by Daniel Heck
You approach, sit and lay a hand on its leg. “My goodness,” you intone, “you don’t look so good.”
“Please…” it begs, “take me to a healer.”
You glance back at Vanadu, who confirms with a nod that he can carry the whelp back to the mainland. You comfort it, “Whatever happened here, you’re going to be all right. Don’t you worry.”
The small dragon seems groggy enough that she might not hold on to Vanadu well, so you use some rope from your pack to secure her, purely as precaution.
“What is your name, young miss?” Vanadu asks.
“Preri,” she answers.
During the flight home, you quell a brief lamentation about how little you got to enjoy your trip, in favor of helping understand and perhaps even to rectify this awful situation. Upon your questioning, Preri shares that she hid for most of the time the destruction was occurring, as well as ever since, with just a matter of hours having passed in the interim.
“A humanoid that looked skeletal and pale as a ghost,” she informs, “rode a dragon-like beast with murderous rage in its eyes and commanded it to destroy everything. My brothers and sisters fought him, but it deflected or dodged their flames, until finally they were all forced to flee.”
“Where did they all end up going?” you ask.
“I know not. Scattered about the land, to remote corners, or such is my best guess. But one, the ancient sage Omnara, told me that she would return for me, once she felt safe leaving the swamplands east of Noblehorn.”
That sounds like a valuable lead… but… this human of which she speaks…
Within less than an hour more of flight, you land with caution within the Whitetail city square, then hustle toward the medical ward. There, after you pay a few pieces of gold for the service, the clerics on staff attend to Preri’s wounds.
I’m going to need some help, you realize. Especially since what comes next isn’t necessarily clear.
“Titania!”
The familiar voice came from a back room. You look up from the wounded dragon to see Celestine handling bandages and other equipment.
“Oh, dear friend,” you rejoice, “I’d nearly forgotten that you volunteer here on your off days.”
She smiles, approaches and embraces you. “You’re back awfully quickly.”
“The dragon homeland... it’s in bad shape.”
Her smile disappears. “What do you mean?”
You glance around at the others in the medical ward. Of all sizes, races and species, they suffer a variety of conditions and wounds, and you figure a revelation of this scale could send some of them over to the other side, should they overhear.
“Come with me for a moment,” you request.
You lead Celestine out of the building and into the nearest alley.
“The dragon you saw me bring in… was the only one left.”
Celestine gasps. You share what you saw, and subsequently, what you learned from Preri.
“We need to talk to someone in charge,” she offers, “Someone who can do something!”
You shake your head. “Knowing King Wyver and his distaste for dragons, I have a better idea. We talk to Omnara.”
“The ancient sage?”
You nod.
“But… why us at all? If the dragon regatta had had different winners, would we even hear about it, or care?”
You frown. “Surely we’d care…” After a moment’s reflection, you add, “But, more importantly, I get a certain feeling from the universe. Like I’m supposed to pay back those who have helped me in the past. And I wouldn’t investigate without you. Will you come along?”
Celestine blinks in shock, but soon after stands straight and stiffens her lip. “Absolutely!”
You smile at her.
“Although,” she continues, playfully flexing her thin bicep, “perhaps we should add some muscle power, in case we need to fight.”
You snap your fingers. “Galumnuk!”
The two of you then track down your orcblood friend, whom you met in Sungaze by helping him through a tavern brawl last year. He stands outside his home, casually dusting off its many windowsills, and waves when he sees you. You approach.
“Miss Titania, Miss Celestine,” he says. He kisses both your hands in turn.
After a warm return of the greeting, you explain what you anticipate needing him for.
“Thomerion up to no good again? I glad to help.”
“You’ve been quite a few places, Galumnuk,” Celestine comments. “What do you know about the eastern swamplands?”
The orcblood scratches his head. “If Omnara hiding out there, it because she immune to the poison gas and toxic plant life, and it provide her safety. Not many humans venture in. Those who do, sometimes they not make it back.”
You process this information. “So, she isn’t likely to come back out until things smooth over…”
Celestine says, “Poor Preri. She was probably just told what she was told for comfort’s sake. But, I know of ways we can protect ourselves from the swamp!”
You and Galumnuk reel in surprise. “You do?”
“Sure! I think I could build some makeshift filtration masks from the supplies at the medical ward. As long as we can breathe through them, we should be able to seek the sage out.”
Galumnuk shakes his head. “I not sure I trust that be good enough. Magic better. Potion-maker down street craft antidote if we ask.”
You put a finger to your chin and ponder aloud, “Perhaps. But it would also cost a lot more, when it comes to both time and money.”
What do you do?
We build filtration masks for free.
We hire the potion-maker to brew protective antidotes.
Your heart races and you offer up a short prayer of thanks to the elven gods, who must be watching over you.
But, the gods especially know when a person gets greedy.
You ponder this for a moment, shrug and spin the wheel yet again. Grinning from ear to ear as it ticks around, turning and turning some more, you wonder some more just what the key unlocks as… the gears creak to a stop and…
The key faces you as the wheel grinds to a standstill. It and the section of wheel it sits upon glow blue briefly. You pick up the key with confidence and barely repress a joyous yelp, such is your excitement at having cleared the wheel.
Now, the entire wheel glows a constant red.
I defeated it, and it knows it. No more spinning.
Return to the main chamber.
Instinct tells you the door to the left just can’t be as simple as it appears. Without touching the handle or even the door’s surface, you step closer and gaze into the keyhole.
Within is a primitive system of gears connected to a tiny launching hammer, the kind that might trigger a trap if you weren’t careful. You frown in suspicion.
I can’t disable anything like this, you realize, but maybe something elsewhere in this cavern would open it safely…
What do you do?
I try to open the door despite appearances.
I enter the ascending passage.
I explore the descending passage.
After a few more hours of travel, you camp briefly. As you nibble on flatbread and sip from your waterskin, you gaze into the horizon with a realization of the irony of pursuing weapons.
Even Bartleby fought when he needed to, you reflect. Although it was, similarly, not his preference.
You stray off the path and into a patch of fluffy dandelions. You pick one and examine the delicate tufts of white. The soothing smell of plant life and pervasive moisture wafts into your nostrils, lulling you into a nap.
You wake with a start. The half-moon hangs silently overhead. No breeze blows whatsoever.
Where is the path? It’s so dark…
Using the surfaces of trees and the bumps of rock underneath your feet to guide you, you eventually find your way once again. You light a torch. Despite inadequate sleep, newfound energy drives you forward
, as does the thought of catching the royal quartermaster just as he’s starting his day, to talk about the significance of the purported Sword of Dragon Lore.
You reach the Whitetail gate just as the sun starts to peek over the eastern hills. Figuring it rude to startle anyone awake, you take your time on your way to the castle, where the drawbridge is in the process of lowering just as you arrive.
Upon being inquired as to your purpose on the grounds, you hire a messenger to speak to the quartermaster, and the guards let you in. A few twists and turns through several large hallways later, you open the door to the royal museum.
“Ah, Titania,” grumbles an unusually tall, clean-shaven dwarf therein, who appears to be in the middle of levering a large cannon into place within its display stand. He finishes, then rises and offers to shake your hand. You accept with grace.
“My name is Kalroy,” he introduces, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, after hearing so much about your days in Sungaze.”
“The pleasure is mine,” you reply with a smile. “You appear quite busy.”
“Indeed, these old contraptions can keep a gentledwarf occupied for eons if we let them. New ones keep comin’ in as the militia wears ‘em out, and I’d just as soon beg those chaps to throw some of the stuff in the river some days.”
You glance around at multiple rows of valuable artifacts, catching sight of decorative spears, ancient clayware pots and even a mummified body the shape and size of a guard dog. “Do you get many folk coming through to look at these anymore?”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Kalroy shakes his head. “Regardless, what can I do for you, young miss?”
“Are you familiar with a particular sword that came into royal possession from the dragons quite some time ago?”
Kalroy coughs and grumbles, “Hrm… umm, num, let’s see. I think so. Come this way, please.”
He explains as he guides you across the expansive chamber, “We have many swords, of course, but only one from the source you cite.” After another moment, he halts. “And as you can see,” he adds with a gesture, “it’s… not in the best of shape.”
Ahead, chained to several hooks within a glass casing, dangle four pieces of what was once the Sword of Dragon Lore. The rusted hilt still holds only a tiny fraction of the blade, and the tip reflects the light streaming through the windows, in stark contrast to the middle two shards. Draconic runes stretch down the lengths of both, proving that you’ve found the correct item.
You put a hand to your mouth in shock. “Oh, my.”
“What business have ye with this item?”
You hesitate. “Don’t spread this, please, on account of not wanting to cause panic.”
Kalroy looks about, checks the hallway, returns to you and nods. “You have my word as a sworn devotee to the royal oath.”
“There is a mortal incarnation of Thomerion somewhere in Ambrosinia, very possibly wandering and searching for targets. It has already caused great destruction in the homeland of the dragons, and once it regains sufficient magical energies, it could strike again, perhaps even here.”
Kalroy’s eyes widen, but then he narrows them and scratches his beard. “So… you need this to fight it?”
You explain what you learned from the dragon sage.
“Intriguing,” the quartermaster comments. “But, in order to do so, you would certainly need to reforge the sword.”
“Tell me more about how I’d go about that.”
Kalroy nods. “Putting the pieces together is the easy part. Any blacksmith could do it. We’ve only kept them apart because of the historical significance of how the sword was shattered.”
Leaning against the east wall, you listen at rapt attention.
“The second step, though, would take quite a mite of courage and a lot more luck. For you see, to re-enchant the sword in the way you’d need, intense electrical energy needs to strike it, and there’s few ways to do that without somebody getting hurt.”
You scratch your head in thought.
“I’m sure,” you posture, “that I can find a way.”
Kalroy sighs. “Furthermore,” he grumbles, “I’m afraid I can’t let you simply waltz away with the pieces, neither. They’re under the direct authority of King Wyver.”
You hang your head. “Oh, no.”
The king doesn’t yet trust dragons. He refused to officially honor the Citizen’s Pact…
“I shall ask if he can meet with us,” the dwarf says before tromping a few steps toward the entrance.
“Wait!”
Kalroy turns. A curious look crosses his brow.
“If you please. I’m not quite sure yet how to handle this, so instead of being there in-person, could you put in a request for a one-on-one audience, and leave the details to me?”
“Certainly, ma’am. I shall return.”
How will you present the problem to King Wyver?
I tell him the whole story.
I lie by saying the Sungaze militia needs it.
If this has anything to do with the church of the sun, you theorize, the higher-ups might even appreciate your involvement.
It might save them some face in the long run, you think, if it turns out a defector is responsible, or the like.
At first you think to go to Whitetail, where the very temple where Bartleby worked under Monsignor Cristof—also in possession of the largest congregation in Ambrosinia—stands just a few yards south and west of the town square. You hadn’t laid footprints there in ages, given not only the expected secrecy, but also the high-pressure techniques employed by certain clergy to ‘gather funds’ for proposed renovations via the donation plates.
Upon second consideration, then, you feel more comfortable visiting the smaller sun temple in the City of Storms, not to mention that it saves you considerable travel time.
“Titania,” Celestine asks, snapping you back into the present moment, “You seem to be in deep thought.”
You blink twice, then place a hand on her shoulder once again. “Forgive me, friend,” you say, “I was merely pondering how best to look into this more deeply.”
“Can I come with you?”
You smile. “Absolutely,” you reply, unhesitant.
You hike around and between the trunks of many grand trees in a circuitous pattern before reaching more open space, then traipse across a fully-harvested wheat field, doing your best not to let your boots sink into the moist soil. Ahead stands a decrepit wooden shack, one of few elven buildings not built directly into the treetops, over which hangs a reproduction of an eight-pointed sun. Hanging slightly atilt and worn with age, the symbol nevertheless projects a welcoming aura, as do two carpets of blue blossoms planted in small troughs across each windowsill.
Celestine arches an eyebrow.
“Awfully quiet for service time,” she comments.
You approach the front door, listen briefly, and knock. No answer comes, even after many moments.
You open the door and glance inside.
“I saw you coming through farmer Dacklynn’s acreage,” rings a male voice. It does not sound pleased.
Via a single beam of light penetrating the temple’s eastern glass, you see a lone priest lighting votives and preparing bread, presumably for use as an offering.
“Dacklynn can handle whatever damage I caused, although for that I…”
“That is not my point,” the priest counters.
You fold your arms. Celestine glances back and forth between the two of you. For a church bent on spreading good, the tangible hostility hangs in the air like a haze.
“Can you at least tell us your name? We seek consultation on an issue of divine import.”
“You will not receive my name nor consultation. I recognize you. I was told to turn away all heathens, harlots and others that taint the purity of the sun god’s servants.”
You wince at the insults and at your bad luck, thinking for a moment that you might have caught someone ignorant of the details.
&n
bsp; “Does the sun god not preach forgiveness? Even after all this time?” you ask.
The priest ignores you completely.
Celestine frowns, stomps a foot and shouts, “Did you even know personally the man whom she loved so dearly? How could you turn them away knowing what they had was so beautiful?”
You turn to your friend and place a finger on your lip, urging reverence.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “This is not the place. I understand.”
Having given up any hope for receipt of mercy, you lead her back out the door through which you came.
Write down the keyword GRUDGE.
I guess we’ll be headed to Whitetail after all…
You figure that, being the most popular pub in Ambrosinia, the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern should have someone around that knows something more, even at such an early hour. After all, as a result of a recent population boom, the town never really sleeps anymore, and folks of all races and sizes typically hold conversations and activities through the night there.
“Let’s go see what we can learn…” you offer.
“I’ll follow you wherever you decide to go,” Celestine says.
A day’s travel later, you push through the tavern’s wooden double-doors to find a surprising lack of activity. A jolly middle-aged woman you know as Josephine greets you from behind the counter with a yawn and a stretch of her arms. Beyond that, you see as you scan the premises, most booths and tables sit empty, and a web even hangs undisturbed from two corners of a nearby chair. You observe as its resident spider silently weaves more strands, ignoring you.
“And what might ye be doing here, ye pretty young lasses?”
The grumbly voice came from the tavern’s farthest end. You raise your head to see a familiar face, that of a scruffy dwarf with a dent in the top of his nearly-bald head.