“Lythre began loathing humans and the favor they gained from the gods of Euth, so she created monstrous beasts to put them to death and deliver them to Vrueth, the god of death. What once was kindness became hatred and the humans of old became threatened to near obliteration. This then attracted Xanthian, a tenant of the house of gods who had admired the grand spectacle of battles of man and beasts and the bloodshed therein. However, it felt rather dull and he felt as if Lythre’s creations were often uninspired and simplistic by design. So this…tenant set to work to create a creature that could rival both man and beasts, creating what we know to be dragons. They were fierce and lay waste to anything in their path, and this furiosity attracted a fourth god of Euth. Deuth, the god of fire, who granted the dragons souls to proceed in their duty for destruction and fulfill Xanthian’s wishes, instilling him as the god of dragons.
“While this happened, be sure to remember that dragons in this time weren’t beasts and neither were they men. From Xanthian they desired more than their god given capability for destruction, they began to desire riches. But Xanthian couldn’t oblige and so they fell away from their god and proceeded on their own in the world. However, as years passed and the war of beast, man and dragon continued, one final contender entered into this worldly war.”
As Trent listened, nearly entranced by the story — no, the prior history of his world and people — the falconer hadn’t heard the call from Varrult nor realised he had returned until his avian friend hand landed on his shoulder, softly trilling to his master in confusion.
“Oh, Varrult,” he whispered once he finally realized. “That’s my bad, Varrult. Here, here,” he kindly muttered as he slipped the gyrfalcon a few treats before listening again to the knight, who continued.
“Grylphaimy, who we often call Gry, founded a new kindred. The kindred of Gryphons who, unlike the greed of dragons, the selfishness of humans and the mindlessness of beasts, were a loyal race who thought of themselves as superior to any kindred within the world. This attracted the final god of Euth. One who until now had found no worthy kindred to wield his gift. This god was Zeuth, and he granted these kin the power of lightning so that they could carry out their sacred, god-given duties to Xanthian, wavering not in loyalty and laying waste to the lesser kindreds. This final race threatened the existence of all for lighting was a mortal-murdering element, more so than earth, wind, water or even fire.
“But again this was nothing more than a friendly, if not, then exceedingly contentious game for the gods, a show on display for the entertainment of all. Yet Ioxo, Lythre and Exaphian saw Gryphons as a creature too perfect for this world, yet they could not object for the world was each and every god’s ground for play. However, that didn’t keep Ioxo, nor Lythre, nor Xanthian from wanting to preserve their creations.
“As far as we know, Xanthian was the first and only god to walk among his creations, compelling them in the flesh to commune with men and to separate themselves from their greed and teach men to utilize hatred and gain the fancy of Deuth so that they may combat the Gryphons and kill many for the past slaughters of men in the name of their god. Dragons had guided men in this time, had taught them to utilize such emotions, yet as Xanthian became mortal, his blessing of his creatures could only last so long as he lived, but mortal lives are very, very short in the eyes of a god. So after the Gryphons had been beaten away with the help of Lythre, Xanthian in the flesh had died in the flesh and thus his blessing fled the world, leaving the dragons to fall dumb and turn animalistic on those they fought alongside.
“Yet as men slayed dragons in this new era, Lythre grew fond of the beasts and thus added them to her collection of creatures under her own blessings. That is why we still find them today scouring, searching, feasting and sometimes killing us and one another.” Venneith then looked to Nerr, still resting in the fire, guarding the heat, leaving the soldiers to eat the meat raw while another continued in the attempt to spark a flame and cook the meat in his own hand. Nerr knew not the torment he put these men through, nor that what he was doing was inherently bad. He did it for himself like any beast bent on survival would.
Yet Venneith hardly continued to think of Nerr as a beast with ill intentions. It was as Trent’s sister has said in that it’s like any other kind of animal. Rear it as the kin of beasts, then it shall become beastly. Rear it to the liking of man and it shall be subservient and abide by the master who commands it.
“Nerr,” Venneith called.
When the dragon did hear and recognise the name, he looked from his fire and flames to see Venneith welcoming him with arms open and palms glowing with a light of burning fire. It was a gift to Nerr, the light he could run to, and Nerr did, bounding from the flames to meet the one who’d protect him.
Into the searing fire-bound arms the dragon fell, gnawing on the plating, tasting the bitter ash as he took comfort and solace within the embrace of the one who’d protect him from the darkness and the unknown things of the night. To Nerr there would be no place to run to, no place to hide and take refuge but he who wore black burnt armor.
The night was tranquil and the sounds soothed each man to sleep, save for the watchman who did his duty till his turn came to an end, only to cycle to the next roughly every two hours. Therein they hummed a melody, carved a lump of wood, let the fire die and keep a watchful eye under the faint light of the night sky.
But as they watched, another watched too. It was a grey-feathered thing, speckled with brown feathers down the back and across its face. He too watched when he should’ve slept, yet his watchful gaze wasn’t cast to the men, any perceivable threat or prey, but to Nerr, held within the knight’s grasp like a child in its mother’s. This creature too remembered this very night, for it was a very special night to none but himself.
’Twas the night a blessing was given and sentience gained as one slept soundly, hearing nothing but the faint whispers and echoes of what had been and what is to come. Its was truth, it was knowing, it was revelation and nothing less than a gift imparted by that which cannot be known.
Yes, Varrult remembered the night when the world came fully into view. When he could gaze into and see beyond mere the pupils of man and hear the tongues and interpret their words beyond simple commands. ’Twas the night of hearing, the night of interpreting and the night of revelation that only the imparted can know, and Varrult knew for Varrult couldn’t forget such an end within the domain he was borne through. A sudden strike, a flash! No, an impact above infertile dead fields of shifting lands, crashing waves, clashing steel and the letting of blood amidst rugs and iron, before bone and scales.
War…
Yes! Yes, it was war, as Varrult had come to understand. A great conflict beyond his comprehension and understanding, but war was undoubtedly what he witnessed in all its trivial glory, before the loose of a string and the whizz of an abysmally sung whistle. Yet Varrult strangely never wavered, never feared the knowledge of this end, and always stayed near to his master, able to gaze into the eyes of others and see past their gaze and into the things they held within.
Men, women, children…souls. Each and every last one of them.
However, before Varrult could become enamored in memory, a weak struggle caught his attention and with anticipation he lowered his head and giddily whispered, “It happened…now isn’t that just beautiful, not that you’d understand, of course.” A hushed laughter escaped his beak. An injured bird lay pinned between the branch and his talons before Varrult lowered his beak to clamp down on the avian’s neck, ending the squirming little fiend for good. Oh how such a thing sent chills through his body, ruffling his feathers. He delighted in the killing, but of course this wasn’t for himself for it was more intended as an amends that was long overdue. Whispering once more he muttered, “Shall we?” to the limp corpse of the bird before taking flight to greet a beast of gained intelligence.
Now Nerr couldn’t quite interpret or understand what had happened after he had suddenly woken, as an endles
s abyss culminated and enveloped him whole, leaving the dragon with nothing to see, nothing to hear and nothing to bear but his own existence and conscious thought.
Wait…existence? Conscious thought? What was this — this feeling Nerr felt? It was strange. The little dragon looked up to the knight whose embrace he’d fallen out of and nothing quite seemed different, yet something was different…very, very different indeed, but he couldn’t quite bring what that difference was into view.
Nerr was then torn away from thought when a hollow thud caught the fancy of his hearing. Turning on his hind legs he looked to see the head of a…a bird Nerr recognised, just laying there for his finding. Was this normal, asked Nerr. Did birds heads just fall from the sky? He’d always thought they were stuck to their necks and bodies. Perhaps this was a new discovery, but Nerr didn’t argue before taking it in his mouth to happily gnaw and crunch away.
And then a small trill…no, this was a…a laughter. A laughter? It was hushed and small and Nerr had to gaze about to locate the source of this…laughter. And when he did, Nerr spotted the silhouette of a large feathered beast, compelling him to cease his incessant gnawing of the severed bird’s head in order to begin making his calculations as he assessed the threat.
His sight wasn’t much help in identifying the beast so he gave in to his hearing, which gave nothing more then the ambiance of the forest surrounded by the men that slept. So he then gave way to his smell, relying on it to identify the big feathered creature before him, and he recognized the creature to be the gyrfalcon that once subjected him ruthlessly.
His first reaction was to back away, looking to Venneith, gauging whether or not he’d be able to snag his attention while he slept. Perhaps if he yelped loud enough, or rather jumped on his armor and bounced around, but then again he remembered Varrult to be a very fast gyrfalcon indeed. His calculations couldn’t be faulted; the dragon was very keen in his estimations. However, that didn’t tempt Nerr from trying his fate. Perhaps he should just yelp. Yes, he should yelp and call for help, thought Nerr as he reared for a roar, dropping the bird’s head from his maw.
“Calm yourself, will you,” Varrult had spoken. Wait…it had spoken…to Nerr, which the dragon found very surprising. “Feast on the head will you, and follow me if you wish to understand.” He laughed lowly. “Perhaps we can even slaughter together, yes?” he said before quietly laughing maniacally and taking flight with the remaining corpse of the bird in his grasp.
He left into the darkness, the place Nerr did not know or want to venture, yet he was compelled simply by curiosity. How had that bird spoken in his tongue? In a way Nerr could understand, yet the dragon never once questioned his own understanding of the language, oddly enough. It was as if the dragon already had a language of his own, an understanding of words that only his mind understood and could interpret and to have others, or more specifically Varrult, be able to interpret his language too was just alien, unnatural and off-putting.
But then again…he did gift him this nicely tasting, deliciously feathery, awfully crunchy bird’s head. Perhaps…no, this bird was a stranger, but maybe…aw, what was the harm? Picking the head back up in his mouth to roll across his teeth he glanced left, right and back to his master before trotting off after the feathery beast.
Now Varrult had rather fine vision to navigate throughout the night. Nerr, well not quite so when it came to looking through a field of inanimate objects, all darkened and dull, yet Nerr still sensed glimpses of certain types of signatures. They registered as heat and glowed within his mind, separate from his field of color, offering quite a different experience of reality not too far beyond the comprehension of men. With this he located the silhouette of Varrult, perched within darkened, nearly unseen tree.
Nerr almost felt it was imposing, having to navigate in the dark, but gradually his vision became clearer and the obstacles within his path fell into view. At which point his path to the tree Varrult took refuge in became easily surmountable as Nerr dug in his claws, wrapping all fours around the bark before shimmying his way upwards, gradually being sure to keep the crunchy head within his maw, savoring the taste.
While Nerr may not have known why he followed, whether it be to sate his curiosity for what he could not understand but knew or simply for food, but in any case he had come and now rested, perched next to Varrult, enviously eying the avian corpse grasped within the gyrfalcon’s talions, wondering if he could just snag it for himself and run off with it.
“How does it feel, friend?” Varrult asked suddenly, bringing the little dragon back to the understanding that things weren’t quite as they seemed.
If anything, it seemed Nerr got too distracted too often. However, Nerr was quite unsure of everything; the only thing he was content with was the head he was given, but already that was nearing the end of its savory taste as the last bits of flesh and bone became chewed and crunched away.
For now, however, Varrult spoke with a voice of relative softness, littered with a sense of indignation, vidiction and insidious intent. “I find myself taking a liking to your kindred. We’re both serial murderers, yes? Best to embrace the craft and feast on the entrails of our victims, yet before I become too infatuated with talk of my profession let me hear of you, yes?”
Perhaps it was the way he talked that made Nerr so uncomfortable, like at any moment he’d find himself sourly offended and rampage about, slaughtering the first thing in his path.
“Oh, don’t let your tongue be so tight and taut,” Varrult assured. “Speak, you lil’ ol’ bat.”
Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. Nerr had been lured by food with a sense of trust that was all too easy to sate. Varrult was imposing, large and far more powerful than Nerr could ever hope to be.
The dragon stayed mute.
Varrult then began to sneer, muttering, “In the realm of such hospitality one would expect recompense in kind. Especially since I’ve gone so far out of my way to please you, no? Again I say, speak!” This time Varrult forwent what little patience he had and struck Nerr on his head with one swift strike of his beak.
Nerr had no time to react before hissing in agony as he slinked away to the base of the branch. His shoulders were hunched, tail flicking in agitation as his wings instinctively expanded in defence of himself. Perhaps he should leap, perhaps he should cry out, but he could never fight.
“Don’t cry to me now,” Varrult mocked as he strutted down the branch, back hunched, neck pointed, with a beak primed for another strike. “You hear my words and answer me when I ask. Now tell me your call sign!”
With no place to run and impending destruction before him, Nerr let loose with his tongue and spoke his first word. “Nerr!”
Varrult then paused in his advancement, having received his first answer. Now rather pleased he asked, “And how do you know this Nerr?”
Nerr flicked his head, still stinging in agony, in an effort to shake away the accumulated blood that now began to gather in his face and eyes. He wanted to rub his face in the grass, to run to Venneith so that he might help, but Varrult stuck him against a tree with nowhere to go. What an awful decision by Nerr to follow but all he could do now was abide to the Gyrfalcon and answer whatever question he may have.
“M-my protec-tor…he calls to me b-by the word; Nerr is what he says and I know this to be true.”
“Brilliant, then you aren’t dumb nor lame in the skull.” Leaning away from the dragon, giving him an awfully kind amount of room now, the gyrfalcon now turned and faced the night forest. “Tell me, Nerr, what was it you saw on your night of knowing? This night, to be precise.”
Once again, Nerr flicked his bloody head, rubbing away the blood into his wing before facing the Gyrfalcon again asking, “N-n…night of knowing?” He hissed again when he rubbed his now sore head with either clawed hand. It seemed simply touching it won’t remedy it, but the bleeded appeared to be slowing, yet that didn’t stop the pain nor Nerr’s incessant touching.
“Yes,” he affirm
ed. “Did you hear her name? Oh, beautifully horrid Lythre. An awfully horrific sight to be admired, no?”
“I-I don’t know,” Nerr cried, now feeling disoriented, finding it hard to see straight with blood littering his eyes. Even worse now the branch seemed flimsy and unable to hold the dragon’s weight. Soon Nerr would fall if the inconsistent flexing of the branch persisted.
Varrult only scoffed in amusement, saying, “Look at you, Nerr, you can hardly sit straight anymore. Heh, it’s rather humorous I must say. Already I can tell we’re gonna be great friends. Can you?” he asked, tilting his head with interest.
Nerr didn’t quite care for what Varrult said, as he couldn’t quite hear now for that matter. It seemed the world was growing a bit dark, a bit cold too as the pain dulled, leaving him to grow exceedingly tiresome. He tried to fight the urge to rest, to snarl at that which he couldn’t control, yet fell with nothing more than a fading hiss as he slipped from the branch.
As Nerr tumbled down, Varrult groaned to himself before looking to the headless carcass rested right next to him. “Stay put, will you…? That’s what I thought, hehe.” Acting quickly, Varrult allowed himself to fall from the branch, diving after the dragon before splaying his wings and lashing forward to catch the little Nerr within his talons. He was an awfully light thing, even for his size, but it was no matter as it was all the more convenient for Varrult.
“Let’s get you back to your master, shall we?” he rhetorically asked the incapacitated dragon as he weaved through tree after tree until he spied the faint camp and the black knight resting against a tree. “‘Err you go,” he happily chimed as he dispensed the dragon away, letting Nerr crash into the knight’s lap, leaving him to squirm uncomfortably.
By now Varrult felt he had had his fun and that it was time to cut the act. If Venneith didn’t take notice then Nerr might as well just bleed out, meaning Varrult’s valiant act of bravery in rescuing the poor lost little dragon would have been in vain. Landing atop the knight’s shoulder, he began to incessantly peck at the helmet, chiming the metal with each impact. The knight only seemed annoyed as he shook away the disturbance. Squawking, Varrult shouted, “Wake up!” before disappearing in a flurry of feathers as the knight finally came to rather violently.
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