And it did, at least temporarily, for upon awakening amidst the glaring beams of the sun peeking through the rotted boards of the decrepit barn, Geron nursed his head and arose. His trust that where there was usually unoccupied space was betrayed by where the box now sat. Tumbling over it and spilling head over heels, his confusion turned quickly to anger. As he turned to unleash his wrath upon the offending item, he saw its contents spilled forth. Gently rolling to a stop against the walls of the barn, an elliptical sphere ceased its lazy escape.
The rest of the box yielded nothing else, obliterated to remnants from Geron's adept footwork, and so he placed the egg upon the mound of long neglected straw, examining its fragmented rippling surface with delicate curiosity.
4
“They prowl our lands, the scourge of our domain, slaughtering our sons and daughters. Destroying our crops. They are the bane of Tallagate. Hail King Lornus! And his noble Beastslaying Elite!”
The crescendo of the sermon had been reached and conversation at the inn was free to proceed as usual. No-one was certain precisely when the Preaching Guild was established but it had been several years since the passing of the Sonkiller's Decree and the coinciding of the events was too convenient to stand up to scrutiny. Although should one do so, they would soon find themselves at the mercy of the Kingsmen, their pronounced protection of the Preachers another cementing affiliation in the Royal circle.
Geron had heard the sermon so often that involuntarily he would mumble along, pitching the hyperbole with sufficient sarcasm. No matter what town he travelled to, the respective Preacher was there, enforcing Lornus' will through motivation of coin rather than any belief or dogma. Geron knew better to treat them as fools however, he was fully aware that their roles also included spying and information trade. No sooner than his business was concluded and Geron had departed for the next town, the summoned Beastslaying Elite would arrive, following up on their informant's claim of a most unusual and deadly beast.
But Geron had yet to do anything to arouse the suspicions of this Preacher. The coin paid towards the children playing at the town's edge only bought him an air of mystique as they passed whispers of “a show the likes of which the world has never seen before.” Whilst not entirely spoken verbatim in how Geron had expressed it, regardless the word had spread, fuelled by intrigue, with some immediately confirming their attendance to be in the town square at sunset.
“Out of coin friend,” the opponent across the table informed Geron, with an appropriate scorn of victory. Geron didn't need the update, his empty pouch and empty glass reminded him of his financial standings.
“How about that?” the man took a break from counting Geron's won coin to ogle the medallion that hung around his neck. It did not seem to contain any precious stones nor lined with valuable minerals, but its peculiar shape hinted at an intricacy that transcended convention.
Geron involuntarily clutched at it, which was enough to convince that it had a worth of some sort. Taking a glance at the collected winnings, of which a sizeable portion were his own contributions, Geron pondered the risk. His deliberation was interrupted by the announced departure of the Preacher.
Geron shook his head as he removed the medallion, dropping the twisted stone and steel ornament onto the table. “Usually the preaching types are the ones being all pious and talking about the gods.”
Seeing the medallion up close sacrificed some of its enigmatic lustre, but regardless the bet was accepted. “Pfft, the way you carry on at this table you think you're some kind of god yourself,” the man spoke.
Geron accepted the cards dealt, immediately stifling a wince at his hand. “No, I'm not a god among men, just god's dandruff maybe,” he stated distracted, as he slowly contemplated how to endure this bet.
The now freshly victorious gambler was stout, in lethargic fat rather than the hefty mould of battle, and accordingly Geron was convinced he could retrieve the lost medallion before departing. As for the lost coin however, Geron considered himself to be a man of some virtue and principles, and would bow fairly to the hands dealt by fate.
His theoretical recovery of the medallion was intruded upon by the unceremonious entry of a local farmer to the Inn. Defying traditional conventions, the man had staggered and fallen into the establishment, rather than the commonly seen outwardly exit. However, it was not intoxication that disrupted his equilibrium, but the evident flesh wounds being the cause of his distress.
“Beast!” he cried out with great distress. “Bloody bastard got two of my sheep, and nearly got me when I tried to stop it.”
As he was being seen to by kindly neighbours and his situation tutted at by the more passive, Geron snatched the medallion from off the table much to the objection of his opponent, whose outcry of dishonour and other assaults on his reputation were endured as Geron exited past the farmer, throwing back a reassurance that he, the mysterious Geron of Rivermouth was on the task.
The skies were clear,Geron would have to take care of this by himself. Some folk were fleeing towards their home, seeking sanctuary behind flimsy doors. Heading upstream towards the danger, Geron found himself face to face with the supposed scourge, a mere stalking-cat youngling was pawing at the sheep's carcass. Geron thought of the farmer tending to his wounds and chuckled. It was easy coin to make, if the fighting standards of the townsfolk were at this level.
“Can’t let the Beastslaying Elite have all the fun,” Geron spoke aloud in case any suitors were watching the heroics, though the action could hardly be called as such, given the young creature was easily slain with but a single blow.
“No wonder we lost the war to Arconan if our men are fleeing from younglings,” Geron said to the smattering of onlookers with an assured confidence, that all digested as unpalatable smugness. The injured farmer among them stumbled forward. “Not him,” he hissed, exasperated at the intended humiliation attempt, “the other one!”
Geron watched as the larger stalking-cat descended from its perch upon the rocky hillside overlooking the town, it quickly landing with a weighty thud. The beast circled its slain young, its heavy paws raising dust not dampened by blood. It sniffed for a moment; attention drawn towards the sound of fleeing residents. Only Geron remained, though he thought for a moment of joining them in their retreat.
Turning the medallion over in his palm, he raised the flattened surface to his teeth, catching the exposed ridge and pulling forth the thin metallic pipe from within. The beast was approaching with greater pace than Geron would have liked. Inhaling quickly, Geron blew the gathered air into the thin pipe with purpose.
The whistle was heard by none but the creature that sailed through the clouds above, the pitch was clear and its ears zoned in on the location, delving deep through the clouds to the ground below.
Through ajar doors and curtain slits, those that saw this plunge soon sacrificed their protective shade for a better view. Though no-one but Geron and the stalking-cat had any such visual obstructions as the mighty frame of the dragon landed in their midst, talons digging deep into the earth, steadying its landing, wings flapping majestically outward to cease the descent.
Geron breathed a sigh of relief, the entrance of the dragon was a well-rehearsed routine but in hostile encounters such as this, the grandiose was cutting things a little fine.
The stalking-cat was startled, such a creature it had never seen before. And although it had long roamed this terrain unchallenged, as alpha hunter its instincts informed it that this was a fight not to be taken lightly.
The dragon used the beast's confusion to allow itself a glance toward Geron, who blew the whistle once more, closing his fist. And thusly with no restraint the dragon hoisted its mighty taloned foot into the path of the stalking-cat’s charge, catching the unsuspecting beast by the skull. It let out a confused whimper, an unsettling sound from a creature so fierce, yet the dragon showed no mercy, casting it aside, the flung body flattening a nearby wooden fence. The stalking-cat was wounded but vicious anger overrode any sense of p
reservation as it charged at the dragon once again. Geron watched on, the dragon needing little in the way of further instructions. Spreading its wings, it formed a tableau of gallantry before blasting the wings together in a powerful gust, halting the stalking-cat enough to allow the dragon to crane its neck back and sink a snapping bite into the neck. The beast howled and thrashed but soon its resistance left. The dragon rose from the lethal hold, bellowing out a warning to others that may be watching, but its victory was undisturbed.
Those of a more squeamish disposition averted their gaze as the dragon nonchalantly transitioned from aggressive challenger to informal diner, tucking into the carcass without ceremony. Instead the townsfolk turned their attention towards Geron, in an outpouring of offered thanks and congratulations. The beast had been a nuisance for several months, whilst the Beastslaying Elite were diverted to towns with more royal influence, and the Kingsmen chose to turn a blind eye to something that posed them potential harm. No such mercy however was shown during the rounding up of the town's goats several years prior.
Though not all were so forthcoming with their jubilation, instead gathering clandestine to talk quietly amongst themselves, before an elected individual darted off in search of something, or someone. Geron knew which, but for now he was content to enjoy the adoration. The children in awestruck amazement at the dragon, the adults in lustful envy of its handler. But he had also seen those who were in favour of Lornus' decree. They had become more vocal now that Preachers gave them a vocabulary for their hatred.
The Tommamare's Creed of All Creation hierarchy was clear. Of all the outlawed beasts, the dragon sat at the precipice of enmity. The most vile and evil beast. The antagonist of the Creed, ultimately defeated by the hero. One could be forgiven for thinking the existence of the dragon only to reside in fiction, though said fiction always mutually placed them in Wyrmgard, a hidden land to the north of Arconan.
Sure enough, after staying for a few moments longer to revel in the plaudits of the townspeople, Geron saw the sent messenger return with the Preacher in tow.
Any semblance of reverence dissipated, the Preacher at a loss for words at what he now saw. It was an easy task to demonise beasts in their absence, but as he cast his eyes upon his first live dragon, it was a far more daunting task than lambasting the illustrations in Tommamare's Creed. But the Preacher, in remembering the King's coin, came to his senses. His portly frame would not accommodate a hearty run, but those that looked to his influence were of a more sporting frame. And quickly they were dispatched to fetch the Kingsmen, who in turn would summon the elusive Beastslaying Elite.
Whilst the word spread about the illustrious show promised at sunset had taken root, Geron knew that by such time, the hostile presence would have gathered.
Quite the shame, he mused, taking his leave.
He placed the medallion's whistle to his lips and gave a slight high-pitched blow. The dragon, docile enough that several of the townspeople had inched close enough to offer hesitant pats, stepped back quickly as the giant beast turned to look at Geron. With a swivel of his fingers to the air, the dragon understood and began to take flight with a pre-launch routine that raised wind and dust as the thick leathery wings flapped continuously, until at last its taloned feet pushed the beast skyward. When the gathered folk ceased shielding their eyes, both the great beast and mysterious one-armed man were gone.
“Alright, let’s see if you can get it right this time...” Geron muttered. Whilst the frustration of trying to impart simple choreography to a dragon was indeed setting in, it made the trek towards the eastern town of Fentigon less mundane.
In a way, Geron was glad for the intrusion by the stalking-cat, he wasn't entirely certain the dragon was fully prepared for this new routine. And if the wonderment of seeing a dragon up close wasn't enough to dazzle the townspeople into parting with coin, then the show needed to be fully up to scratch.
Through a series of short bursts from the medallion's whistle with subtle, directional arm gestures, the dragon soared through the sky above, ducking and weaving in acute angles, diving to the ground in free-fall before emerging aloft once more.
“Impressive,” thought Geron, but even with the dragon's unparalleled eyesight spotting the cues, ideally Geron could be undertaking another distraction whilst the audience was engrossed with these theatrics.
A wagon was approaching on the horizon, Geron gave the signal for the dragon to soar upward until it resembled a mere random innocuous bird. Nodding graciously at the two travellers passing by, Geron sighed, left to his own devices once more.
The dragon lapped the water from the stream as Geron supped from his cannister. It was the only sustenance they had happened upon in the day's journey. And with night encroaching, making camp here and setting out for Fentigon seemed ideal. Though ideal was not a word Geron would use for the situation, as he patted the empty pouch. Chastising himself for his vices, he was certain that he could turn his last coins into enough for a meal a bed and some other comforts. In the raptures of bravado and fleeing from the impending Beastslaying Elite's arrival, Geron had forgotten to ask the wounded farmer nor any other bystander for a reward. Next time, he would get the coin upfront.
The inconvenience of a cancelled show aside, the disdain for beasts was one upside to the Sonkiller's ravings. Nuisances and tragedies caused by beasts were now so greatly intolerable that coin was spent in their eradication. Whereas before, acceptance of such occurrences as an aspect of rural life was the solution. The money was more honest than any mercenary work, Geron had told himself when the earnings were lean. It had been years since he had last spoken with the Spider’s Legs. Though rumblings from trusted sources told him that his name had come up in certain volatile conversations, but the nature of his new line of work always kept him on the move and hard to pin down.
Geron watched as the dragon finished its drink, surveying the landscape in an inadvertent picture of magnificent majesty. Whatever the impending consequences of the criminal syndicate were, he was gratified to divert thoughts of them for another day.
Queen Ictuse knew many luxuries. A thread count in the millions encapsulated her slumber, shelled within the finest wares during the day, produce imported beyond the failing farms of Tallagate. But the rarest luxury of them all, one that was so extraordinary that it was a scarcely seen commodity, was that of love. A resource plentiful beyond the walls of the solitude Hybrawn Palace in the centre of the Royal City.
But Ictuse always knew her marriage to Lornus was one of politics, not romance. As a high-born of Gallace, a fate such as this was inevitable. The announcement of her pregnancy was met with the salute of a fair and profitable trade agreement.
Fentigon was a most unassuming town, Geron assessed as he spied the scenery from the serenity of a nearby overpass. The dragon stripped the trees, garnering sustenance. It would give the beast terrible flatulence, but Geron was willing to bear such a burden if it meant avoiding the attention that came with the creature feasting upon the forbidden flesh of the local livestock.
Reconnaissance complete, Geron was left feeling a mixture of elation and trepidation. The town was small, so much so that he felt compelled to objecting to its classification as little more than an engorged village. Regardless, this humble assembly of dwellings and businesses was absent of any Preacher and by proxy, any Kingsmen, nor a chance of the Beastslaying Elite. He was free to milk the novelty of the dragon for an overtly generous amount of time.
No need for any tactical marketing then, Geron concluded, bypassing his usual technique of spreading mystique through the innocent wonderment of the town's children. Instead, he would utilise a new, somewhat more direct method of enthralment.
To the non-discerning eye, Geron strolled the streets or to be more exact, the singular street of Fentigon with the purpose of an idle man of leisure. Every town, even one as small as Fentigon had a square, a gathering spot, some space of clear ground. Eventually he found it, overgrowing with errant grass, it
lacked the pristine prestige of a what he was looking for, but alternatives were most wanting in a town such as this.
Without stature, Geron occupied the ground and intensely observed his surroundings. Wary eyes were cast in his direction. Suspicions raised, for an individual with no clear purpose was partial to cause trouble. They were half-right, for without any hyperbole nor formal introduction, Geron blew the medallion's whistle, summoning the dragon, who at that point was content to maintain its slumber in the dens of the hillside.
Those that bore witness cried out with acclimations and astonishment at the sight of the creature's arrival. Planning the beast's entrance to face the sun, it was cast in a beam of blinding light, a silhouette born of mystery that elevated the already incredible status beyond comprehension.
Despite the exceptional mythical occasion, this was a well-practised routine. Knowing that the appearance could cause counter-productive panic, Geron chose a docile choreography at first. A grace and splendour of the winged creature displayed as it danced spirals among the rooftops.
A stunning sight that stirred adoration rather than fear.
Knowing he had their attention and none of their malice, Geron knew it was time to manipulate the crowd's spirits further.
“Behold the mighty beast known as the Dragon. For aeons they were considered a myth, a demonic presence sent by the deities to punish mankind by purging the lands with great fire.” He held their gaze, some fearfully glanced upward expecting a sudden showering of blazing fury.
But no such prophecy was fulfilled.
The dragon stared with coral eyes that instilled a respectful fear, but aside from the occasional snort and gaze off into the distance, remained perched upon the rooftop of the largest building, whilst Geron waxed lyrical about offerings for their pilgrimage to return to Wyrmgard, the land where dragons roamed free and plentiful. It was a startling and poetic image, reinforced with trimmings of detail garnered from Tommamare's Creed.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 4