.

The pain was too much, Gale's body went into shock. Without moving, a single tear rolled down the drifters face and Gale sat down on the edge of the porch.

"... You alright?" The grizzly gnome asked, letting his rage subside.

"Your boot..." Gale began, with a blank stare.

"Yeah?" The gnome replied, putting his hand on the drifter's shoulder.

"They're steel toed..." Gale said, no louder than a whisper.

"Yeah..." The gnome replied with a sigh, taking a moment to admire the fine pair of black, steel-toed, boots he wore.

"Gale." The drifter said, extending a shaking hand to the small man next to him.

"Hahha, well mannered," he laughed, shaking Gale's hand with both of his "when sober anyway. The name's Nome Undarlan, Nomey to my friends."

"What... "Gale began, wiping the tears from his face and sweat from his brow.

"Happened? I'm not sure myself," the gnome began, his gaze joining Gale's off in the distance "As far as I know, one moment I'm sleeping, and the next some lunatic is running in a merry little circle around the tree line singing some idiotic and incoherent song at the top of his lungs. So I come out with my hammer and a soon as I step out, you stop. So I figure you must have seen me and were sorry. But no! You walk over to my tree and start pissin' all over it!" The gnome started, his voice growing with irritation as he went over the night's events.

"Anyway, then that cat," the gnome pointed to Faust, the enchanted Karuku-tal, who napped peacefully in the large oak tree, "He come over after you. You start freaking out, crawling towards my home!"

The woodsman sighed, letting his protective anger subside, "I ran out and stomped my hammer on the ground as a warning. You turned, started screaming again and I wacked you over the head. That damn thing nearly tore my hand off!" the gnome yelled, rubbing his wounded wrist tenderly.

"Anyway... I felt bad," He began after some time, with a sigh " and didn't want any trouble from the town, so when you were still lying there the next morning I brought you in. You need to lose some weight by the way," he remarked, remembering the difficult labor of moving Gale's unconscious body.

Gale did not move, letting the events of the night sink in. He wondered how it came to this, as he looked at his rounding belly. He thought back to the bar, the fight, the drinking and philandering. The drifter looked up in understanding and sighed.

"That son-of-a-bitch roofied me."

[Cydnar]

Darroch dar Gaevrin, the Cenneth of the draconian people of Dheathain shuffled restlessly atop his throne. His inhuman eyes pierced the torch lit twilight of the feasting hall with ease, tracing the outline of the messenger with curious scrutiny. Many questions ran through the old draconian mind, most important of all, the question of who had dared to disturb the Cenneth Aran, the Feast of the Dragon Dance.

“The penalty for intrusion without great cause during our time of feasting, stranger, I am sure you are all too aware, is a grave one.” His voice remained aggressive, without shouting down the worn wooden beams of the long house. “What is your name?”

The small elf bowed politely, arm crossed over his waist tucked neatly into his back’s curve. It was a courtly and gracious, and did its work to temper the Ceann Cath’s anger. From the bulk and height of the draconian, the elf had no doubt in his mind that he would be made short work of if he stepped one foot out of place, if he spoke one word out of turn.

“My name, lord of the dragon-kin, is Cydnar Yrene. I am High Salthias of the Hummel, their envoy from the Underdark.” The title was meaningless to the drake-kin gathered in the hall, but it held enough mystery and power to sway an immediate termination of his audience. He had tested the guard’s intellect well, but he doubted he would last long here. He righted himself, and let his hands fall harmlessly and slowly to his sides. “I seek an audience with Darroch dar Gaevrin.”

The red scales shimmered in the light of the long house’s fire as the Cenneth shifted at the sounding of his true name. It had been a long time since anyone had called him anything other than a title. His great wingspan loomed down from the throne, which was carved from dragon bone of tyrant wyverns and strapped together with mammoth skin leather. The long tables running down either side of the hall’s great fire pit were laden with roasted meats from all manner of creatures, vegetables and troughs of sauces and gravy, and a handful of dragon warriors, mages and courtesans of every description possible. This truly was a throne room, and this truly was a king.

“I am he. It has been too long since your kind walked this hall, Lord Yrene. Why should I spare you the time, when your kind gave us no service in our darkest hour?” Darroch continued to gnaw at a large leg, marinated in mead from the Black Heart breweries in Donnalaich, the Fae’s latest attempt at bridging cultural ties with their draconic brethren. The use of the word lord caught Cydnar off guard; the Cenneth was wise beyond his relative youth to know the customs of his long forgotten allies.

Cydnar could only hang his head in shame. His father had stood in the exact same spot four hundred years ago and turned down the Cenneth’s request for aid in dealing with the rouge true dragon, Arnalest. The purple fire of the tyrant dragon had brought the draconian culture to its knees, and it’s azure flame had dealt the final blow to the last of the blood-kin, the pure half-dragons whose form was now all but lost. Those two heads had been mighty adversaries, and haunted the Salthias for decades long after their death. The Hummel had been isolationist then, scared of the world it had been exiled from millennia ago. Cydnar would not make the same mistake.

“I cannot,” he looked up meekly, “will not, and should not excuse the actions of my forefathers.” There was a wistful air to the elf’s voice, one full of truth, which the Cenneth drank deep from as he ate his fill of his meat in silence. The noisy, wet lip chorus of his lacking etiquette was accompanied by the hushed motions of his court, which ate alongside their king and listened, watched and waited.

The pressure in the atmosphere grew two-fold when Cydnar realised that the two great dragon skulls hanging from the rafters over the throne, in fact, the throne itself was the corpse of Arnalest. It was a mighty war trophy for the draconian, but an imposing omen for any would be usurper to the Cenneth’s rule. Cydnar had no doubt that in the twilight of the hall; a dozen hands were touching the cold dark steel of a dozen swords that would make short work of his defences. The size of the half-drakes meant a dagger in their claws was a great sword in his.

He swallowed a lump in his throat.

“I have come here today to ask not for a donation, a gift or a pledge of service to my people.” If he had, his words would be met with heated resistance. “I have come to offer the alms of the Hummel, a pledge of duty and honour from the shadows to the rightful king of the draconian in Dheathain.” He bowed more regally this time, tucking his arm up behind his back until it pointed to the door, level with his lowered head. He produced a small orb of radiant quartz from the fold of his sleeve as he dropped his arm back down. It slipped down his wrist, cold and succinct against his flesh and rolled onto his open, outstretched palm.

Dannoch leant forwards, his lithe form, much less muscular than most of his kin but no less ferocious and deadly rippled in the light of the fire pit. Though not a hatchling, the Cenneth was too young to have kindled the legends of the last time their races had met. What Cydnar held in his palm was entirely new to the draconian, even though the artefact in form and function had been used to bind their cultures together many times in the long recourse of history.

The scent of burning embers and stale food filled Cydnar’s nostrils as he took a long, harsh intake of air to prepare his tongue and mind for the diplomatic duel that was to follow. There was a legacy in the smell, an ancestry of a thousand fires and a hundred thousand conversations witnessed by the soot pit through the ages. It was comforting to feel such ancient history on the surface, so young compared to the kingdoms of the elves.

“What is this, a trinket to steal my heart?” He almost seemed as if he were going to burst into laughter at the thought. “I have more gold in the vaults of this long house than you could ever hope to find in your lifetime.” Darroch slapped his thigh and broke his train of thought to tear off the last meaningful chunk of meat from the bone. “You will have to do better than that!” Gobbets of mead and spats of blood flew from the fanged mouth of the Cenneth, adding to the exotic tapestry of past meals tarnishing the array of deep, thick furs that covered the steps leading to the throne.

No longer afraid of laughing before their liege, when Darroch broke into a great guffaw, so too did the council and the gathered warriors. The sound was deafening, a thundering, and guttural chorus of vibration in the stick thin rib cage of the swordsman. He flinched, eyes closed to try and weaken the sensory overload until the laughter died down.

Cydnar smiled, “this, lord of the draconian, is not worth anything you can measure with gold. It is possessing of a worth unseen by no-one except like-minded monarchs.” He drew it into his chest, like a treasured trinket in the hands of a small, bewildered child. It was cold to the touch as ran his free hand over its polished surface. “It is an Oath Stone, crafted from the crystalline leaves of Yggdrassil, the World Tree.” It’s inner light brightened, as if the name of its progenitor held sway over the power latent in its form. It reflected from the purple serpents entwined about a tree stitched onto the front of Cydnar’s garb.

Cydnar’s words until now had no meaning or sway in the Cenneth’s court, yet the mention of Yggdrassil stole the last of the whispered chatter and rumour mongering from scaled lips. Sharp steak knives and sauce stained claws stopped their assaults on deer hinds and bear steaks, peppered jelly and roast potatoes fell onto plates untouched and cooling. The Hummel had formed much of their mythological unconsciousness from the races that had once lived alongside their ancestors when they still dwelt on the surface of Althanas. The draconian and the Fae had been the primary contributors to the legends and dreams that kept Hummel children in dreams and nightmares.

Yggdrassil was a common factor in all the peoples of Dheathain’s dreams. Its roots encompassed the ground beneath elf and dragon and Fae alike, and all things of their ilk returned to the branches of the tree in death.

“Yggdrassil, the World Tree – you expect me to believe you, elf?” The derogatory use of Cydnar’s race did not go unnoticed on the swordsman, but he remained calm and composed despite the rising aggression in the Cenneth’s tone. He had not eased back into his chair since he had leant forwards to stare at the Oath Stone. The now picked clean bone was held limply in his hand, and his other limb propped himself up against his slouched knees.

The five talons on Darroch’s finger tips caught the light, honed to points and coated in sky forged steel tempered by draconian flame and more potent magic than that.

“This is a leaf from the very tree that once basked in the sunlight of a younger world, long before you or I live. Once, the tree’s branches would have sheltered the ground where this hall now stands.” Cydnar heightened his concentration on the sphere until he felt at one with it. With his geomantic energy he pressed against the surface with tendrils of power that whipped into life from his mind’s eye. A telekinetic hum entered the silence of the hall. “Look, and deny me the right to claim that I have walked in its presence. Tell me without hesitation Cenneth of the draconian, that it is true, and I offer its leaf to you now.”

As Cydnar pressed against the sphere it quickly gave way. It burst into a dancing mass of crystalline dust, swarming about a shattered core that glowed vermillion and violet and briefly black. Looking up into the edge of his vision, the swordsman caught Donnach’s look of wonder. Though honourable and cold, the swordsman could not but feel satisfied with himself. His fingers expanded and contracted into a fist and back about the core several times as he pictured the sphere’s original form in his mind. The dust fell away, seemingly into thin air, leaving in its wake the core of the sphere.

It shone with a bright, vibrant purple energy.

“Yggrassil’s leaf, true as the sun shines,” Darrock said softly, or at least, softly for a draconian. His eyes, no longer piercing, examined the leaf shaped crystal levitating several inches above Cydnar’s palm. The elf stared at it, its light casting ribbons of violet on his pallid skin.

“With this I pledge an oath to join our races in common alliance,” Cydnar let his concentration wain, and the dust swelled back about the leaf. As quickly as it had been freed of its quartz prison, the Oath Stone was encased once more in a perfect sphere.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Well, butter my biscuit. This is turning into a most peculiar evening.

The assembled citizenry of a small farming hamlet stood before me. In their hands: Torches. Pitchforks. Machetes. Scythes. Various other farming implements fashioned into things to kill with. Every sharpened edge, every pointy tip arrayed before me shone bright red from the torches; no doubt some sort of metaphor for the anger and bloodlust that this mob was emanating. The scent of dirt, brimstone, and bad hygiene filled my nostrils. Their grumbling cacophony filled the air, matching the beat of the crickets chirping not far away in the woods of Concordia.

I stood in utter silence, a statue in the night, unafraid of their menacing appearance. Our little Fallien standoff continued for several minutes, while I tried to figure out how I could've angered an entire village. I don't remember poising their water supply, or accidentally releasing a pox upon their livestock. I know my alchemy and biology experiments can get out of hand sometimes, but...

One of the villagers separated himself from the mob. He was a burly bear of a man, standing nearly seven foot and built like an ice box. His thick, untamed mustache threatened to envelope the lower half of his face. Flames from the torches danced across his spectacles, giving them a demonic orange glow that I couldn't really see through. Clenched in his right hand was an axe normally used to chopping wood. He confidently wielded it with one hand, whereas most normal people would probably need both of theirs.

I offered to break the ice. "Is there something I can help you with..?"

His lip twitched, causing his 'stache to dance in what I could only assume was a sneer. "You can hand over that creature of yours before it kills us all and destroys our livelihood, dragontamer."

The villager let that last word hang in the air with no shortage of venom. Dragontamer? Me? Surely he's mistaken. Assassin; yes. Alchemist; certainly. Archivist/chronicler; I'm working on it. But Dragontamer?

Just then, I heard a pop, a hiss, and a snarl at my heels. I looked down, and to my surprise I found a young dragon. It was as big as a pampered housecat; couldn't have been much more than a hatchling. The dragon looked up at me with big, pleading ebony eyes that could pierce a lesser man's heart. By the light of the mob's torches, I could make out tattered, papery wings wrapped tightly around my leg. Its claws dug into my calf as it turned its attention back to the villagers, and promptly hissed. Smoke escaped its nostrils--another whiff of brimstone. This thing was terrified, and it was pissed. One more wrong word, and someone could walk away with a few nasty burns.

"Well, dragontamer?" The big man growled. "Are you going to take that wretched beast away from here, or are we going to kill it and put it on the mantle above my fireplace?"

I nonchalantly looked down at the dragon, flatly throwing out there, "It's not mine."

Cries of "bullshit!" and "the hell it isn't!" rose from the rabble. Their presumed leader leveled his steely gaze at me. "Tell that to the dragon. It's clinging to you like your its mother... or master, even."

The mob began to slowly approach me. The dragon cried out; an ear-piercing screech that could have shattered glass.

"Back off", I warned. "This is not my dragon." My movement hidden by my pitch-black sifan cloak, I began thumbing through my satchel, trying to find the glass vials of paralyzing powder that I've kept handy for a few years now.

"Quiet, dragontamer! We will have that creature dead, tonight! We'll kill you too if we must!"

Another villager spoke up over the rising din. "That dragon killed one of my goats!"

And another. "It roasted one of my roosters!"

And another. "It knocked my apple pie off the windowsill!"

One by one, the restless villagers chimed in with their grievances. The ox of a man who led them raised his axe and called for silence. Once the rabble died down, he addressed me once more, his patience obviously fraying. "Look, bitch, hand over that dragon--now--or we'll--"

"You'll what," I interrupted, my own patience gone long ago, "you'll run me through with your rusty tool to get to this thing and snap its poor, little neck? Big, brave mob frightened by a mere hatchling?" I found the vial of powder in my satchel and began uncorking it, pouring its contents into my hand. I was in no real mood to kill tonight--and it wouldn't have been practical. These were just mere frightened villagers, looking to protect their own. I could paralyze their leader, disarm a couple of the faster ones, and steal off into the smothering darkness of the forest before any of them could overtake me. But then there was the matter of the dragon...

The big man took a step closer. The baby dragon screeched again, trying desperately to claw up my leg. I felt compelled to reach down and pick it up with one arm, like one would with their pet. My right fist remained balled up, ready to toss the powder into the face of anyone that approached me.

[Restless Soul]

The day lingered and the heat steadily grew. It was relentless in its pursuit of drowning out any memory of the cool spring breezes from but a month prior. Clear skies offered no reprieve by way of clouds, not a single drop of rain could be willed by even the most adept of mages. Scara Brae had never faced such a wave of heat so early in the year. Citizens wilted like the spring flowers, lethargic in their passage through the streets of the capitol of the island nation. The suffering extended beyond the microcosm, stretching its crippled fingers into the functions of the city itself. Vendors called out their wares with less emotion and enthusiasm, sparing breath and conserving energy. Taverns were filled with people escaping the afternoon sun, but merry cheer was replaced with down-trodden discomfort. Water was sold instead of ale, fans instead of silks; the economy would be crippled by the first month of the new summer. Without a drop of moisture the normally bustling markets would be as dry as the parched mouths of those who sought shade instead of trade.

Amidst the drawn faces of those brave – or reckless – citizens that did venture into the streets were the mage hunters. The Ordo Malleus roamed in packs, wolves preying on any who dared practice magic instead of assisting the city they called home. On edge, the warlock hunting sharks of The University focused more on restraining than assisting since the upheaval of Scara Brae. Some muttered under their breath as they passed, cursing their magical impotence. Amras was among them. He was growing a deep loathing for the University, almost as much for their cutthroat control of magic as for not using their own magic. “Almost better to let the city drown in the sea than let it turn to dust.”

“We’ll be another Fallien soon enough.” The disgusted tone caught the young elf by surprise. He turned to look into the eyes of the woman and saw a young lass instead. Her throat was dry with thirst and her frail frame was lazily leaning against the wall of an inn. In a different world, in a better time, she would have caught the fancy of many young men. Her ample bosom rose and fell with her ragged breathing, barely contained by the tight laced blouse. As if the vapid economy was not enough, the cursed heat was drawing all the youth and vigor from the beautiful women of Scara Brae as well. It was just another reason for the young elf to curse the conditions of the island nation.

“Excuse me,” Amras muttered to the woman with a half-hearted, crack-lipped smile. He pushed off the wall reluctantly. The shade of the overhang was meager at best and offered little in the way of a reprieve, but once removed it seemed like a lost oasis. The sweat-soaked young girl attempted a smile in return, but only passed a grin before returning her head to its slumped state. With head down, she was nothing more than another dejected denizen trying to find solace in whatever shade was available.

Find the dragon and find answers. The young elf reminded himself of the recurring dream that had plagued his sleepless nights. An omen or prophetic vision, whatever it was he had not been able to escape it for weeks. Reluctantly he forced himself to take step after step through the dusty streets. Underfoot the crackling of his dried leather boots mixed with the crunch of water-sapped vegetation. The dragon was responsible for the calamity that had befallen Scara Brae, and it was his job to find it and put an end to the drought. At first, when the cool spring breeze and afternoon showers still carried with them the vivacity of the season, he had thought the dream was just ridiculous. It had become a fevered hallucination brought on by dehydration and sleepless nights, haunting him day and night alike. He still was unsure as to whether it was all a fantastic farce or not, but the days would only pass slower if he refused to do anything at all. Sitting in his own sweat at the run-down Broken Lion Lodge was self-inflicted torture.

Amras stood out on the street, dressed in his dark clothes and elegant weapons. Others were wearing as little as possible, such as the pretty young woman he had talked to. Those that did roam the streets were in plain clothing, trying to don the thinnest fabrics and lightest colors possible. The young elf was not alone wearing black in the sweltering heat though. Out of the corner of his amethyst eyes he caught sight of a slim, bald man turning onto the streets. His smooth head should have been slick with sweat and glimmering with the rays of sunlight, but it was as dry as a bone and not showing any sign of a sun-induced crimson flush. His mouth clenched tightly when he saw the black pants and heavy black blade hanging from the belt at his side. Over one shoulder he had a thin black cloak draped, hanging loosely to cover one side of his body. It did not cling to him, not like the sweat-sopped clothes Amras wore. Suddenly he wondered how others were looking at him, wearing dark gray pants and a long-sleeve hooded jacket as well.

For a moment he watched the man walk, thinking about his own garb. He watched him shift through the crowd like a snake, slithering from group to group. His arms barely moved when he glided across the dirt-flaked streets. Graceful as he was, he carried himself with a sense of tapered power waiting to be released. His powerful shoulders were – “A dragon?”

How Amras had missed it upon initial glance he was not sure. He cursed himself and blamed the sun, the heat, his lack of sleep, anything to ignore the fact that he had passed such an obvious mark. At the edge of the exposed shoulder was the head of a dragon, tattooed into the dark tan skin. His dream flooded back to him. His mind screamed that the obvious omen was not just a fevered illusion. When the man turned again he could see it clearly. The head of the dragon was attached to a full body that wrapped in circles around the man’s left arm.

As quickly as he could stumble forward, the young elf charged towards the man. He shoved aside the few people that stood in his way, surging through the small group instead of taking the time to avoid them. Slinking ahead of him, the bald man rounded a corner and started down a narrow alleyway. The elf was a few steps behind him, turning into the alley so quickly a small plume of dirt was kicked up in the process. “Empty?”

The shadows of the alleyway were devoid any signs of life except for cracked wooden boxes strewn against the smooth, walls on either side. There was neither door nor window that he could have disappeared into swiftly. The splintered wooden crates were cracked and dry; when the elf put a boot to the closest one it sent a shower of splinters across the path. “Are you looking for someone?”

Immediately overhead was the half-cloaked man. His sword was drawn and pointed at Amras. Disbelief spread across the youth’s face as he watched almost skeletal black wings flap delicately from the man’s back. It looked as if ink itself had given him flight; the beat of the wings did not so much as stir the air. Thin gloved fingers wrapped around the hilt of the steel rapier almost instinctually, but were removed as soon as the gesture proved obviously threatening. Amras could only stutter on his own dry, swollen tongue. “You... You’re the dragon I’ve been seeking…”

“Witch-hunter? No, you do not look the part. What is it you want with me? And what do you know.”

“You are the dragon I have been dreaming of… I thought it was a crazy dream, that’s all… but here you are. You are the source of this sweltering heat!” The man’s wings disappeared almost instantly. They retracted into his back like water would have had it been spilled on the arid ground. He dropped to his black-booted feet with a clang of metal, the plate-covered boots clattering as he scuffled forward and put blade to the elf’s throat. His eyes were a burning orange, smoldering coals waiting for fresh tinder. His breath was acrid and sulfuric; it felt like a choking smoke in Amras’ lungs. “You are the reason… this weather is… so bad. You are… the dragon.”

“Shut-up kid, get inside. I have questions for you.” The elf was spun around and found himself facing a dark black door, darker than any wood he had ever seen before…




I tried to incorporate the idea of what a dragon personifies through the setting, instead of just going with a man or creature who is a dragon. It's a loose interpretation, I know, but I tried an abstract concept instead of the safe route. Hoped it was well written at least. =)

[Sagequeen]

“Why Sei would send you, of all people, to assist on a diplomatic mission is beyond me,” Erissa Caedron, Ixian Knight, said to her companion. The man flashed a mischievous smile and ran a hand through his black, red-tipped hair.

“It's my good looks,” Jensen Ambrose said, laughing. She had to admit he looked rather dashing, but lent most of the credit to her own tailoring handiwork; the suit he wore was very flattering to his tall, lean frame and complimented the pale color of his skin.

“Riiiiiight,” the silver-haired high elf said, a coy smirk playing on her delicate features, the reflective glow from the warmly colored wood around Erissa loving her like candlelight.

“Eh, he thinks you're good for me, good at keeping me in line. He really doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“If he thinks that, then no, he does not,” Erissa said, giggling. The two were jostled about in the carriage as the horses pulling it scaled a rough mountain road. She held her glass of wine high in the air to avoid spilling it; Jensen gave her an odd look. “What?” She asked. “Everyone knows the higher you hold it, the less likely it is to spill.” Jensen rasped at her, waving off her comment, and she chuckled merrily, the wine painting a blush in her cheeks matching its own hue.

The view from Erissa's side of the carriage was breathtaking; the drop was not sheer, but if a horse were to misstep, the carriage would tumble helplessly with its cargo down to the very bottom, crashing along the way into the scraggly trees that clung to life in the crevices. The young elf could see the sparkling ribbon of water slicing between the twin mountains, fed by the melting snow that crowned the great peaks.

“I never got why people worship dragons,” Jensen said, squinting against the clear, midday light. “Dragons kill people.”

“I suppose it is common to worship what you fear, hoping to placate both the fear and what inspires it,” Erissa said, shrugging. “Want some-”

“Yep,” Jensen said, grabbing the small tray of dried, smoked sausage and Fallien cheese from her and shoving a generous handful into his mouth. The elf offered him the glass of wine, shaking her head at him; the immortal took it and washed down the the remnants of his first bite. She had long since given up requesting the man show some manners. The carriage rounded the mountain, and the Knights finally had a view of the sheltered valley; they gazed in confusion.

“It is so dry,” Erissa observed. “I thought valleys were supposed to be lush.” With her superior eyesight, the elf saw a small herd of bony gazelles grazing at the dusty scrub plants; there were a few scattered trees across the plane.

“Well, it's in the friggen' crotch of the mountains,” Jensen said, crumbs falling from his mouth. “Look – the water drains away from this place because it's more elevated and makes one big slope, down to the river.”

“Ah, and the water carries away all the topsoil, so nothing grows well here,” Erissa said, propping her elbow on the windowsill and setting her chin in her hand. “You would think the people would just, well, leave.”

“Yeah, but the animals can't. I looked at the map, they're hemmed in except for the river and the road. These people must have brought the animals here.”

“All so they could live close to the dragon they worship. He is supposed to be a god of rain to them,” the young elf said, eyebrow raised as she cast a sidelong glance at her companion. Jensen leaned back in the posh cushions of the carriage, and propped his feet on the opposite side, where Erissa sat.

“Not a very good one,” the immortal said. “Wake me up when we get there.” Within a few minutes, Jensen was snoring loudly, and Erissa passed the time studying her songbook. Eventually, they left the mountain pass and cut across the valley, following a well-worn road leading from the river to the village, which was built against the bare stone of the mountain. High above was a cave, nestled among boulders on a cliff. The young arcanist shoved Jensen's feet from the couch and he awoke with a start.

“We are here,” she said, stretching her arms and shoulders.

“Too bad,” he said sullenly. “I was having the best dream.” Jensen wiggled his eyebrows obscenely at her, and she slapped his shoulder playfully.

“Have I ever told you that you are absolutely incorrigible?” Erissa asked.

“A time or two,” he replied, swinging open the door as the carriage came to a halt. “Well, have a look at that,” he said curiously as he stepped to the ground.

“Grass!” Erissa said, following closely behind him. “It is green here, and look! There is a field filled with vegetables!”

“Greetings!” A gruff voice called out to them, and its owner trotted to the Knights. “I am Gryls Ursidae.” The old, kind-faced man extended his hand, and Erissa quickly stepped forward to shake it.

“I am Erissa Caedron, and this is Jensen Ambrose. We are members of the Ixian Knights, the group that contacted you recently. It is a pleasure to meet you in person,” she said, smiling brightly. The man, dressed in robes bearing serpentine images, nodded quickly.

“Come,” he said, eager to be off as the sun began its descent, “we must go indoors. Have your driver takes his horses to the covered stables.”

“Told you,” Jensen muttered as the man hurriedly led them toward the heart of the village, “dragons kill people.” Erissa elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Behave!” She commanded in a harsh whisper. The village was small and well built, and the young elf noticed curious faces peeking from windows as they passed. Erissa wondered at the large, slanted roofs; they were edged with a sophisticated system of gutters and drains, all leading to large, covered basins. Gryls walked swiftly, and the Knights matched his pace all the way to the largest of the buildings, a place of gathering, Erissa assumed. It was well kept; the wooden floors were clean and shiny, and the walls decorated with various paintings. All were of the same dragon, a glinting, golden behemoth with a long snout and incredible wingspan. The man noticed Erissa's gaze.

“Ah yes, the dragon god Nyah. He brings us rain every morning.” Gryls gazed lovingly at the painting closest to him for a few lingering moments, then offered the Knights a seat at one of the many hand-carved tables that populated the room. “It is fortunate you will be staying the night with us; you can witness for yourself the blessing of Nyah. Now, before we talk business, please allow me to honor you with food from our gardens and pastures. You will find the flavor delectable!” Gryls clapped his hands sharply, and a line of waiters quickly emerged from a hallway, bearing trays with a cornucopia of vegetables and roasted meats. Jensen leaned over to Erissa.

“I could get used to this diplomat gig,” he said, chuckling. “Sure better than getting the hell beat out of me like normal.” Erissa stifled a giggle and feasted with her eyes upon the trays set before her. Gryls joined them, sitting at the middle of the long table across from the Knights.

“Before we feast, let us give thanks to Nyah, who has made all this possible.” He chanted lowly a song, but Erissa and Jensen could not make out many of the words. They respectfully waited until their host was finished, then served themselves generous portions. Very little was spoken except for the occasional compliment for the food; it was, as Gryls promised, delectable. Even the eternally hungry immortal had his fill, yet there was so much provided it looked as though the three had taken very little. Jensen leaned back and picked his teeth with the table knife.

“You have indeed honored us greatly. The food is absolutely divine; it has an incredible flavor unlike any I have ever eaten,” Erissa said, grinning at the man. Gryls nodded happily.

“Yes, the blessing of Nyah is amazing!” He adjusted his robes and waved for the food to be taken away; the waiters removed the trays and refilled the trio's goblets. “Let us talk of the trade while we are sated and merry. I understand the Ixian Knights are interested in the dragon's shed scales. These are very precious to us, almost priceless.” Gryls and Erissa huddled over the table, the high elf using her every charm to forge a deal with the robed leader of this strange group of dragon worshipers; Jensen merely leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, dozing off from time to time. In the end, a fair barter was struck, though not for food, weapons, or magic charms. Instead, this people wanted wood. It was difficult to come by in the valley, as Gryls explained, and to find liviol was unheard-of and most valuable to them. The trio rose from the table, night having already crept across the land and darkening the windows, and the gracious host led Jensen and Erissa to a guest house.

“Why do people always just assume we need only one bed?” Erissa asked, annoyed as she looked into the single bedroom. Jensen merely shrugged and kicked off his boots; he leaped onto the mattress, testing the springs.




*******



The knock at the door came before daybreak, as Gryls had promised the previous night. The two were awake and dressed; Erissa promptly opened the door and let the older man in the guest home. His excitement was palpable; he wrung his hands in anticipation.

“Just as the sun peaks over the shoulder of the eastern mountain, prepare yourselves to be amazed! Nyah will bestow his blessing,” he said excitedly. Jensen sauntered to the window, noting the lack of clouds in the brightening sky; he smiled to himself.

The minutes passed slowly, but finally, as the first rays of direct sunlight found their way to the waiting rooftops, a great roar filled the valley; moments later the forceful pounding of dragon's wings could be heard high overhead.

“Oh! Look!” Erissa cried, jumping up and down at the window. Tiny droplets began to fall from the sky, beautifully illuminated like tiny jewels by the sunlight. The blessed rain was short but heavy, and soon the dragon was out of earshot completely. Gryls beamed with pride at the two Knights, saying nothing but opening the door and motioning for them to follow. The three stepped into the morning world, Erissa still elated and Jensen grinning ear to ear; the Knights made ready to leave.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Erissa said, shaking the man's hand warmly, “and for sharing this wonderful experience with us.”

“You are most welcome, and please do come back to visit,” Gryls said. “Are you sure you won't you stay for a breakfast?”

"I do wish we could," Erissa said, the regret in her tone sincere. "But we have a long journey ahead." She nodded at him as the driver arrived with the horses and carriage. The Knights stepped in, waving their final goodbyes; they were soon settled and plodding along the road home.

“That was incredible!" Erissa said, the pitch of her voice matching the intensity of her excitment. “It was true! That dragon-” she began, but Jensen let loose a fit of laughing hysterics, practically rolling in his seat. “What?!?” Erissa demanded. The immortal wiped the tears that beaded in the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, wonderful, amaaaazing rain,” he said, throwing his arms in the air like a priest. “Ba-hahahaha! I don't know about you elf, but the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is piss like a racehorse,” Jensen managed between giggles. Erissa's eyes went wide and her jaw wider.

“N-n-nooooo,” she stammered, her pitch dropping low in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“And you knew the whole time?”

“Well, from the time I saw the mouth of the dragon's cave directly above the village,” Jensen replied, still laughing, “and heard the dragon 'blessed' them every morning.”

“And you ate the food - let me eat the food – anyway?!?” The high elf yelled, bringing on another fit of giggles from the immortal. “Jensen! How could you?” His giggles relented and he shook his head at her.

“Come on, you're supposed to be the diplomat. You might have a way with people, batting those pretty eyes, but do you really think you'd have been able to make that deal if you'd first insulted the man by turning down his hospitality?” Jensen asked with a smirk and crossed arms. Erissa opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it. He was right, and she hated when he was right.

"Jensen, have I told you that you are completely, utterly, and hopelessly incorrigible?” She said in a huff.

“A time or two,” he shrugged. "Pass the cheese, woman."

[Aegis of Espiridion]

The two boys had been playing in the mud outside the castle gates all morning, practicing swordplay with wooden blades as long as their nine-year-old arms. When the sun reached its zenith on a hot and muggy Salvic summer day, they came wandering back in for food, shamelessly trailing clods of brown sludge through the carpeted halls. But after a wrong turn somewhere whilst searching for the kitchens, they ended up in the magical world of colour and imagination that was the castle’s gallery hall.

“Look, a dragon!” the blonde-haired boy declared, racing over to one of the priceless canvases framed on the wall. He prodded at it with his sword, leaving streaks of dirt smeared over the bright colours. “One day, I’m going to slay one and become a hero.”

“That’s a wurm, silly,” his dark companion scoffed, shoulder-length hair matted with muck. “No wings, no legs, lives underground. What’s the use in killing a dragon if it can’t fly?”

“This one, then.” The blonde boy frowned. “That’s not a wurm, is it?”

“That’s a wyrm,” the other replied, stressing the difference between the two. “A big mean snake with legs. Not a dragon.”

“So what’s this one? A flying wyrm?”

“An… am… amphi… amphitere.” The dark boy struggled to remember the correct word from his lessons.

“If only you could remember your sums like that,” the blonde boy sighed, sounding for a moment remarkably like their thin-faced tutor. “And this one? A swimming amphitere?”

“Sea serpent. Only traders and pirates would be stupid enough to see those.”

Everybody, even the fishermen, knew that to venture out into the deeps was to invite unwanted danger. The blonde boy nodded sage agreement before moving on at a canter, splattering wet mud everywhere he went. He paused at another canvas further down the hall.

“Aha! This one’s a dragon!” he crowed triumphantly.

“I dunno…” his friend said, leaning close, unheeding of the mess his hair was making of the neighbouring picture. “Too… small. Either it’s only a drake, or that’s one giant knight.”

“You’d know about giants, wouldn’t you, being Berevar born.”

“Hey!”

“Ow, stop hitting me!” The blonde boy scampered away to the next frame. “This one must be a hydra.”

“Yup. That’s a hydra.”

“… and this one…”

“Is a wyvern.”

“I knew that. Too thin, and its tail has a spike.”

The two boys approached the far end of the room, where the largest and grandest of the paintings were hung. A trail of muddy footprints on the carpet and smeared dirt on the walls bore witness to the epic adventure they had woven through the hall. Then they stood in awe before one of the greatest masterpieces of them all, entranced by the rich reds and vibrant golds, grubby hands holding wooden swords limp in amazement.

“Wow…”

“Now that’s what you call…”

“And who’s been wandering around the halls without wiping their feet, leaving such a mess!” A brief pause that allowed the words to echo angrily through the stone corridors. “FIONAN! YWAIN!”

The dismayed wails of Mother Yvonne, the castle’s housekeeper, interrupted their happy daydreaming. The two boys spared just enough time to share a look of undisguised terror.

“Dragon!” the first cried.

“Run!” said the other, and they fled.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Keep running, keep running!”

The fierce glow surrounded him from all directions like a crimson fog, dancing off the low-hanging clouds overhead, bathing the forest in unholy illumination. Such was the light from the temple outhouses going up in flames that he could even pick out individual leaves, broad-leaved oak and beech mingled with tall bamboo stalk. Every laboured breath filled his lungs with the scent of the rich earth beneath his toes, tinged with the faintest trace of burning cinders.

“Keep. Running!”

As the last of his straggling year-mates rushed past he turned to join them, tightening his grip on the straight branch he had picked up from the forest floor. The pursuit harried them closely now; even as he ran he could make out individual shadows flitting through the trees. Ululating warcries echoed through the night, stinging his eardrums with their high-pitched intensity.

The dirt path wound left, then right, then left again, following the curve of the slope into the valley below. The shortest path was through the thickets… but it was also the most treacherous, as Gyo found out to his dismay when a sharp stone sliced open his bare foot. The tall boy fell to the ground, white robes in disarray, wailing and writhing as blood spurted from the deep wound.

A spear seemed to sprout from his chest, complete with miniature cackling goblinoid latched onto the haft.

It was so sudden. So horrifically and brutally final. In that one moment, in that one eternity, the nameless boy knew death.

Adrenaline kicked in. Before his mind could react he was alongside the fallen body, swinging his improvised weapon. The leather-skinned akki had only a split second to see the heavy branch coming until it went flying, carving a majestic arc through the night only to land in an undignified sprawl. Yelping in pain as it nursed a bruised and bleeding mouth, it melted back into the darkness from which it had sprung.

He made the mistake then of thinking that Gyo might just still be alive. One glance was enough to convince him otherwise: eyes as empty as the infinite void, body frozen stiff in terror, bloodless face still twitching in its death throes as if caught in gruesome laughter. He accidentally inhaled of the wretched stink, blood and feces and raw fear, and fell to his knees gagging.

The truth hit him hard, like a sledgehammer wielded by an ogre. He’s dead.

His mind went blank. The world fell into the distance, and time slowed to a crawl.

Thick veils cloaked his senses. Mesmerised by the flickering glow, overwhelmed by the endless howls of pursuit and the putrid stench of death; intangible restraints imprisoned him and would not let him free.

Vaguely he was aware of somebody calling to him, but the words entered one ear and exited the other without registering upon his mind.

He could not wrest his eyes away from the corpse, even when it finally ceased spasming. Half of his mind seemed convinced that it was all a dream, that Gyo would rise to his feet against the pain of his bloody foot and continue running. The other half was drowning in the knowledge that it wasn’t. It wasn’t right, this was only the annual class expedition to the nearby temple. It wasn’t supposed to end like this…

“… YANN!”

Something solid hit him on the cheek, hard enough to shock him out of his fugue, hard enough to draw blood from the inside of his lip. His head snapped to, dark eyes meeting Enishi’s as the other boy blithely drew the spear from Gyo’s corpse. The northerner was the only one who’d thought to throw on a pair of shoes before escaping the temple outhouses, fur-lined moccasins that were completely unlike the straw or wooden sandals common to the south. Enishi’s gaze was hard and merciless, ignoring the fresh spurt of blood that rapidly deteriorated into a lifeless trickle.

He’s alive. But Gyo’s dead. Gyo…

Gyo hadn’t been his friend. Gyo had been one of Isshin’s, standing by silently as the bigger boy blustered and browbeat. He’d been alive, until…

“YANN, SNAP OUT OF IT!”

It was Kayu who was shouting, Kayu’s voice that pierced the mist and reached his mind. It was Kayu…

I can’t let her die.

No, that wasn’t right.

I won’t let her die.

“Keep together, don’t fall behind.” He could barely mumble the words, hoarsely forcing them with every ounce of will from between dried and cracked lips. They somehow served to attract Enishi’s attention, but the other boy simply stared at him dumbly.

“We have to keep together… don’t fall behind…” They needed somebody to show the way, somebody surefooted, somebody fast… somebody who was still thinking straight. “We need to follow Kayu.”

It took another moment before Enishi comprehended. Then the northerner nodded and took up the cry in his deep powerful voice. One calloused hand helped the nameless boy to his feet, gave him a forceful push towards the path. He stumbled the first few steps before momentum took hold, but soon he was running again.

Reassured perhaps that he was not dead, Kayu turned to lead them along the trail into the valley. Three of the girls followed her closely, but the panicked boys were less inclined to pay attention to Enishi’s calls above the raucous din. He watched helplessly as opportunistic akki picked off two more victims: lumbering Teika, the only one in the class who was slower of foot than he, and Little Sugai the trickster. There was nothing he could do, except run and keep pace with the others, lest he himself became goblin bait.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Isshin and Akiyoshi helping a breathless Satori up a tree. As he ran past, a daringly brave akki managed to grab hold of Isshin’s leg, overbalancing the boy and pulling him down onto the ground with an audible crack. There was a roar of anger as the goblins swarmed, squeals of pain as they were sent flying by big meaty fists, a defiant shout as the big lad regained his feet. But there were too many, too many…

… his feet left them behind before he could make up his mind to help, and he could not see them any more.

The path dipped into the valley, crossing a shallow stream by means of a rickety wooden bridge, before offering them a choice of upstream or down. But the akki were already on both sides of the fast-flowing creek, blocking off the safer path down the hill. With no real choice in the matter, Kayu turned right to follow the watercourse further into the mountains; he and Enishi acted as rearguard, ushering the others before them and urging them on whenever they had to pause for breath.

The flaming glow was dimmer here, blocked off by the slope of the hill, though it still provided a semblance of macabre light from above. The forest was less dense, thickets of trees gradually giving way to thin shrubbery as they slowly gained altitude. The wind carried away the stink of burning embers, replacing it instead with the cool wet mist of the babbling brook. It was no quieter, however. The akki warcries seemed to have taken on a triumphant note, and there was a thunderous roar in the background that did not bode well…

Waterfall.

A majestic one as well, plunging headlong from a cliff-top barely visible from the bottom of the valley, cascading off numerous lesser rocks as it spilled downwards. Water pooled in violent torrents at its base, sending endless crystal-clear sprays arcing towards the treacherous rocky shore. It was towards this shore that they were now running.

Trapped.

He was the last to arrive, scampering across the open beach behind Enishi as fast as his legs would take him. Only once he had reached the relative safety of the rocks did he allow himself to finally catch his breath, thoroughly exhausted. The soles of his bare feet had been torn apart by a thousand shard edges, and his lungs stung as if on fire with every gasp for precious oxygen. The fingers of his right hand wrapped so tightly around the branch he held that a stray splinter was starting to draw blood.

Some semblance of sanity restored, he allowed himself to look around for a quick headcount. There were twelve of them left: four girls and eight boys including himself. Twelve, of the twenty pupils who had been sleeping in the temple outhouses when they came under attack. For all they knew, the akki that now surrounded them numbered in the hundreds.

Some of them had yet to give up. Reijiro, Meiji, Enishi, and himself all carried makeshift weapons; Reijiro and Meiji had followed his lead in picking up heavy branches from the forest floor, whilst Enishi held onto the spear that he had appropriated earlier. Toyokuni and Chiaki had torn lengths of cloth from their robes and were gathering fist-sized pebbles to use as ammunition, while Kayu seemed to be trying to prepare some form of protective spell.

But Miiko was sobbing softly to herself, and Shigematsu had curled up into a ball in the lee of the largest rock and refused to answer to any entreaties. Amane, seated at the edge of the water, wore an expression so blank that the nameless boy feared that he would simply walk into the pool and never return.

The thunder of the falls made talking difficult, but there was surprisingly little for them to say any more. Thankfully, it also worked wonders in drowning out the akki war chants that had plagued them throughout their escape. The open beach surrounding the rocks on three sides made for an excellent killing ground, and even the exultant goblins hesitated to blindly charge across it. He could see their beady yellow eyes massing in the undergrowth as they built up their strength.

Enishi approached him from behind, tapping his shoulder lightly so that he didn’t panic. The older boy had to bend low and close to be heard.

“A good a place as any to die.”

The nameless boy strangled the affirmative reply before it could leave his throat. He could still feel Kayu striving to reach for the raw leylines, trying to gather the power necessary to enact her spell. He let his gaze wander to her, watching her lips murmur in incantation, dwelling on the forced calm of her closed eyes and the determined set to her brow.

“It’s not over yet. We can still survive, all of us, if we…”

His words trailed off into silence, thoroughly beaten by the disgusted look on Enishi’s face. The northerner said no more as he walked back to his chosen position. Sadly he watched him go, before turning back to Kayu, fighting to anchor the last shreds of his courage in something worth dying for.

He had no idea how much time he spent gazing at her carefully composed face. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. For all he knew, it could have even been days.

The keen of an arrow shook him from his reverie, splintering upon the rock behind his head and sending shards of wood bouncing from his glasses. He had just enough time to shout a panicked warning before the second arrow found Miiko’s shoulder. The girl screamed in pain, instinctively reaching for the shaft embedded in her flesh. Before anybody could warn her not to, she snapped it in half trying to pull it free. Her screaming only intensified as the arrowhead dug even deeper.

The assembled akki howled in triumph, audible now even over the roar of the falls. A disorientating cacophony of chittering washed over their position, enough to drive even a seasoned warrior mad. Shigematsu abruptly decided that he had enough, darting away into the night, wailing uncontrollably. He reached desperately for the fluttering robes as they passed him by, but his fingers only scraped empty air.

The akki war song halted for a moment. Shigematsu’s cries echoed loudly against the background falls, intensified, and then were abruptly and irrevocably terminated. The briefest of silences resonated in their souls, before the chittering resumed with even greater intensity, forcing them cowering against the treacherously wet rocks that were their last line of defence.

Kayu had given up on trying to conjure her spell. She now held Miiko’s hands as she and Yukimi desperately tried to comfort the badly injured girl. Of the boys who still kept to their makeshift defensive line, Reijiro stood the closest to him; Enishi and Meiji were further away protecting the other flank. Behind them, perched on the largest rock, Chiaki now hoarded all of the stones as Toyokuni cringed behind her, hands over his ears. Five against fifty? Five against five hundred? To say that the odds were not favourable would have been the understatement of his short life.

A good a place as any to die.

No. There had to be a way. There always had to be…

Abruptly the chittering stopped, and for a brief moment even the waterfall seemed to silence. Then there was a roar, a bloodthirsty battlecry bellowed as one, and from the undergrowth erupted a leathery red-brown tide of goblin bodies. One… two went down, struck by well aimed stones. But it was nowhere near enough to stem the tsunami; the akki wave inundated the rocks like a storm surge.

His world degenerated into madness.

There was barely enough free space to swing his branch, much less to find the footing he needed to keep himself between the goblins and the girls. The akki cared not for honourable duels, seeking instead to swarm him beneath weight of numbers. Even Isshin had fallen that way, the back of his mind remembered. What chance did he stand?

He found himself back-to-back with Reijiro, slashing madly to keep the chittering monsters at bay. Then the other boy went down with a rusty sword embedded in his forearm. His reaction was instantaneous, sweeping up the fallen branch in his open hand and laying about recklessly. But there were still too many, the heckling cackling grins forcing him back one agonising step at a time. Rusty spears and wickedly serrated swords bristled in his direction, a wall of sharp metal through which there was no hope of penetration. To his right, he could just about make out Enishi and Meiji meeting the same fate.

“Yann…”

The voice behind him was close, too close. Hot tears poured involuntarily down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he told her between desperate gasps for breath, not daring to turn. “I’m so sorry.”

Her reply was soft and gentle, almost awed.

“Look. A dragon.”

The clamour died down progressively, unwillingly, as first the akki horde and then the rest of the children became aware of the shadow in the sky… a shadow far closer than the clouds above. For a heartbeat or two, the plummeting waterfall was again the only sound to be heard in the bloodstained valley.

And then the dragon roared. Rocks shattered into crystalline shards, trees bent over in supplication, the pool rippled as its waters fled, and the lower reaches of the waterfall changed course permanently. Great leathery wings beat once to keep the magnificent monster hovering in place, and the downdraft sent goblins sprawling in all possible directions. Dark eyes glinted from above powerful jaws as they seemed to notice the akki for the first time; crimson scales flashed as its mouth opened slightly, giving the impression that it was smirking.

The akki did not bother to stay around to witness any more of the display. Like leaves on the autumn wind they scattered back to the hills, their warcries dissolving into panicked chatter. Within breaths the beach was emptied as if they had never been there, so overwhelmingly sudden and complete was their retreat. Save for the blade embedded in Reijiro’s arm and a number of other miscellaneous weapons scattered upon the rocky shore, not a trace remained of the skirmish.

The dragon allowed them to go, languidly watching them leave with a majestic sweep of its sinewy neck. Then, almost wearily, it turned its attention back to the trapped children. Enishi levelled his spear at the great beast, the head dripping with sticky yellow blood, but even the fearless northerner took a shaky step back. The nameless boy would have done the same, if it had been an option; unfortunately, his legs were paralysed with fear, and even if he had been able to move, Kayu and the other girls were directly behind him. Miiko seemed too scared to sob, the sight of a proper dragon acting as a most effective anaesthetic, and the length of cloth that acted as Chiaki’s sling slipped forgotten from her nerveless fingers.

“Don’t! Please, don’t!”

Satori’s voice. His head snapped upwards, as did that of all the others. The girl was clinging with all her might to the dragon’s scaly neck, arms wrapped halfway around it as if it were a tree trunk. Her robes were torn and tattered and great purple welts marred her bare legs, but she was alive.

“Don’t!”

Her final scream echoed throughout the valley, and the dragon dropped to the beach like a stone. Its ungainly landing kicked up a mighty cloud of dust, forcing the assembled children to protect their eyes against the storm of pebble fragments sent flying in their direction. The nameless boy, already semi-protected by his glasses, was the first to see through the gradually clearing fog.

The dragon was no more. In its place lay Akiyoshi, Satori still clinging for dear life to his neck.

Look, a dragon, his mind whispered. Look.

One last tired glance around him confirmed that there was not an akki left in sight. Only then did he allow his body to sink to the ground.

[Wings of Endymion]

Kayu chose the location for the altar carefully, at the nexus between the leylines of the land and those of the sea. No matter how formal her robes or how neatly they were arranged about her, to an untrained eye she was simply a maiden of seventeen years, seated in the middle of concentric circles of powdered alabaster sprinkled upon the raised wooden dais. Only the attuned would perceive the potent vortex of arcane force that spiralled from her lap into the skies above, and the eldritch glow of the meticulously aligned symbols.

The taikyokuzu formed the central sphere, geometric nested circles symbolising the duality of light and dark that was the central tenet to her incarnate discipline. In close proximity sat the eight trigrams, representing the fundamental principles of reality, each consisting of three horizontal lines either broken or unbroken. The outermost layer encompassed the four elements, fire and water, earth and wind, laid out at each of the cardinal directions. It was one of the simplest circles of power she knew, but also one of the most effective and efficient; it took her only three days to sanctify and prepare the makeshift location, whereas a more complex circle might have taken her weeks. And that was in tandem with ten other spellweavers, now arrayed outside the circle helping to focus mana, giving her their aid.

The vanguard of the retreat approached late in the morning of the fourth day, bedraggled soldiers and defeated generals, most of who were either wounded or carrying somebody who was. The rain started to fall then, only adding to their misery as they crowded aboard the wallowing vessels they hoped would take them home. But at the same time the wind died, and two hundred sails lay limp and lifeless as they sheltered between the protective arms of the high bluffs.

By afternoon the hostilities drew close, and she could just about discern the banners on top of the cliffs that guarded the approach to the harbour. They ebbed and flowed with the tide of battle, gradually inching towards her like hesitant snails. Lord Kuroda’s blue hawk fell, and the black hibiscus of Lord Kato not long after. By that time, however, other more pressing matters demanded her attention. The allied armies committed their aerial brigades to the assault, and all that kept them from wreaking havoc in the harbour was her hemispherical shield of arcane energy, radiating like a shimmering haze from cliff-top to cliff-top like an upturned bowl, inland half a league and equally distant outwards into the sea. The cleft in the cliffs through which the Nipponese armies were retreating was the only gap she left in her protection.

That night was strangely quiet. The rain fell in fits and drizzles, but the wind never once picked up. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, concealing the occasional skirmisher as they probed her defences, and only her constant vigilance prevented any from sneaking through to sabotage the vulnerable troopships. Every moment she and the Nipponese armies bought was a chance for more of their fellows to escape, but every moment they remained in harbour was an opportunity for the powerful Choson fleet to head them off beyond the headland.

The breakthrough finally came on the fifth day.

Power erupted within the radius of her command, power that she had neither expected nor authorised. It registered in her mind like a dark flame, powerful and intense; her eyes fluttered open in shock, and she very nearly let her focus slip. As she fought to maintain precarious control over the whiplashing haze of eldritch force, a small voice in the back of her mind realised where she’d felt that particular power before.

Look, a dragon.

It rose from the cliffs like an ascendant god, bellowing defiance to the grey skies. Darkly intelligent eyes surveyed the ranks of warriors arrayed before him, ashy smoke gathering at the corners of its wedge-shaped head and rising like twin pyres into the low cloud. As rain pelted from its crimson scales with angry hisses and puffs of steam, it angled its sinuous form away from the harbour, powerful beats of its wings keeping its bulky mass hovering in place. Gasps of silent awe echoed all around, both armies – one desperately trying to maintain an orderly retreat, the other triumphantly pressing the pursuit – reacting in exactly the same manner.

“Dragon! Look, a dragon!”

The mythologies of Cathay and Choson had much in common with that of Nippon, and amongst the shared concepts was the veneration of dragons as figures of great wisdom and power, bringers of rainfall and good fortune. And what a majestic dragon this particular specimen was. Most Oriental dragons were tatsu, graceful lithe serpents that could fly without wings, guardians of rivers and lakes. They were powerful, intelligent foes, but not capable of laying waste to entire armies on their own. Only a very few had the capacity for such devastation; only a very few were true ryu. This was one of them.

It quickly became very obvious which side this particular dragon favoured.

With a heaven-rending crash it landed in the midst of the allied wedge, lashing out in all directions with fangs and talons and tail. The tall cliffs prevented her from witnessing the carnage it wrought, but she could track the ebb of emotions as they influenced the nearby leylines. The sour tinge of fear, mixed with the adrenaline rush of alarm and the cruel cold of hate; each caused the flowing rivers of mana in ground and air to shudder in different ways, plucking equivalently unique chords upon her heart. If she thought the desperation of battle was soul-destroying, then the panic of a one-sided slaughter was far worse.

Concentrate, Kayu. You have a job to do.

Her mental admonishment came just in time. The allied aerial brigade chose that precise moment to renew their assault, seeking to take advantage of the distraction. She closed her eyes and grit her teeth, concentration digging deep furrows across her forehead and between her eyes, and the intricately inscribed circles surrounding her pulsated white-hot in response. The haze overhead seemed to shimmer and ripple as she channelled fresh mana, repulsing and denying the chimaeric beasts and their riders yet again. Frustrated cries echoed above the pelting raindrops as they circled helplessly.

Then, as if by unheard command, they changed tactics. As one they folded their raven-like wings and dove, streaking like a flock of black lightning bolts towards the mythical monster that had singly thrown their vanguard into disarray. The crimson dragon saw them coming and rose to meet them, a plume of dark flame preceding its ascent into the skies. The two forces met in a violent clash halfway, impacting momentum knocking breaths from lungs, talons flashing and teeth glinting as black feathers rained upon the melee below.

The brutal fight was over in a matter of moments. The dragon was left scarred and bleeding, but its opponents were beaten and scattered. A triumphant roar reverberated across the bay, driving away even the relentless rain for the briefest of moments. As one, the allied armies turned to flee, panic taking hold and propagating infectiously. Within heartbeats, despite the best efforts of their commanders, they were in rout.

Kayu watched it all from the safety of her circle, almost forgetting to breathe as the glyphs gradually faded and cooled around her. Twenty long hours of battle without food or sleep had taken their toll, and only then did she regain awareness of herself and her immediate surroundings. Her silken black hair was limp and damp, her robes soaked through with tears from the heavens and spray from the sea, and the only reason she was not shivering from cold was because she had allowed herself to forget that she actually possessed limbs. Fully half of the other spellweavers had already collapsed from exertion, and those that remained were skeletal husks barely recognisable as human.

Part of her mind feared to think what she must look like at the moment. The remainder, however, realised that it didn’t matter. A feathery caress touched upon her wet cheeks, gradually growing in intensity until the assembled sails strained and billowed at their tethers.

Wind! she thought exultantly, a cry that was almost immediately taken up by the soldiers assembled on board the ships. Home!

Truly, the dragon was a bringer of good fortune.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

The aftermath of the battle had left the village in shambled ruins. Tall thin spires and rounded dwellings that had survived much of the Great Corpse War had finally succumbed at the fourth time of asking. The first three sieges had been battles of occupation, fought over ownership of the buildings as much as the decimation of the foe. The last had been one of simple annihilation.

But it had been won by the living. Finally, at long last, Raiaera was free of the Necromancer’s foul touch.

Fires still crackled amongst the toppled rubble, dark flames licking at wooden supports and dusty furniture. The good thing was that most undead constructs burnt almost as well as dry crackling, which made it an easy matter to dispose of the tide of filth and decay that had infested the town in a last stand. The bad thing was that dragonflame fed on living flesh too, and the victorious company of elves and allies had to be careful not to accidentally singe themselves. Beneath the ashy heavens the Warstriders laboured, carefully cleansing every last taint and corruption from their liberated lands.

The warrior walked amongst them wearily, once again wearing his full suit of lacquered lamellar plate. Displayed prominently on his chest was his family’s crest, six black coins that represented the money needed to cross the rivers of death and signified that he was not afraid to die in battle. The dragonflame crimson of his armour indicated in turn his clan’s claim to be descended from the first dragons of Nippon. Not that any of the elves who respectfully stepped aside to let him pass knew any of this. Like so many who fought in this war, he was far from home.

He ducked his stocky form beneath a whitestone archway, set in a wall that no longer existed, and emerged into the courtyard of just another destroyed home. Iron warboots resounded like stentorian drumbeats off the cracked pavestones as they carried him unerringly to the outhouse in the far corner. There, a wooden trapdoor had burnt away to reveal a set of narrow stairs leading into a dank food cellar, and it was down these that his path now took him.

The large shoulder guards on his armour made it difficult to manoeuvre in the confined spaces, and his gloved hand rested lightly on the butt of the shorter companion sword at his waist, rather than the oversized odachi on his back. Dark eyes nestled deep below the brim of his full helm, glinting as they took in the single torch blazing at the end of the corridor. It was newly lit, certainly no older than the battle he had just finished.

“Touma,” he said, muffled behind the armoured mask that hid his features. His words echoed off the stone walls like a discordant symphony, accompanied by the jingle of his armour as he took a step into the room. It stank of wet rot and decay.

“Akiyoshi.”

The warrior’s eyes snapped to the direction from which his name had been spoken. They were yet to fully adjust to the darkness, but already he could make out the vague figure seated formally upon the stone floor… and the otherworldly shadows that surrounded it.

They had grasping hands, and bloodshot eyes, and soundless voices keening for the souls of the living. Like the tendrils of some alien plant, they sprouted from the mirror-like sheen of an extradimensional portal anchored to the floor beneath Touma’s folded legs. They were daemons, albeit lesser beings barely deserving of the name.

Realisation struck him like a lightning bolt, nearly staggering him with the weight of long years of deception. He choked back an angry roar, gaze narrowing in the slit of exposed skin between mask and helm.

“Let me guess. This is how you survived the akki ambush when we were young. This is how you lived through the Night of Nefarious Flame. This is how you escaped from Choson.”

The voice that replied had sounded in his head as the battle above had drawn to a close, shaking him so badly that he had lost control over his transformation and nearly plummeted to his death. It had directed him to this particular spot, asking him to come alone, and had promised to explain everything. And now, as the shadowy spirits danced at Touma’s command, he understood. All that he had assumed of the mage came crashing down around his head.

“I won’t deny it.”

The man was no mere kijutsushi. Likely he had never been. Akiyoshi had no idea when his old acquaintance had sold himself to the darkest of powers, but his instincts told him that it had happened long before they had met at the Academy in Nippon.

Illusions and mental tricks may still have been central to Touma’s arsenal, but his abilities went far beyond the necessity to rely on such subtleties. Not only could he read the future, as precarious as such clairvoyance might be, but he could directly influence it as well. He could hide in the shadows, safely out of harms way, and watch and wait as his enemies destroyed one another and his plans came to fruition. Even when threatened he could simply sit back in a protected location, secure in the knowledge that if all came to worst he could bend the very rules of time and space to save his skin.

“You stood by and did nothing, while everybody died…”

You consorted with daemons and brought it upon them.

“My interference then would not have changed anything, except to add one more name to the list of the fallen…”

“You stood by and did nothing! Miiko, and Chiaki, and Yukimi, and Satori… you did nothing!”

“I stayed where it was safe and waited for the storm to pass.”

Before he realised it, he had reacted: a cacophony of clanging metal as his hand gripped his sword and his body tensed for the strike. Akiyoshi very nearly drew his blade, there and then. It was not merely Touma’s justifications that piqued his ire, but the calm and uncaring manner in which he presented them. All the death, all the devastation… it meant nothing to him.

Only the mage’s complete lack of fear stopped him in his tracks, along with the harsh truth that at this distance, at this range, Touma could easily escape through the portal below him. After a lengthy battle to control his fury, the warrior managed to grind out a single word between tautly grit teeth.

“Why.”

“Because I had to, Aki.” Touma’s eyes shone in the dark, pools of still water caught amongst the blackest of nights. His features were gaunter than his five-and-twenty years, cast in shadow far deeper than the misty miasma that played about his folded knees. “I’m telling you this now because I know you will understand. There is no such thing as evil power, or even goodly power. There is merely power that is put to purpose.”

Akiyoshi was reminded of what he himself had needed to do to control the fires within him. His own strength, the strength of the Dragonblooded, had not come easily or without sacrifice; there was good reason why dragonflame was dark and hungry. Someday, no matter how many other lives he took in the process, it would devour him whole.

“I need this power. Someday you will see for yourself, but for now know this… my soul, damned as it may be, is nothing compared to what I have been working to prevent. Even Xem’zund was only the harbinger, an insignificant speck when compared to what we truly face. Are you truly so naively idealistic that you would not accept the aid of a small evil in order to defeat the greater?”

Touma’s gaze pierced him where he stood, composed and emotionless. Akiyoshi could barely hold it, such was its potency.

“I brought you here today to warn you. This is nowhere near the end.”

The mage unfolded his legs, slowly rising to his feet as the fiends gibbered in dismay. His frame was lanky, his limbs long, and the Nipponese robes hung from his shoulders like washing stretched out to dry. Arcane miasma swirled dustily at his bare soles as he took one step, then another, across the stony floor. He did not stop until he was eye to eye with the warrior.

“I reveal myself today so that you will see what I have had to become, so that you will not underestimate my warning or dismiss my words as fallacy. You know what you have to do, Akiyoshi. I need you to do it.”

Together. Together we will protect her. Words from a long-forgotten past echoed in his ears. The pledge of three young men, caught in a war not of their making, looking to rescue a cherished friend from the pyres of sacrifice and defeat. With an effort he pushed away the mage’s subtle influence, but his mind only tumbled into a sequence of anguished memories.

He thought of Yukimi, who had adored him so, and her gruesome death as the daemon’s claws ripped her apart. He thought of Satori, who he had loved, and the tears on her pale cheeks as the revenant clove her in two. He thought of Touma, who had indirectly orchestrated both their deaths through his dealings with the netherworld.

He thought of the nameless boy, the phoenix who had been reborn from the depths of despair to save a nation, only to be lost again. He thought of Kayu, the kirin whose purity and strength had saved them all so many times. He thought of Touma again, the serpent who played them off against each other and against the world, all for his own aims.

He thought of himself, and of the darkness he cradled within. He thought of the young boy he had once been, full of pride and delusions of grandeur, and what he had ended up becoming. He thought of Touma a third time, and realised that they had been the same once, perhaps even now.

He returned to the present, and found himself still staring eye to eye with the mage. It was as if he saw Touma for the first time, and reflected in Touma’s eyes, himself as well. They had both believed, and they were both paying the price.

In the end, he found that he did not have it in him to condemn the man.

Together we will protect her.

He forced his hand to relax from the hilt of his short sword, knowing that Touma’s life was within his reach, knowing that he dared not take it any more. His crimson armour jingled as he slowly stepped back into a neutral stance, eyes smouldering with barely suppressed anger and hate.

“I’ve never liked you much, Touma. Your heart is colder than a snake’s scales and darker than the depths of the void.”

His voice was frigid, a tone that would have frozen the hearts of a thousand lesser men. But Touma’s eyes were colder still, and the mage didn’t even flinch. The warrior studied them for a moment longer before allowing the fire to take hold.

“Just remember this, Touma. The serpent cannot devour the dragon.”

Akiyoshi turned to leave, the stylised crest on his helmet glinted gold as it caught the light from the flickering torch. Between the gilded horns nestled a rearing beast from the depths of legend, foreclaws splayed wide and serrated teeth bared in aggression.

Touma allowed a small smile to creep across his face.

“… look,” he whispered. “A dragon.”

[blackdog1]

Ganlon suddenly ran past Milo and off the narrow trail, "Look, a Dragon," he shouted as he continued, heedless of danger, into the clearing.

Milo was taken by surprise, it was not everyday that his traveling companion noticed anything other than plants and herbs before he did. He considered Ganlon to be a good friend and gifted healer. Unfortunately, Ganlons child like enthusiasm was sometimes a distracting and dangerous thing. Milo hoped that this was not one of those times.

If Ganlon was running like a river of enthusiasm into the clearing, than Milo was creeping like a fog of wonder.

Milo's feet made no sound as he drifted through the tall grass, completely focused on the spectacle before him. As he drew closer to the dragon his partners near constant banter of discovery slowly faded to the background.

Approaching it from the front, Milo gently placed the flat of his hand on the nose of the great beast and slowly ran it up the skull to the point the twisted horns jutted out to the sky. The sun and weather had bleached the skull and left it with the texture of fine silk. As Milo lifted his gaze, the entire skeleton was laid out before him, surprisingly unmolested.

Milo took a few steps back and began to slowly make his way around the entire dragon skeleton. He had never been this close to a dragon, dead or alive, finally getting the chance he would absorb as much as he could. Even though it was obviously long dead, a creature of this magnitude, strength and intelligence deserved respect.

As he walked around the sunlit clearing, Milo could not help but question how the creature ended up here in this state.

The beast was stretched to it's full length, nearly 30 paces, with the wings spread out to the sides. The result was an intact skeleton laid out in the shape of a cross. All of the bones appeared to be in their proper place, the hungry forest scavengers and trophy seekers alike had not robbed the site.

The lack of any disturbance was the first thing that made Milo think this place was somehow special. Few things in the world escaped the destruction of hunger and greed.

The second remarkable point to Milo was the vegetation immediately surrounding the bones. Each piece of the dragon skeleton was outlined by wild red roses. The only exception was the rib cage where the roses climbed the bones to create an arbor of red and white.

Milo was faced with more questions than he had answers for about the understated spectacle before him.

Was this a memorial to the slayer or the slain? A magical marker of beacon? Or was it simply an attempt to pay homage to what is possibly the most impressive beast to inhabit the world of the living.

The sun shifted in its course through the afternoon sky while Milo was lost in thought about the origin and intent of the obviously special and sacred place.

He made a promise to himself that day to hunt down a free and wild dragon. Not to slay or conquer it, but to meet, communicate with and study it. Hopefully he could learn more about the one beast of the world that was still a mystery to him.

Movement in the rose and rib arbor brought Milo back to the here and now. Ganlon was moving about the heart of the dragon.

"Rose hips," Ganlon nearly shouted, waving a small sack in the air, "They are very useful for treating colds,the coughing sickness and a host of other ailments, as well as reducing swelling and pain of the joints." Holding a handful out to Milo he added, "These are some nice ones too."

Milo could only smile at his friend collecting herds in a place like this. He was certain that they would do all that Ganlon claimed and much more.

"Funny though," Ganlon rambled on as he picked,"This is a strange variety of rose that would still be in bloom this time of year."

Milo took it as one more question that he would hopefully be able to answer someday.

[Bloodrose]

"What do you think he wants?" Sidsa asked. She was holding the curtain by the door open, staring out the window alongside Teric at the man who'd shown up just before dark.

"I don't know," the mercenary muttered, "but I get the feeling that whatever it is, we're not gonna like it."

Sidsa's brow furrowed in worry, and she started gnawing on her lower lip. The stranger outside made no effort to hail the cabin, nor did he come any closer than a dozen paces. He was a bigger man, probably a good head and shoulders taller than Teric, and broader as well. Standing there, waiting as he was, the man's legs seemed to grow out of the snow like twin oaks decorated with an odd mishmash of hides, treated leather, and rusty platemail. Straddling those muscular legs was a torso to match, wrapped tight in dull colored chainmail and sporting arms as thick at the bicep as most men were at the waist. He had an axe large enough to fell a small building - the shaft of which was probably as tall as Sidsa.

"Wait here." Teric added. Sword in hand, he yanked open the cabin door and stepped outside.

The cold hit him as snow crunched beneath his boots, and Teric strode forward until he had a good five or six paces between his back and the cabin behind him. The stranger didn't move, but the mercenary saw his eyes focus on the sword. Those eyes were dark, set into a heavy skull that looked as though it might have been carved from granite. The mystery man had a strong, square jaw as well, and more stubble than hair. It struck Teric as odd, as he squared up opposite this uninvited guest, that the man didn't seem phased in the least by the early evening chill. His huge arms hung bare at his sides, he wore nothing on his bald head, and yet the man didn't shiver at all.

"Who are you?" Teric asked.

"Olavi Kaukinen." The man replied, his voice heavily accented. There was something familiar about that accent; something upsetting. Furthermore, in combination with the man's size, and his apparent disregard for the cold...

"Reus?" Teric inquired, not quite sure. The veteran's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword expectantly.

Olavi nodded once, nothing more.

Shit. The Reus were the stuff of children's nightmares; more orc than human, although you couldn't necessarily tell just to look at them. There was a common misconception in Salvar that orcs were all green-skinned, tusk-toothed barbarians, but in truth just about everyone who made their homes in Berevar could trace their ancestry back to some orcish lineage. In a frozen, barren wasteland as hellish as the tundra of Berevar, those were the only sort of people who could survive.

"Awful far south for one of your kind, aren't you?" Teric tried not to let his dismay come across in his voice.

"Wij hebben oud op dit gewacht, heksbloed." Olavi replied in Taal, the language that replaces Salvic Common as the dialect of choice north of Sulgoran's Axe. Teric's grasp on the language was tenuous at best, but he got the general gist of it. We've waited a long time for this.

"Got a Name?" Teric asked his hulking guest.

"Draak." Olavi smiled.

Dragon. Teric shuddered to think what Olavi could have done to earn a moniker like that. "Named Men" were a sort of warrior elite in Reus society, a Name being something you earned, not something that was bestowed on you. To outsiders they just seemed like nicknames the tribals used amongst themselves, but like wizards, Reus took their Names very seriously. Named Men protected chieftains or became tribal leaders themselves. Named Men could marry, have children, and stake out territory for themselves. Really, in order to be considered anything higher than a dog in Berevar, one had to earn their Name.

"I don't supposed I have to tell you mine, seeing as you're here."

"All the Reus still know Bloodrose." Olavi replied in halting Common.

There was a sound like a thunderclap, and the Reus warrior Olavi "Draak" Kaukinen was dead before he hit the ground. The sword that had been hovering near Teric's right hip was now up around his left shoulder - tip pointed off into the sky like he'd just swung it up and across his body. It all happened so quickly that the bloody 'X' shaped wound on Olavi's chest didn't have time to stain the snow beneath his feet before he landed in a heap on his back.

"Good to know." Teric snorted derisively, letting his sword fall back to his hip.

Sidsa was on the mercenary before he could make it back to the warmth of the cabin. The witch had a look on her face that registered somewhere between surprise and terror.

"What the hell was that?" Sidsa demanded to know, trying to shoulder past Teric as he extended an arm and herded her back towards the door. "Why did you kill him?"

"He was a message." Teric explained, poorly. "We're not safe here."

[Zerith]

“I can’t begin to explain how much of an honour it is to finally meet you sir,” a soldier confessed as he saluted his new superior.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Zerith Dracosius, newly appointed Captain-Commander of the Morian army, answered. It wasn’t a complete lie, the halberdier really did consider it a privilege to meet the stranger. The only issue he had was that he felt uncomfortable when men obviously older than he was saluted him.

It was clearly part of the new role he had as the head of his brother-in-law’s army. King Eric felt confident that the new prince was more than capable of handling the job, and to see Zerith take it so seriously brought a smile to the ruler’s face as he stood next to the young General. “Captain Granas here is one of the senior officers of our dragonriders,” Eric explained. “He’s served with them for the majority of his career.”

"Dragons.” The word alone reminded Zerith of the whole reason he found himself standing in the outpost the army built high atop one of the two cliffs in northern Moriah. Weeks ago he decided to inspect the various divisions of the kingdom’s forces, and now all the only thing he needed to see firsthand was the esteemed dragons native to Moriah. “I’m really excited to see one of these dragons firsthand,” Zerith replied as he turned to look at Eric. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“You’ve honestly never seen a dragon before? I’m surprised,” Jasmine interjected. The halberdier had asked his wife to accompany him for the sake making him feel a little more comfortable. Though now as her lips formed an amused smile, he was beginning to wonder if he should have kept that small secret of his to himself. “I always assumed you had a story of a fight against a dragon, especially when you have a name like “Dracosius.”

“Same here,” Eric added. “Even more so when you think of what some of the townspeople are calling you.”

“What are they calling me?” Zerith asked, a touch of concern hidden in his voice.

“”The Dragon General”,” Jasmine beamed. “But I think it’s only because of our last name.”

Zerith sighed, “Can I please just see one of these dragons?”

“Of course, sir.” Captain Granas said, interrupting the friendly conversation amongst the royal family. “Let me introduce you to my dragon, Athkore”

As if one cue, a thunderous roar echoed across the cliffs. Loud wingbeats could be heard from the north until something finally appeared from over the stone wall of the fort. With silver scales that held something close to a mirror-like sheen, the beast was easily around twenty four feet long. As it landed beside it’s rider, the finally few downbeats of his massive wingspan caused the wind to toss Zerith’s hair about in a fury and forced the prince to shield his face. Landing with a loud, audible “thud”, the dragon quickly folded it’s wings along before rearing it’s head back and roaring one final time in a display of overall power.

All in all, the sight was absolutely majestic.

“…Incredible,” was the only word that Zerith could force out of his mouth. As Eric and Jasmine watched silently with smiles on their faces, the halberdier slowly approached in a manner that almost seemed like reverence. The dragon moved as he lifted his hand, lowering it’s large head down so it was just above the prince’s. Its powerful muscles moved perfectly, and every breath that left its nostrils made the air feel hot. The dragon’s eyes were a rich blue more vibrant that anything the halberdier had every seen before and made him feel like the carried more wisdom that he could ever possess in a lifetime. He could hardly believe he was standing face to face with an actual dragon. The entire experience was definitely going to be something he would remember for the rest of his life.

“How…how many dragons do we currently have with riders?” Zerith asked

“One hundred to be exact,” Eric answered, stepping forward so that he could stand next to his brother-in-law. “Moriah has always had one hundred dragons in its military at all times. The extensive process of bonding a rider to a dragon prevents us from having more.”

“What exactly is involved with his “bonding” process?”

“Well one can’t just sign up for this job,” Captain Granas began to explain. As he spoke, he rubbed his hand against Athkore’s neck. “We’re not quite sure how the rest of Althanas refers to the developmental cycle of dragons, but here in Moriah we refer to the ones that just become a year old as “yearlings”. Although they’re still young, they are incredibly intelligent, and even at that age it’s very difficult for someone to convince one to form a bond with them. If someone can do that then the rest is basically training and learning how to fight as a single unit. What nobody tells you is the fact that being bonded with a dragon causes you to share some telepathic bond with the dragon. With a single though, I can make Athkore here bank left or dive while we’re in the air. As a result of this, it makes us a much more formidable opponent.”

“You hear that Jasmine? It’s apparently being like being married to you,” Zerith teased as he looked back to wife, who merely smiled and laughed in response. “What do you think; would it be possible for someone like me to have a dragon of my own?”

“Are you seriously considering that, love?” Jasmine asked as she joined her brother and husband. “Where would it sleep? We don’t exactly have a little cave beside the manor for it to sleep in.”

“Moriah’s a small kingdom, Jasmine,” Zerith answered. “The distance from here to the manor would mean nothing for a fully grown dragon.”

“True, but do you honest think you can manage to convince a dragon to bond with you?” Jasmine challenged with fiery determination.

“I don’t see what I couldn’t,” Zerith said with a grin. “If I can manage to convince you to marry me, this should be a piece of cake.”

[orphans]

“Dragons sing?”

“Of course!” The response from Maybel Wallsmore, a six circle mage of Seoyruun, was immediate and absolute. It had the intended effect of both surprising and holding the small girl on the edge of his bed before him in awe. “Admittedly, I’ve never seen a real dragon before or heard one sing, but it has to be true! It’s been recorded down over and over in multiple histories!”

“Oh,” was all the child in front of Maybel could manage. Her answer visibly left the man flabbergasted at her lack of enthusiasm.

“Don’t you see, Sophia? You might be a dragon! Or maybe have dragon blood in you, rather.” Sophia Ambrose seemed to fidget at the notion that she could be such a thing, which sorely disappointed Maybel. “You know, most would be rather excited at the possibility of having dragon blood in them.”

In truth, it was because “Sophia” wasn’t accustomed to being called upon as such yet. Azza Ambrose was what she would have preferred to be called by, but she had been warned against using it. Lying about her identity didn’t seem right, so Azza did the next best thing – she reclaimed her first given name. “I’m sorry Maybel… but I don’t understand what this has to do with me…”

At Azza’s issue with his theory, Maybel’s deep brown eyes lit up. So eager was he to explain one of his more favorite subjects, that he took a few deep breaths before he started. “Wonderful question Sophia! But first, tell me what you know of dragons.”

“They fly around, and burn down barns, and steal cattle and stuff.”

Maybel made to respond, however, so shocked was he at her response that he stood there for a good few seconds with his mouth agape, trying to form an answer. “Erm, not quite young lady. And what do you mean by ‘stuff’?” Waving his hand in irritation, he continued quickly, “Never mind that. Those are the stereotypes of dragons in legends and stories. What I’m talking about are true lore and knowledge.”

“But you said you’ve never seen a real dragon…”

“That’s not the point. One can glean the truth from researching all of those things. Stories have to come from somewhere and same as the legends.” Pausing in thought, Maybel broke out into a grin. “Okay, fine, maybe what you said is true too, but that’s all the negative perceptions of dragons.”

Frowning, Azza muttered softly under her breath, “But I don’t do any of those things…”

Aside from the usual din inside the giant metal ship, Leviathan, Azza’s voice drifted to Maybel easily and made him laugh in mirth. “Of course not, I wouldn’t have expected you to.” Bringing both his hands before him, Maybel wove an intricate shape with his fingers. Within moments, a small glowing figure of a dragon appeared in miniature form. “Now, what do you see, Sophia?”

Azza stared at the shape and the pretend dragon stared back at her. A puff of false smoke rose steadily from its nostrils, making Azza wrinkle her nose. “A baby dragon?”

“Erm, not quite.” Pulling a chair from beneath his desk, Maybel plunked himself down to continue his explanation, or rant – Azza wasn’t sure which it was anymore. “Dragons, or at least the dragons of old, were majestic beings and were the guides of all life in Althanas.”

“I thought the Thaynes were.”

“They’re part of it. Dragons are what came before them.”

“Are you sure?” Azza’s eyes dripped with skepticism as she studied Maybel’s young face.

“Well… it’s one interpretation. In any case, come here and look closer at the dragon,” Maybel offered as he motioned for her to scoot closer. Azza did so, though she continued to stare at Maybel. “At the dragon, not me.”

“Alright, what am I supposed to see?”

“First, we’ll do comparisons. Dragons have horns, correct?” Azza nodded. “Well, so do you.”

An instant insecurity settled onto Azza’s shoulders as she moved to touch her right horn gingerly. “… so do goats and bears.”

“They’re different – hold on, bears? No they don’t! Wait, stop sidetracking me. My point is, your horns and their pattern are the exact same as some dragon horns recovered.” Turning, Maybel pulled a large book off his desk and thumbed to somewhere near the middle. “Here, take a look. Don’t these look similar to the pattern on your horns, Sophia?”

As much as Azza didn’t want to admit it, Maybel was right. The spiral design of her horns was similar, if not identical, to the one portrayed in the book. She might as well have looked in a mirror. “Just because I have one similarity doesn’t mean I’m a dragon.”

“Dragons are also creatures of intense concentrations of mana. You, Sophia, are nearly blistering with it. Those sensitive to magic can practically smell you from miles away.”

“I… how come I can’t see it myself? Wouldn’t a dragon be able to see those sorts of things?”

“Like I said. You may only have some blood of one. If that’s the case, you would have to be taught how to.” Clapping his hands together as if he achieved some minor victory, Maybel turned and grabbed another book. “Now, dragon and dragonkin have been known to have minor clairvoyance, some stronger than others. Rather, more specifically, memories.”

Azza froze. She didn’t exactly know what clairvoyance meant, but the later seemed to strike dead on. Or did they? It was true that Azza had vivid dreams of places and that she could feel what happened around her in those dreams, but were they memories?

“I’ll take your silence to be that you’ve had similar experiences.” Opening the book, Maybel frowned a little and looked up into Azza’s maroon eyes carefully, searching for something. “May I ask you a question, Sophia?”

“Alright.”

Closing the book, Maybel replaced it behind him and then faced the girl squarely. “You said you were an orphan, correct?” Azza nodded. “Did you sing often at the orphanage?” Azza shook her head. “Really?!”

Giggling at his reaction, Azza nodded her head again. “Really. Erieai actually… taught me.”

Slumping in his chair, Maybel looked to be the epitome of a man with all his hopes and dreams destroyed. “You mean that you’ve just started to sing? And that Erieai is the one teaching you?”

“That’s right. Why?”

Fuming silently for a moment, Maybel waved away the image of the small dragon and straightened himself again. “Well, you just killed my theory of you having dragon blood or maybe being a dragon.”

“Really?” Azza asked, with a bit more excitement in her voice than she meant. “Does this mean I can go now?”

With a hand on his temple, Maybel nodded. “Yes. You can have the rest of the day off before you join Erieai’s unit again, Sophia. I’ll need to talk to her as well.” Nearly bolting up, Azza offered a quick thanks and was out the entrance before Maybel managed to get in another word. Sighing to himself, Maybel turned to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.

On the paper, names of various races and creatures were written and all were crossed out save for one on the bottom: Dragons. With another heavy sigh, Maybel crossed it out with a piece of charcoal and frowned. “Well, I’m out of ideas…”

[Atzar]

My apologies for the wait! This was a fun round to read, and I was very pleased that every story was markedly different than all of the others. Admittedly I was somewhat concerned when I wrote the prompt that I wasn’t giving you a very open-ended topic, but to your credit the creativity here was excellent and I received fifteen very different entries.

MetalDrago

This was a cool entry (and the prompt probably fit your character perfectly), and a good start to the round. Your selection of a somewhat overused theme was saved by the creativity you injected into it. I especially appreciated the familiarity that you exhibited with Althanas lore.

Let’s talk setting. I felt that you weren’t detailed enough. You mentioned the initial setting as ‘inky blackness’, which I thought was vague. Was it a swirling black mist, that drifted and eddied around the plane? Or was it just… blank? Then, once the dragon blew the blackness away, you called it a ‘bleak, desolate wasteland’. Again, this is leaving a lot to the imagination. Give me colors, features, details. You just gave me a mood – and while that’s important, I think you’d do well to dig a little deeper.

SirArtemis

I enjoyed the fact that you didn’t take the prompt literally – this was a cool interpretation. You presented the setting clearly, and your story was easy to follow. My issue with you is the same as it always was – I feel that you use awkward phrases and superfluous details that don’t contribute to the story (although there were less of these instances than there have been in the past, so credit where it’s due for continuing to work on it).

I was a little disappointed in the ending. Throughout the first half, I felt that you were building tension for a conflict of some sort that would follow, but I don’t think you ever effectively released it – the bit with the drunkard’s knife was creative, but ultimately somewhat of a letdown. If it was your goal to dispel the notion that the Dragon was this ill-tempered badass who would obliterate the city if somebody looked at him wrong, then I think you should have paid more attention to setting up and following through on that point from the beginning. As it is, the story was entertaining but it never really went anywhere.

Captain on the Wind

This was a trip. I thought your description of the setting was very effective in a forehead-slapping, over-the-top kind of way. It’s always refreshing to see something written with a sense of humor on this site – we tend as a group to take ourselves too seriously at times. As I read it I thought the part where Gale pissed on the tree was going to be somewhat awkward to read about, but surprisingly enough, it worked!

I felt that your character came across as a bit flat for much of the story. Until the bit with the gnome at the end, you didn’t really give me much indication of what Gale was thinking. The setting is important, yes, but what really makes a story come to life is a sense of who your character is and why he’s doing what he’s doing – I didn’t get that here. Also, there were a couple of minor typos and grammatical errors that could likely be spotted and corrected with a reread.

Cydnar Yrene

This was a great read. I’m pleased that somebody managed to pull Dheathain into one of the entries here – it doesn’t get the love it deserves. I thought the story you told me here was compelling and entertaining, and in general your descriptions were very good – I got a clear picture of the setting, and I appreciated that you fed it to me piece by piece rather than in one large lump. It really helps the pacing of the story that way.

I felt that you could have used a better hook at the beginning of your story. In the first sentence, you immediately bombard me with a bunch of words to which I can’t assign meanings, and it’s left to me to puzzle out what they actually are throughout the rest of the post. I think it would have helped you to ease your reader into the story a little more gently. Also, some of your sentences can get pretty long, to the point of being difficult to follow. Keep an eye out for that. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed this post.

Blackandblueeyes

I thought the premise of this story was awesome. I enjoyed the first-person perspective, and you pulled it off well.

My only real complaint is that it seemed like you didn’t finish! Perhaps you were going for a cliffhanger there, but I felt that there were too many loose ends. Why did your attitude toward the dragon change so suddenly? I was kind of wondering if it was controlling your mind or something. Also, I would have loved to know what happened next. Take that as a compliment, if you will – up to that point, the story had been riveting enough that I wanted more.

Restless Soul

You seemed unsure of whether or not your entry would be too loose an interpretation of the prompt, but this is actually the kind of entry I was looking forward to - I enjoyed your ability to stay within the prompt while not taking it literally. An occasional mechanical mistake aside, this was well-written, with strong descriptions. I also liked the overall tone of your post and felt that it fit the setting perfectly.

On the negative side, this is another case where I don’t feel the cliffhanger worked as well as you’d hoped. I’m not sure I understood who your ‘captor’ was at the end – or even if he was actually capturing Amras. Was the man one of the mages being suppressed by the University? I can’t tell if I’m trying to read into things too deeply here, or if I’m not reading into them deeply enough. A few more hints and a little more clarity would have helped you. Still, this was well-written and enjoyable.

Sagequeen

I actually feel bad about this assessment. I know how much you value feedback and constructive criticism. I feel like I’m doing you a disservice by not giving any advice for improvement, but I don’t know what to say without just splitting hairs. The story was wonderful.

Erissa and Jensen are polar opposites and highlight each other’s personalities very well. Your setting was vividly-described and wonderful, and the ending was hilarious and something I would have never expected from you. It was long, but I never felt that it dragged anywhere. A terrific job across the board here, and the well-deserved winner of this round.

Aegis of Espiridion

Short and light-hearted. I was impressed with the dialogue in this story. Given the relatively scant information you gave to me outside of the conversation itself, it was noteworthy that you managed to bring their personalities forth through their words alone.

While I see what you were trying to do here, I would have appreciated more detail, especially in the paintings. I don’t think the conversation quite bridged the gap between what you wanted me to see and what I actually saw.

Flames of Hyperion

You have a very intense, graphic style with this character. It’s usually effective, and the fact that this all took place in the middle of a bloody goblin raid gave you ample opportunity to show it off. There are times, however, when I feel that you’re trying a bit too hard to be eloquent. For example: “A disorientating cacophony of chittering washed over their position…” While there were certainly many times in this thread where your word choice served you well, there were a few times like this one where I thought it was unnecessary.

Also, my lack of familiarity with your characters hurt me a bit in reading this story. Had this been in a part of a quest where I’d had time to get acquainted with the people I’m reading about, I think some of the scenes (particularly the death of Gyo) would have been a lot more poignant. Still, this was a very well-written job overall.

Wings of Endymion

The story you attached to this one was fascinating. To be honest, I’m surprised that I didn’t get more like this – you were the only one who decided to show off a dragon’s power in combat. As usual, your imagery and attention to detail regarding the setting stood out.

My biggest qualm with this entry was that most of it simply felt like a description of the battle. Kayu’s personality never really came forth, and as a result I felt that the only thing I learned about her in the course of this vignette was the bit at the beginning about her brand of magic.

Whispers of Abyssion

I thought this was the best of your four, mostly because this one tied everything together. The dialogue was intense and very well-constructed, and this one gave me some insight into a few of the questions I had from the Flames and Wings entries. I felt that both parties were believable in their motives and their responses, which is a difficult thing to do – so well done on that front.

I have a minor gripe with the fact that the inclusion of the dragon was only a small and unimportant part of this entry. I feel like, given that dragons are the prompt, the effort should be made to focus the story on the dragon in some way (and you did that with your other three stories). I do understand that Akiyoshi is the dragon in a way, but like I said I felt like that was merely a minor detail and played only a cursory role in the plot.

Blackdog1

This was an interesting and unique take on the prompt. The best thing that you did, in my opinion, was the fact that you consistently interacted with your environment throughout your post. This is an important part of the setting that many people miss.

I think you would do well to use more powerful words and verbs in your writing, especially for those parts that deserve the extra attention. For example, take this line: “He had never been this close to a dragon, dead or alive, finally getting the chance he would absorb as much as he could.” Perhaps a more effective way of saying this would be something like “He knew he might never be this close to a dragon again. With this thought foremost in his mind, he studied the magnificent skeleton intently, etching every last detail into his memory.” Do you see what I did here? It’s more descriptive and more elaborate, without going over the top. Remember that the exploration of the skeleton is one of the most important sections of your post – you want people to remember this. So exercise your inner wordsmith and play it up (within reason, of course!).

Bloodrose

Your strength, in my opinion, lies in your grasp of the relatively subtle personality of your character and in your clarity and concision. You don’t waste words, and you took the oftentimes difficult-to-write awkwardness of a foreign language and expressed it in a clear, easily-understood way.

In this case, however, I thought that there wasn’t enough meat on the bones. The story was very short, and added to your natural brevity the thing just blew by way too quickly for me. I would have liked to see you flesh this out a little bit more in some way. Perhaps you could expand the dialogue, or maybe the battle (such as it was) would consist of more than one shot. After all, you made a point to mention that a Reus who had earned the Name Draak was probably a force to be reckoned with. I know Teric is badass, but I thought killing your visitor with one movement was a little bit anticlimactic.

Zerith

The give and take between Zerith and Jasmine was charming, and I thought your punchline at the end of the story was well-delivered. I, too, found it ironic that a man named Dracosius had never actually seen a dragon – that was an amusing detail that I enjoyed.

There were numerous typos in your post – extra words, missing words, out-of-place apostrophes, that sort of thing – that you could have removed. Remember that possessive “its” doesn’t need an apostrophe. Also, there were places where I thought you could have tightened up your prose – for example, “…downbeats of his massive wingspan caused the wind to toss Zerith’s hair about…” could be cleaned up by taking ‘caused the wind to toss’ and replacing it with ‘tossed’. Also, I think ‘wings’ works better than ‘wingspan’ here as well.

Orphans

Cute and charming as usual, and I loved the dialogue, particularly from Azza/Sophia – her lines sounded exactly like something a little kid would actually say. I enjoyed how you revealed the source of Maybel’s enthusiasm right at the end – it was an amusing ending.

This is classic Azza. You weren’t nearly as ambitious as some of the others in this round, but you wrote your story well. This made for an excellent, lighthearted close to the round.




Congratulations to Sagequeen, the winner of this round! Thanks for your participation, and enjoy round four!