Here Yet Be Dragons

Mutualities | Fantasy Short Story #1

As I was carting into Slico a haul of recent acquisitions, some fifteen-odd dragon’s claws that were each several feet long and were small boulders in weight, pride filled my step. Of course I hadn’t slain a dragon, I hadn’t even seen the creature. But after a quick-footed excursion to Caliber Lake, I was really only going out for something like a restful day and perhaps some quality fishing, I found myself enchanted by a string of berry brushes that smelled intoxicating.

I knew better than to obey unfounded desire. But my curiosity got the better of me, and before long I realized I’d ambled some hour into the runerastle following this trail of fruit. I wasn’t lost, that much was sure. I could simply follow the path of bushes back and find my way to Caliber Lake, though I would want to find some shelter as I would likely not have the time to make my way into town before nightfall after returning from this detour. I wasn’t scared by any means. Caliber Lake certainly attracted its host of creatures being one of the most prominent homes of aquatic life in Cleff, though, and I wouldn’t want to find myself easy prey for a bylgian, saltwalkers, or a mire witch.

But in the dimming light of the runerastle, twilight being stamped out even faster within the dense coverage, I saw in the short distance some effervescence, glowing and attractive. The lights didn’t seem like candlefalls, so I figured I would be safe enough so long as I was careful. And, wouldn’t you know, I was blessed with luck: a small trail of shed dragon’s claws scattered all about the ground. There were twenty in total, it seemed like a fairly large dragon had shed all of its older claws at once in this area, but five of them were quite filthy and damaged, and I didn’t think they’d fetch a similar price as the others despite their rarity, so with a merchant’s discernment and the calculations toward my reserves of energy, I began the work of carrying them back to the lake.

It was pitch dark, except for the claws’ glowing, by the time I had hoisted the fifteen to the small clearing adjacent to the lake where nothing but a single wooden bench resided, inscribed with a simple line There is nothing for thee here. Nothing to flee. Nothing to be. Being as adventurously inclined as I am, I set up a small camp, though I had none of my usual supplies, and not even a pack I could tear into for something like a pillow. Instead I laid the claws out like a small box and, scrounging some brush together, made myself a pillow.

I slept pitifully. Constantly disturbed by the noises of large splashes into the otherwise still lake, roars and cries of dying animals, startlements and territorial disputes. As soon as the first light alerted my eyes, I made off for town to grab a wagon.

Slico was maybe four hours walking to Caliber Lake. I dragged the dragon’s claws to a side brush, tucking them away with minimal effort. I wasn’t terribly concerned with someone stealing them away, as I would see anyone heading to Caliber Lake with a cart large enough to carry them all, and most did not make so large of a trip so casually. It was, for what its worth, a fairly easy walk: non-paved but a well-trodden dirt path through fields. There were songbirds greeting the day, and occasionally I would see the brush rustle to reveal a family of coinbacks pushing forward dutifully, their slow, six-legs doing nothing to repel predators and instead reliant on their near-metallic orbicular encasement. Or wristlicker lizards flinging themselves onto your back for a free taxi, or a softfoot or two seeming to appear next to you and guiding you on your journey.

It was enough, most days, to make one thank the stars that they were born at all in this grand and fascinating world we live in.

Naturally, the guards at the gate chastised me for having stayed out all night: ‘You know there are plenty of dangers out in the wilds.’ ‘Innkeep Dorlo asked about you three times because you’d never checked back in to your lodging.’ But I was free and capable and had no real responsibility to anyone in this town. I’d been traveling for longer than I’d been stagnant. I felt it as a calling, this inability to stay grounded, though many had tried and failed. There were two outposts for wagon rentals in Slico: just inside the gates, and then on the North end of its docks. The docks tended to run dry rather quick, I’d noticed, which then required folks to come to the North end.

The wagonmaster, a dwarf by name of Rutger, was deep in conversation with what must have been a captain who was adamant that the good they were providing the town demanded a discounted exception to the usual price of a wagon: when’s the last time you had such fresh and exotic meats?

Rutger just huffed, face unflinching, “Friend, if you’ve shipped the meat in, surely it can’t be as fresh as you’re saying. We’ve got meat plenty here. You’re no different than any other goods-provider coming by. Now,” he turned his head around and winked at me, “unless you’ve got payment for me, I’ve got another customer to help.” The Captain, a lizardfolk, tall, smooth-skinned, and with a slight webbing to their fingers, tossed over a gold coin to Rutger’s stoic gratitude and began to pull the wagon away.

“I won’t be long, friend, but need a rather large-size wagon that I could pull. I stumbled into some interesting foraging over at Caliber, and it’s too much for me to carry by hand back.” I had learned in my travels never to use the word treasure unless selling it, as it usually induces something of a sucker’s tax on the poor sod.

The transaction was rather quick as he outfitted me with a full wagon with a wooden hoop in the front, usually suited for beasts, but which would hook around my chest just fine. It was heavy, and walking it back to Caliber was much more taxing than I’d bargained for. I became intimately aware of every bump in the road, every rock that would catch a wheel, every time the trodden-path narrowed and made the wagon spill over into the brush. About two hours into the journey I became heavily and distinctly aware that I hadn’t eaten since the day prior, and in my haste I hadn’t picked anything to snack on for the return journey. Oh well. I’d survive.

The skies were clear, the birds still singing, and I found myself whistling something of a tune to myself to keep distracted. In the immediate vicinity of the path, there was little more than grasses and brush; however, further in, there were all number of flowering shrubs, fruiting berry bushes, and saplings. It smelled overpowering at times of pollen and a myriad of herbaceous effort. But it had never failed to astonish me, in all my travels, witnessing the overtaking nature of the land’s color, the vermillions and lavenders, the indigos and the teals, the gourds and the buttercups and the lemongrass that dappled each landscape and made of them a greeting to my heart.

I wish I’d spent longer learning more about the various ways of proper and industrious foraging—I remember school in Xameryth assigning the Tinnen Encyclopedia of Alchemical Foraging—but stars forgive a youngling who wasn’t interested in sitting down with hundreds of odd-pages of tomic knowledge, and forgive an adult who didn’t wish to carry some thirty-odd pounds of book with them everywhere they went.

It was deep in these thoughts that the horizon of the lake came into view and refreshed my wearied stomach. There were tall reeds along the edge of most of the lake bank, various flora that enjoyed access to the silty bank but didn’t quite require the same nurturing connection to soil as non-aqueous plantlife. I wondered; I wandered; I wondered; this was life as something of an aberration. In this world, travellers were welcomed heartily, yet seldom come across. It was jarring: city after city, town after town, I’d made my way around Cleff and discovered the differing shades of the same peoples: happy in their arrangements of their living, occupied in their survival and trade and learning, and ultimately unfamiliar with so much. I rarely faced ire, at least. I faced many an odd-look, and depending on the city, odd-questions (Khoyver, for instance, was spectacularly direct in comparison to Wul’s pitter-pattering politeness), but rarely was their rudeness intended to alarm or threaten me. I’d get asked for all manner of story from my travels and I was happy to supply: fighting the currents along the Mad-toothed Brink, skirting the torrence swamps, taking the long way around the Blanche desert by skirting the shoreline toward Shacaster and coming across an undisturbed Saltwalker that I’d only heard folk tales about previously ambling, a massive vegetatious-crab twice the size of most horses and with a dim-fog around it at all times.

Yes, the world was a beautiful place, so full, so very full with everything except for us daring to exist statically within it.

I dunked my head into the shallows of Caliber lake to refresh myself, wash off some of the encrusted sweat and previous night’s sleeplessness, and saw all number of fish swimming further in the clear waters, and one especially ambitious hedgewallow, a pseudo-kelp creature who had tentacles that looked and mirrored floating greenery to enwrap potential prey with a light paralytic, who was moving so slowly toward my bubbling face.

After this refresh, though, I loaded my cart. I was still the only person I’d passed on my journey both to and from Slico, and the dragon’s claws were undisturbed where I’d left them, though there were only fourteen I counted loading into the wagon, instead of the fifteen I was confident I’d counted the night before. No matter, perhaps a wandering beasty took one for their own treat. One of the constant lessons I’d learned in my travels was that the wildness would take from you and you often had very little ability or reason to protest, in fact the more protestation that occurred, the more that would end up taken. But with a substantially heavier wagon, and a fresh-water soaked tunic, I hooked the wagon around my waist and began my trek back to Slico.

It was already looking midday, hard to believe, and I’d gone long enough that hunger was felt more as a knotted pit in my gut rather than rumbling bubbling calls. It was easier to ignore this way, though when a particular bump hit the wagon (and therein pressed deeper into my flesh), I took longer to recover from the slightened pains.

Dragons were of the sort of creature that were large enough to never be missed, and intelligent enough to never be found. Sure, if you were in Gario you’d probably witnessed a handful flying distantly around the peaks, but from my understanding of the beasts and from otherwise accounts of individuals, most dragons tended to live fairly sedatious lives, gorging themselves and then resting for long swathes of time, months or even years. I’d never read anything about dragons shedding their claws, but I couldn’t imagine any other reason to find a fairly perfect set of these out in the wilderness like that. I’d also never read about dragon’s claws glowing, but I suppose with any creature innately powerful, their energies are so worldshiftingly strong that there’s a residual emanation of them at all times. The claws were startlingly cold to the touch, so I had to assume they were coming from a frost dragon, which was especially odd to consider because I’d never read of frost dragons residing anywhere in the southern portion of the world where climates tended to be more humid and warm. Were dragons intelligent enough to crave trips? Would a dragon visit different environments just to get a refreshment of something new?

Maybe an hour into my return journey, I felt the wagon shaking rambunctiously behind me and set it down. I took a deep breath and marched around to see what was causing it, imagining some small critter was burrowing itself, attracted to the scent and feel of the claws. Instead, I was greeted by a small whelp sitting atop the pile, cobalt blue, blinking its large eyes at me.

I say whelp, but it was already about just a little bit smaller than me, and while I registered what it was that I was looking at, it opened its mouth to me, letting out some chirping, sing-songy admonition. Then, I heard it in my head, “Curious what you’ve found yourself in possession of,” the whelp said, a voice substantially deeper than I’d imagined when listening to its near bird-like shrill, “what do you hope to do with this?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve heard of craftsfolk using dragons claws for tools and weaponry, I’ve heard of captains using them for adornments on their ships, and I’ve heard of councils setting up shrines with them to ensure respect was paid to, well, your kind.” I said aloud, not thinking overly much about it.

“But what do you want from them?” The voice asked again.

“Well, I mostly want a bed, some good food, and the ability to continue my journeys. So, whatever I can get in exchange that would aid me.” I said.

There was a long silence where I only heard the winds rustling through the grasses around me. Then the winds stopped and the silence was even longer in the vacuous space of no-noise wilderness. The whelp flapped its wings and rose up above us, fifteen feet into the air, higher. As it climbed, it seemed to grow and I watched as its wings created shadow over my frame, over the field. I watched its chest expand, becoming as large as the wagon itself, larger, and adorning in shimmering and sharp scales. I watched its face grow from the placated softness to the tell-tale and geometrical stoicness that dragons were characterized with in illustrations. And I watched a massive tail grow, flickering out behind it wildly, jagged spines growing out of either side. Yes, I watched as the whelp shifted into the size and appearance of what I must assume was a fully adult frost dragon. Then, I said, “So, uh, if you don’t want me to have these I suppose that’s my bad. That’s on me.”

The dragon let out a breath and a stream of chilling frost arched above its head, filling the sky with a hovering wall of ice. “I have no need for them anymore,” it said, “if you would make use of my scraps, so be it.”

“Do you have a name?” I asked.

“I have many.” The dragon said.

“Well, that’s about all I know to ask. I confess, I’m not particularly sure what to do here. I’ve only read stories about dragons with such immense power they raze entire cities, which isn’t to say you don’t have that power, but I guess I’ve never heard anything about dragons appearing next to their discards, transforming shape, and then speaking to you.” I was shaking, sure, looking this massive creature in its dark eyes, but I don’t think I was entirely afraid, “So could you tell me about yourself and what made you appear before me?”

“Do you know you’re the only person who’s come to that Lake in the last seven years?” The dragon said after some silence.

“What do you mean?” I asked, almost certain I’d seen travelers returning from this trip some days prior.

The dragon said, “I placed a veil on the lake. There should be no spawn who can arrive on its shores. Most will, as they get closer, feel a suggestion blooming within them to stop, make camp, and turn around before they get within sight of the shores.”

I hadn’t been powersborn. As far as I could tell there was nothing extraordinary about me, I didn’t have particular attunement to the spirits though I was reverent toward them as one who travels should be. I’d run into my share of dangerous encounters, so it wasn’t like I had some blessing that kept me safe. No, everything in my travels would suggest I was, in fact, quite ordinary. “You passed through the veil,” the dragon continued, “which means either you lack a soul, or you have been spirit-touched.”

I blinked, “Well, I think I have a soul, but I assume you can tell me for sure?”

“It is hard to look at you,” the dragon said, “whatever you have on yourself that makes you invisible to my veil also makes me struggle to see you. It is like looking at a swarm of insects trying to congeal into the shape of a figure.”

Instinct and curiosity took over and I found myself pinching and plucking at my skin; it hurt and stretched in the way I would expect. “I don’t think I’m bugs.”

“It must be some spirit’s trickery.” The dragon said.

And then there was a long silence between us before I asked again, “So could you tell me what made you appear before me?”

“You are an oddity. Is it not my right to ask questions to things I do not understand?” The dragon asked.

“I suppose so. And you’re not going to, like, attack me?” I asked.

“I’m not sure if I could. Sure, I could freeze the grounds around you and keep you stuck in place such that you can’t move and, eventually, starve and extinguish. Or I could,” it rumbled something deep within it and a chill ran through my body, “allow for the chill to find home. But, no, I don’t think you have done anything wrong. Your bugs are not leaving your frame.”

“Huh.” I said, “do you want to keep me company as I keep walking this back to town?”

“I have not been asked to keep company before.”

“And you have apparently not run into a person like me before either.”

“You move slowly.”

“Yes, I have not eaten in quite a while, and your scraps are heavy.”

“They are not heavy. I flicked them off.” The dragon almost sounded defensive.

“They are heavy to me.”

“Yes.” Then, in a flurry of movement, the dragon shrunk to a whelpling size once more and gripped its claws around one of the arms of the wagon. “Well, let us go. It is important to eat when you are hungry and I would offer you no food.” Then, “I will leave you before we get too close. The settlements tend to attack.”

“I didn’t see many weapons that would be able to fight you.”

“It is not my safety I worry for,” the dragon said.

“Why would you not offer me food?” I asked, “Not that I am asking you to make the offer, but it seems worded-oddly.”

“A dragon’s offering tends to come with a transfer of energies,” the dragon said coolly, “it is impossible for me to give anything to you without some establishing of flow between our energies.”

“But you have given me company freely.”

“So I have.”

We were quiet for a long while. I believe the world around us could sense this being of immense power casually being carried along with its scraps, and as such seemed to be holding its breath. There was a stillness, a lack of animal rustling, a lack of birdcalling except for the occasional extremely distant bird warble, which still had the dragon shooting their head toward the noise in the distance and huffing dramatically. I was still absolutely wrecked with exhaustion and hunger. The pit in my stomach had grown more tight and I felt myself sweating profusely in how faint I was. The sun was bright through the afternoon, and as I began to feel its light having moved around to our backsides, making its way for its journey to darkness, I began to occupy my mind with thoughts of the hand pies that Innkeep Dorlo would make. They were delicious, the ones I’d had already, potato and lamb and some gravy wrapped in a dough, the herbs cooking into a heavenly aroma and those sumptuous first bites where the warmth filled your throat in a way that didn’t, could never, burn. Or perhaps he’d conjure something of a stew this time. I was confident it would be something with gravy, though, because he’d been so utterly proud of his gravy when first introducing his culinary skills, saying that there isn’t much better of a balm to the hardworking soul than a warm scoop of gravy to fill the stomach.

It was in these thoughts that twilight’s gilding passed over my eyes and the outline of the distant Slican walls began to appear in my vision. I was still maybe an hour of hardwalking, but closer to two at my pace, from the city. But the dragon who’d mostly kept silent beside me said, “I can rarely eat warm meals due to my nature.” I realized, then, that communication into my mind most likely was two-ways, that this dragon had probably spent the better part of the journey listening to me imagine all manner of foods. “This Dorlo,” the dragon continued, “is a master?”

I laughed, “No, I don’t think he’d refer to himself that way, but his food is good, yes.”

“And the settlement, you can promise they won’t attack?”

“I can’t promise, but I think they won’t.”

Quiet once more, then, “If they do I will roar and force them to create a hoard for my entertainment or suffer my wrath.” And, quietly after, “though I do not wish for this, as I don’t imagine their hoard would be good, and they are quite loud when they fear.”

“How would you like for me to introduce you to them?”

“The Frozen Maelstrom, Lady of the Shattering Despair, Flame’s Blight, the Rimetyrant, the Silent End Contyssa.” Contyssa said.

“May I shorten this to Conty? I think all of your titles might make the Slicans worry.”

“Does Conty still give an idea for my might?”

“Do you need your might to share a meal?”

“You may shorten my name in introductions, though I would appreciate you stress my power so they do not think they can hunt me.”

“Have many tried to hunt you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why the veil?”

“Yes.”

To my surprise, it did not take much convincing for Conty’s whelp-form to be granted entry through the gates. There was; however, and perhaps I should have expected this, a supreme interest from near everybody in town to hear the story behind a gaunt traveler carrying a wagonful of dragon’s claws with a dragonling strutting awkwardly behind them, clearly unused to walking on her legs. I cajoled the group into Dorlo’s inn, The Sea’s Bees, where he laughed heartily, already in the process of stirring a large pot of droolworthy food. He stammered slightly when the people kept filling in but as I approached with Conty, and after a brief explanation, he was quick to act.

Dorlo along with some of the beefier dockworkers began to move tables outside into the street, messages were sent to other nearby establishments to start bringing food over, two buskers had begun playing their songs - one a simple guitar and song, while the other had pulled together a rowdy group with flutes and tambourines. And in rather short order, with minimal questions being asked, a fairly sizeable feast was put together. The fewer bakers in town had brought all of their leftover stock from the day’s end and they made easy pairings for the veritable vat of gravy Dorlo had been preparing. Some of the local butchers donated entire lambs and pigs to roast, the farmer’s stalls preparing vegetable skewers with all manner of pepper and tuber, everything with a lovingly heaped basting of oil, herb, and spice that made the air seem to crackle with a certain heat.

Dorlo had thought better than to offer a plate and silverware to Conty, and so had placed a fairly sizeable bowl, looking mostly ornamental with ceramic figures painted along its sides, and the various figures of town took their turns placing their food in the bowl and watching proudly as Conty devoured it and then, odd reptilian tongue sticking out, would chastise about how the people here have no reverence for the cold.

I’m not sure if it was the proximity to danger or just the euphoria of novelty that spurred us all on, but Slico danced and sang, ate and drank, made confessions on the wind and bore their frivolity with great effort. As the dark of the evening was beginning to overtake and lanterns had been lit, someone yelled out, “I declare this the Rimefeast,” and the people cheered even as Conty’s voice cajoled, All of this food is far too burning and warm to be suitable for the Rime.