by F. P. Spirit
Cyclone’s face remained impassive. “Heard the name… not much else.”
Elladan let out a long sigh. “Looks like I’ve got a lot of ground to cover with you. Let’s make this as simple as possible.”
The elven bard took a deep breath, and then started his narrative. “One hundred and fifty years ago, the Thrall Masters rose to power. There were many of them, some lesser, some greater, but four rose above the rest. Those four had incredible power, with armies of formidable creatures at their disposal, creatures that normally couldn’t be controlled. One of the four was the Dragon Master, a mage who had the power to bend the mightiest of creatures, dragons, to his will.”
The elven bard paused, his eyes sweeping around the room, then continued his story. “The Thrall Masters sent their armies spilling across Thac, raining terror and destruction wherever they went. They quickly spread across the island, the individual races rallying against them too late, and before anyone knew it, most of the continent had fallen.”
Elladan paused again, his tone rising in intensity as he told the next part of his tale. “Yet just when all seemed lost, an alliance of races was formed. Led by a group of then-unknown heroes, the alliance waged a bloody war against the Thrall Masters that lasted for years. Many lives were lost, but in the end, their armies were defeated, and the Thrall Masters themselves were overthrown, each in turn.”
When Elladan was done, he took a long breath, his eyes coming to rest on Cyclone. The young man sat with his arms folded across his chest, his expression rather skeptical. “A man who could control dragons? I don’t believe it.”
Martan gave the young hunter a wan smile. “I’ve seen it, and I still don’t believe it.”
Elladan swept his gaze across both men, a half-smile forming on his lips. “Trust me, I get it. It isn’t easy to believe. I’m not sure I would have either, if I hadn’t read Dreamweaver’s original works for myself.”
Cyclone, arms still folded, did not appear convinced. “Who’s this Dreamweaver?”
Elladan eyed the young hunter as if he had just climbed out from under a rock. “You really didn’t study any history, did you?”
Cyclone stared at him with a deadpan expression. “Nope.”
Elladan let out a long, drawn out sigh and shook his head. “Dreamweaver was one of those heroes I mentioned earlier. He was also a bard, and at the end of the Thrall Wars, he wrote a three-volume text on it.”
Cyclone responded with a cold shrug. “So?”
Elladan cast a quick glance at Glo, his eyes betraying his thinly worn patience. Still, to the bard’s credit, he did not show it otherwise, instead flashing his typical half-smile at the dragon hunter. “Yeah… well, that text covers quite a bit about the Dragon Thrall Master. Even the Knights Argentum, the great order of silver dragons, fell under his sway. No dragon could resist him, with the exception of one, but that was his eventual undoing…”
Ruka, quiet through Elladan’s narrative till now, began to cough violently. She sat up in her chair, unable to stop the spasms. Donnie shot out of his seat, rushed over to her side, and patted her vigorously on the back.
“Are you alright?” he blurted out, worry written all over his face.
“I… I’m… fine…” Ruka managed in between coughs. A few moments later, the fits subsided and she pushed his arm away.
Donnie knelt in front of the young teen. “Are you sure?”
Ruka glared back at him, a hint of yellow appearing in her green eyes once more. “I said I’m fine!”
A muffled roll of thunder could be heard far off in the distance. Glo arched a single eyebrow. He had noticed the same phenomenon whenever the young teen was angry, but now it finally made sense. Bronze dragons were electric in nature, thus when Ruka grew emotional, it would stir up the very currents in the air.
The distant thunder quickly subsided, the young teen’s eyes returning to their normal emerald green. Ruka then flopped back into her chair, pulling her blankets tight around her. Donnie, looking rather hurt, quietly went back to his seat next to Alana.
An awkward silence pervaded the room afterwards. Glo steepled his hands in front of his mouth. Right now, they needed to face the problem at hand—dealing with anything else would have to wait. Glo took a deep breath, and broached the subject. “Well, it doesn’t sound like that dragon is going anywhere soon. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
Alana had been rather withdrawn since her return from the world above. Now the lady knight sat forward in her seat, a fire in her brown eyes, her voice as hard as steel. “It may be pure folly, but I can’t in good conscience let the deaths of my comrades go unavenged.”
All eyes fell on Alana, filled with mixtures of empathy and concern. There was a moment of silence, then Lloyd stood and faced the lady knight, his expression deathly serious. The young warrior drew his black star-metal sword, held it blade-up, and spoke in a solemn tone. “My sword is yours, lady knight. I swear to you on my oath as a Spiritblade, this evil dragon will not go unpunished.”
The moment Lloyd finished his speech, the black blade burst into flames, emphasizing his fiery resolve. Glo had to admit, his display was moving, but strength and determination alone would not be enough. When it came to pure brawn, they were severely outclassed by the large dragon. What they needed was to somehow outsmart the creature—find a way to catch it off guard, if that were at all possible. Thankfully, Elladan was thinking along the same lines.
The bard also stood, mixed emotions playing across his face, as his eyes shifted between Lloyd and Alana. “I truly understand how you feel. In fact, I feel the same way… but taking that dragon head-on would be certain death. What we need is a strategy, something that will give us an edge against the beast.” Elladan shifted his gaze to Cyclone. “Maybe someone with experience fighting dragons could give us an idea.”
Cyclone eyed the bard for a moment, then sat forward, his gaze slowly sweeping over the group, as if gauging each one of them individually. His eyes lingered for an extra moment over Alana, but finally settled on Lloyd. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. “Tell me Mr. Spiritblade, you got any idea what a dragon’s weak spot is?”
Lloyd cocked his head to one side, and eyed the hunter carefully. “Wouldn’t it be the underside… where the scales are smaller?”
Cyclone let out a cynical laugh. “Heh. Good try… but no. It’s the wings. A dragon in the air is almost unstoppable, but ground it, and you have a fighting chance.”
Ruka sat forward in her chair, her emerald eyes practically burning a hole into the dragon hunter. “And then what? Now you have a pissed-off adult green dragon on your hands. Wings or not, you’re facing a death machine.”
Cyclone returned her stare, unflinching, the side of his mouth lifting slightly into a thin smirk. “I was wondering when you were going to speak up. You’re right… grounded or not, a dragon is still a dragon. What you really want to avoid is being grappled, or pinned. Of course, getting chomped isn’t the best, either. The trick is to avoid as many of those as possible, and the best place to do that… is on its back.”
Ruka eyed the hunter as if he were crazy. When she spoke, her tone dripped with sarcasm. “And how is that going to stop it from breathing acid on you?”
Cyclone sat back in his chair, and let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “Heh. That is the real trick, isn’t it?”
A hush fell over the little group once more, the dragon hunter and dragon girl locking eyes. The staring contest went on for a few moments, before the silence was finally broken by Donnie.
“I think I just might have an idea that could help with that…”
Green Dragons & Silver Tongues
You would paint a portrait? Of me?
Donatello crept silently across the ground floor of the Darkwoods monolith, toward the open archway the led to the outside world. His
ears pounded with the rapid beating of his heart, nearly drowning out the loud, heavy breaths of the huge creature that lay just beyond the nearby arch. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to turn around and run, yet this had been his plan, and he wasn’t going to back down now.
Donnie paused and took in a deep breath, slowly calming his nerves. He could feel dampness across his brow and on the back of his neck, beads of sweat already forming there. The agile elf wiped a single hand across his forehead, silently reminding himself he was not alone. Alana and Aksel waited only a short distance away, behind the huge pillar in the center of the room. Donnie had argued against the lady knight and little cleric following him, but now found himself glad they had.
His other hand brushed against the hilt of the strange weapon that hung from his belt. It was none other than Inazuma—the sentient sword had agreed to accompany him for this treacherous battle. Donnie had been astounded by the offer—not only was the sword a priceless artifact, but it was also Ruka’s family heirloom. Donnie found it hard to believe that he was worthy in the slightest to wield such a weapon, but Elistra had put it into perspective for him.
Ruka was at death’s door, yet you risked your very life by bonding it to hers. Although you no longer share life-forces, a bond like that can never be completely severed. Thus, you are truly one of the few people in this world who can safely wield her blade.
As if that hadn’t been enough, Ruka had also bestowed upon him her dagger, the Ruchan. A hint of moisture welled up in Donnie’s eyes as he recalled her words.
Among my kind, a life debt is not something to be taken lightly. I do not have much to give, but I would like you to have this dagger. It was carved from a scale closest to my heart. With it, know that you can always call me and I will come.
Those thoughts hardened Donnie’s resolve. He was no longer the carefree artist, traveling from town to town, making a quick exit after painting a nude portrait of some nobleman’s wife. He had more purpose now, and with it, more responsibility—and, for the first time in a very long time, he had friends. Donnie was doing this for them, to give his new friends a fighting chance against the ferocious green dragon that now guarded the entrance to this monolith. The slight elf wiped the moisture from his eyes, and slowly crept forward, toward what might just be his last breath.
On the topmost floor of the Darkwoods monolith, the rest of the companions prepared for the upcoming assault. It was almost midday, the sky clear and the winds calm as the sun neared its zenith overhead, the warm rays of the golden orb filtering over the lush treetops of the surrounding woods. The forest spread out like a dark green ocean before them, not stopping until it met a tall range of black peaks, the Korlokesels, far off to the north and west. In the clearing directly below, a large green mound sat near the entrance to the monolith. Though it blended in well with the surrounding grass, the mound was not a part of the wood—it was, in fact, the green dragon.
Glo gazed out over the edge of the open archway, a few hundred feet above the great beast, mentally preparing himself for the battle to come. Elladan stood beside him, Ruka pacing the floor nearby. The others were scattered about—Cyclone and Martan quietly readying their weapons, Lloyd and Elistra meditating before the impending battle.
The companions had hatched a daring plan to take on the great beast below, a strategy based on timing and misdirection. If it worked, they would have a fighting chance against the otherwise invincible creature. Yet their entire plan hinged on the slim shoulders of the irrepressible Donatello. The slim elf insisted he could pull off the most pivotal role in their strategy, yet declined to tell the others exactly how he intended to do so. Now, they all did their best to while away the minutes, tensions running high as they waited for the sandy-haired elf to play his part far below.
Donnie peered through the open archway, the green dragon laying no more than twenty yards from the door. Though on its stomach, the great beast towered above him, its massive body reaching a height more than twice that of a man, not including the tall crest that ran along the length of its spine.
The great head curled in close to the body, turned sideways so that a single large eye faced the door where Donnie stood. Thankfully, that eye was closed. The dragon continued to breathe in heavy, rhythmic breaths, as if fast asleep. Though its mouth was shut, Donnie caught a glimpse of wicked, dagger-like teeth protruding down the length of its jaw. The sight sent a cold shiver up his spine. Just one of those teeth could skewer me like a spit.
Donnie firmly pushed the thought aside. He had promised his friends he would do this, and he always kept his word. The anxious elf took a deep breath, then silently passed through the archway, out into the grassy clearing. The full light of the late morning sun fell upon Donnie’s face, causing him to momentarily flinch. Thankfully, his elven eyes quickly adjusted to the change in brightness, and he was able to focus once more on the dragon.
The great creature still loomed over him, its breathing deep and regular, that single great eye closed. Donnie let out a long, silent breath, then took another couple of steps forward. Abruptly he froze—the dragon’s huge mouth suddenly opened, a deep rumbling voice emanating from it. “I don’t need to see or hear you. I can smell you, little elf.”
Donnie’s first instinct was to turn and run, but his knees had gone weak, and he found that he couldn’t move. Thankfully his wits had not entirely left him. He steeled himself, and spoke in as calm a tone as he could muster. “Well met, good sir!”
That had come out an octave higher than Donnie had wished. His reply was met by a deep rumbling sound that reverberated throughout the clearing. Donnie arched a single eyebrow. The dragon is laughing?
A moment later, that deep voice rumbled at him again. “Faced with certain death, and the best you can come up with is ‘well met’?”
Donnie gulped, his feet rooted firmly in place. Fortunately, his verbal talents kicked in, the words practically tumbling out of his mouth. “It was meant as an earnest greeting to one of such noble stature. I had heard of your arrival, and merely wanted to gaze at your magnificence for myself.”
That had come out a bit faster than he would have liked, but at least his voice hadn’t cracked that time. The dragon’s eye abruptly snapped open, a large black slit the size of Donnie’s head focusing on him. The tone of the dragon’s response was practically scathing. “Really?” The creature paused a moment, as the great head lifted a few feet off the ground. “And?”
It took every ounce of Donnie’s will to stop his knees from quaking together. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the dragon, his voice filled with false reverence. “…and what I see most definitely lives up to your reputation. The stories say you single-handedly decimated an entire company of knights this last evening.”
Once again, a deep rumbling sound reverberated throughout the clearing. “Ah… so the little scamps that ran into the tower must have told you that. Good… now I’m glad I let them get away.”
The dragon’s head lifted further, then spun around on its neck so that the large mouth faced Donnie. The slender elf involuntarily shivered as he gazed into that giant maw. An entire row of those deadly, dagger-like teeth lined its heavily curved jaw, looking perfectly capable of snapping a man—or elf—in half with one bite. A wicked-looking forked tongue flickered in and out from the great throat, easily wide enough to swallow him whole. It took every last bit of courage for Donnie not to spin around and scramble for the door.
The dragon’s deep voice rumbled across the clearing once more. “Maybe I’ll let one of you live after all… to spread my reputation.”
A glimmer of hope rose from somewhere deep within Donnie. The dragon was vain, as he had suspected. Donnie had dealt with pride before, and man, or dragon, it was something he could exploit. “Oh, and what a reputation it is!” Donnie cried, warming up to the role he needed to play. “A destroyer of men and beast alike. A decimator of e
ntire companies of warriors. A scourge to all human kind.”
The dragon laughed yet again, the evil sound sending chills up Donnie’s spine. “You paint an accurate picture of me, little elf.”
A faint smile graced Donnie’s lips for the first time since he had accepted this deadly task. This was going better than he had hoped. The thin elf struck a nonchalant pose, crossing one leg over the other where he stood. “Well, I am an artist, after all.”
“Indeed,” the dragon rumbled, its serpent-like eyes firmly fixed on him. “Both an elf and an artist. I’ve never tasted one of those before. You will make an interesting snack.”
Donnie nearly jumped out of his skin as the great head slowly bore down on him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him to be only a few yards from the archway. Yet even if he were to make it, he still had a fifty-foot run to the pillar in the center of the monolith. He would never make that in time.
Donnie had no choice but to go through with his plan, and hope to the gods that it worked. He threw up his hands, and cried out to the dragon. “Whoa there, great and noble creature. While I can think of no finer way to end my life than serving as a snack for one as glorious as thee, it would be remiss of me not to offer to immortalize your likeness for all time.”
The dragon suddenly halted its menacing advance. For the first time in their conversation, the great creature sounded uncertain. “Eh? And just how do you propose to do that?”
Donnie forged on with his desperate ploy—the only thing now standing between him and certain death. “As I told you before, I am an artist. While I would make a meager meal at best for one such as yourself”—the wiry elf motioned with both hands at his thin form—“I am rather talented with the brush. If it would please you, allow me to paint your portrait. Consider it my gift to you.”
