The Night a Warrior Fell From Heaven

[Ozoric]

The Night a Warrior Fell From Heaven (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBja4zAXSA8&feature=watch-vrec)



Closed to Hydriatus.

Sequel to The Day A Dragon Came To Town (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?24836-The-Day-A-Dragon-Came-To-Town&p=203178#post203178).


http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs12/f/2006/318/0/a/Dragon_Knight_by_poisondlo.jpg

I sit here in disgust,
For the block strikes nigh again,
I've spent my day whittling my nib,
Fighting my restrain.

I want to write just one last verse,
A line to end all lines,
I want to smell the roses wrought
In the woodland realm of pines.

I talk myself a merry talk,
Soothe soul with caustic lies,
For every time I flick to paper,
The poet in me dies.

I seem to have hit an end stop,
A stop to all dictation,
Of dragons, dreams and dust I dream,
Of tripling and sedation.

I long to write like I’ve never written,
Make marks in a mystic land,
But here I am, settling for nothing,
Fighting with time's hand.


Cydney Oliver.

[Ozoric]

The sound of a dragon landing in the Drakengard was a truly wondrous thing. Even though the fortress had at its zenith six long landing strips, its three remaining swift became a hive of activity the second the beat of a descending pair of wings was heard. Guards, stable hands, and quarter masters swarmed up from cellar doors and trap latches to embrace their family and scuttle them away into the eyries, quarters, and holds below.

“Hold on, Vultha,” Ozoric roared, ushering the dragon to one side as Gretna, who whinnied and nuzzled Dakar’s shoulder carefully, turned with a ruckus to launch her skyward. “It’ll get a bit,” no sooner than he could find the words, a blast of wind knocked them from his lungs. He stumbled back.

“Windy!” Dakar roared his voice trill with laughter as he careened over the rocky outcrop. His smile could have lit the sky. “Inside,” he pointed over Ozoric’s shoulder to the large gateway at the end of the runway that stood some two hundred feet tall at its peak, and was as wide as it was lofty, “quickly, before the next scouting party lands.”

Ozoric did not have to examine the fringes of the Dragon Rock’s territory to know that specks would be forming on the horizon. The all too familiar site of three dragon riders, armed to the teeth, would grow to a terrifying sight in short time. They would land, and be less patient and careful as Gretna. Some of the occupants of their home were not quit as sympathetic to their human parasites.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Ozoric mused. Trying to introduce somebody to something quite as extravagant as the Dragon Rock was an immense task. He made erratic hand gestures at everything he thought might be remotely interesting to a new comer. Dakar, knowing this routine all too well, walked behind them both, hands tucked into the small of his back, mind wandering aimlessly into mundane whittling.

“How about you start with the simple things?” Vultha chuckled. He padded to Ozoric’s right, curious to say the least. “How many of these landing strips are there?” the idea of a hangar for dragons was new, but it seemed practical. When they passed through the doorway, the inner expanse was mind-boggling. Mist formed clouds in the rafters, carved into the mountain’s heart itself. There was little wood or glass in sight.

“Presently four are in order. The north ward, and the south, were destroyed when the Empress, whilst brooding, landing to the south, and smashed through the tower connecting the two entrances.” Several men had died, and the Empress had taken many more before she had calmed down. “Each can accept up to three dragons at once, and each is guarded by at least twenty men at all times.” There were half of those who were logistics, supply, and squire types. It was the first step in a long ladder up to becoming a dragoon.
“Why do the dragons not simply land?” Vultha enquired. His kind could, naturally, lift off and land horizontally.

Dakar interrupted, pointing up at the rafters overhead. He appeared in between them both, an imposing father figure. “You try landing with rigging on you, weighing as heavy as a dragon at full age does, and not drop through the floor.” He was highlighting a hole in the roof, badly patched with glowing ribbons of light, and dropped his gaze. “That was Gretna, sadly. We were in a storm, unable to land, and the landing bays were all ablaze and awash with debris.

Ozoric chuckled, “she was heckled for the incident for many weeks.” So much so, she had literally gone on a diet. It was a strange concept for a dragon. “The design of the Dragon’s Rock is as much to make our lives easier as it is to make the dragon’s duties more tolerable. It also allows them to come in over the mountain peaks and fly in low. This gives them the natural cover the Dragon Rock’s rise and fall, and the protection of the mountains from the carnal winds we get from the northern ocean.

“Does the same not apply for your enemies?” said the little dragon. His eyes seemed to glisten, which made Ozoric weary. He had, at first, underestimated Vultha’s intellect and experience of the world. He was growing more and more conscious to not make the same mistake twice.

“Our enemies, Vultha, are few and far between.” Dakar interrupted again. He, unlike Ozoric, was entitled to speak of war. Ozoric’s only claim to veteran hood was a particularly nasty encounter with a young brie buck darkling who had toothing problems. “Any that wish to fight us, will have to cross some two leagues of ash land that forms the outer limits of the caldera.”

“The volcano that fired here in aeons passed formed a perfect barrier. Ozoric guided them all to the smaller door to the right of the palisade that divided off the hanger into smaller hay bale hovels and tool sheds. “The lakes around the spindles that lift the Dragon Rock from the natural floor are many hundreds of metres deep, and only three needle thin bridges connect the plains with the lower levels of the structure.” The lower levels were a Webway of narrow spiral stairwells, single file corridors, and arrow-traps.

Vultha began to feel a little safer, but at the same time, considerably more weary.

“What do you think so far?” Ozoric pressed, leaving the question hanging to his new found friend. He stepped aside, gestured noble like into the doorway, and waited. Beyond, the stairwell dropped down into the armoury hall and the first of many wondrous sights that formed Corone’s most dangerous, but valiant soldier. His hair danced as the thermals flicked his locks to life, and then the torchlight leant its flame, and he scintillated gold. The long forgotten chill of Salvar had been left out in the cold where it belonged.

In the Dragon’s Rock, there was only the warmth of a dragon’s heart.

[Hydriatus]

"Impressive," Vultha complimented. A good base, functional and somewhat efficient. Not to his exacting standards of course, but those would be saved for his own fortress. No need in strengthening a potential foe. He felt no ill will to the inhabitants of this place, but dragons lived long lives. Clashes and arguments happened. Sooner or later, he would fight against Drakengard, just as in time he would fight with it. But never for. The only banner Vultha fought for was his own...metaphorically speaking. That reminded him - one of the first orders of business once he finished construction in Salvar (which considering he needed the funds first, would occur probably in a few centuries) would be to commission a banner. Heraldry was one of the many marks of ostentatiousness the dragon enjoyed.

"Still, is there no Lord of the Keep or someone of rank we ought to report to?" he asked Ozoric politely. "Surely you cannot just bring anyone back with you and give them a tour just like that, even if they are a dragon," he pointed out, flapping his wings as he felt heat begin to soak into him again. He had to admit, the fortress was more cosy than his cave...but still, his cave was HIS cave. Belongings were a key facet in a dragon's psyche. They were a reflection of their character. The type of treasure they surrounded themselves with was the most telling part of their character. Of course, Vultha had no treasure at all...something to rectify in the future.

"I imagine the paperwork associated with such a hold must be nightmarish. All the supplies, the various people and jobs coming through here," the small creature idly pondered, looking from Dakar to Ozoric. "How do you afford all this?" Pointed questions, and dangerous ones. Dakar would probably wisely choose not to answer him. Logistics were the key to everything after all.

[Ozoric]

Ozoric had asked that exact same question during his first few days, as a young, newly arrived from the now long forgotten pleasures of the Imperial Palace.

“The Dragon Rock is an ancient edifice of Corone’s long-dwindled providence. Though it remains a kingdom continually expanding, and growing, it does not match what was once present here.” The glorious days of the Dragoon’s army were long gone. “Three centuries ago, you could have filled the caldera with a standing force of four thousand men-at-arms, two hundred dragon riders, and their commanding officers and support specialists.”

They continued their descent into the first ring of the castle, passing stationed guards, long tables laden with arms and ardour, and tapestries depicting any number of epic and heroic events that stretched back in time to the First Age of Corone. Vultha remained collected, but pensive. Something was amiss. He knew little of this world, and less still of its history, but from his experience, he had seen no signs of a war on the scale required to devastate such a potent force.

“Ozoric…” he cautiously began, “is it wrong of me to ask where they went.”

Dakar broke into a soft chuckle. He remained fixated on the next door, the next turn in the long road, and the requirement of a commanding officer to nod gruffly at every grunt that he passed. His stride did not falter, his back did not bend, and pace did not alter. This was a routine, a journey, and an arrival the Captain had gone through hundreds, if not thousands of times.

“It is not wrong of you, not at all Vultha. I have heard the Tale of the Nocturne far too many times, and enjoyed it, to pass up the opportunity to impart it to another.” He pulled the dragon to one side, stepping out of the traffic as several guards appeared around the last corner. He waited for them to march boy with happy trots, slip around Dakar, who made no effort to move out of their way, and then looked down into the dragon’s eyes. “War.”

“War?” Vultha cocked his head. His scales glistened in the light of dancing torches. “I saw no sign…” he mused.

“This volcano was once active. The lake around the spindly legs of the fortress was once lava. When the Black Dragon Malfor rose in rebellion against the Dragoons, there was little we could do but sacrifice all our strength to ensure he never left the mountains.”

The name meant nothing to the little dragon. “Sacrifice is honourable, whatever the cause,” he nodded gruffly.

“I will tell you more once we are settled, should you chose to stay with us.” He turned, and began to walk away, but stopped to look over his shoulder with a coy smile, “assuming of course the Knight Commander allows it.” The title haunted Vultha.

“Knight Commander?” he heckled after the initiate, who was already at the end of the corridor.

“Come, Vultha, we’re nearly at the Grand Hall!” the dragoon roared back over his shoulder. “You want to see where the heart of our people lies, do you not?” Enticing the dragon to follow, Dakar, and Ozoric, both disappeared from view around one last corner, before the long corridor met with two great doors, and the vast and cavernous Feasting Hall beyond.

[Hydriatus]

Vultha would have raised an eyebrow if he could have at the figures listed by Ozoric. Instead he just slowly nodded his head. “An impressive outpost to be sure, though keeping it supplied must have been difficult,” he offered, glancing about, his eyes automatically being drawn to the shadowed alcoves as he memorised the layout of the corridors they passed through, adding to his mental map of the area. Should he have to escape, he wanted to have as much data as possible.

The tale of the great Black Dragon reminded him of the battles against the Flame back in his own realm. The small beast shook his head. “Such is the way of things. There will always be a singularly powerful foe to defeat, demanding great sacrifice.” In the case of the Flame, it had been much of the darker dragon species. Vultha had grown up without seeing anything close to his kind for almost a decade. Of ocurse that had ensured that his own survival in those crucial first few years had been guaranteed.

Sacrifice may have been honorable, but not in Vultha's style. He was the kind to only engage in battle once victory was assured. Until then he would run, hide, scheme and undermine. It was his way. Still, no reason not to honor that which others could do, even if it was unwise.

They approached a pair of giant doors, Ozoric quite lost in his theatrics. Vultha smiled. He liked the young dragoon. He doubted they'd ever really be friends (his kind did not make friends), but he figured they could come to rely upon one another in time.

“Very well then, let us see this heart of yours,” the small dragon shrugged.