Geron, on the precipice of echoing his own inquisitive sentiments aloud, found himself distracted by the startling sight of a charmylion that had wandered out from a hut. Investigating their footsteps, it instead found itself struck aside by Geron’s sword.
Both men stood startled. One by the sight, the other by the action.
Another charmylion wandered by, noting their slain kin with a passive curiosity.
“What have you done?” Abarath whispered mournfully.
“It was a beast…” The redundancy was all Geron could muster.
“With effort and patience all beasts can be tamed. I would have thought, having wrangled the greatest beast of all you would understand such a thing.”
He could see them now, far from hunting in packs, nor stalking the rural landscapes they instead were idle in their activity, lounging in domestic residence among the huts.
Sheathing his sword with a shamed bashful silence, Geron apologised as Abarath squatted over the slain beast and examined the carcass.
“No, no. It is quite alright. The meat and the pelt shall be used. I understand that this is a drastic alteration to your normal way of life, but in time you will adjust.”
His instinctual faux pas had dampened the joviality, and so the two men walked in silence, until they arrived at a hut perched at the furthest end of the enclave.
“It would be best if you meet Grawnya the leader of our community,” he said, gesturing for Geron to enter.
The inside of the hut bore little in the way of trappings that would indicate any status of hierarchy. Within this bare interior they waited whilst the woman listened to the dispute brought to her by two members of the community. With deft consideration she rendered her arbitration, accepted by all, before turning her contemplative deliberation onto the newest arrival to their society.
“This is Geron of Rivermouth, the one that walks with the dragon,” she eyed him with notable scrutiny. “I thought you would be taller.”
“The dragon is the tall one,” he replied.
Her stern grimace cracked, a smile leaking through. “I had no doubt that Abarath would eventually find you. He is our most devout adjutant.”
“One of the benefits of being a preacher, the gift of people-skills,” he said with a modest giggle and excused himself.
His impression still remained upon her smile. A heartfelt admiration. “He jests, but the work he has done, traversing the realms, finding those who share our sentiments, bringing them here, adding to our community. It is a unique undertaking that only he and that damned caravan could do.”
“And just what is this community? Has all the secrecy of an Insurgency, yet it seems too friendly to be an outlaw camp.”
“We are outlaws in our acceptance that no person can rule over us. In every other facet of being we are respectful of the laws. Think of it as not just a sanctuary, but rather a home. Many of our kindred are your Tallagatian brethren, fleeing the tyranny of Lornus' rule, but others come from all corners of the world. Seeking a harmony that life under rule of the crown in adversary of beasts cannot bring.”
It was heightened talk, and Geron had effort in maintaining a visage free of opinion. For he had heard it before, visions of idealism that could be dismissed as naïve or foolish, but the existence of this community showed him that there was something else keeping the place afloat other than optimistic valour.
And such an explanation followed, for Grawnya personally escorted Geron through this community, pointing out the hidden structure that held their gathering in balance. Tracts of plantations were plentiful in number and bountiful in produce. But these were no Bogmoss patches. She explained that their self-reliance meant a lack of dependence on visiting traders nor on commerce from other towns and thus by proxy, any form of communication with life outside this mountain enclosure was purposefully avoided.
“Ignorance, given a vocabulary by Tommamare’s Creed, tells us to fear certain creatures yet revere others. Fear, enforced by tradition keeps a ruling class of people over us. We made the decision to reject both.”
Her guided tour inevitably led back towards the tunnel that had brough them, to where the dragon lay, its watchful attendance still mesmerised by its presence. They parted in respect for their elder and allowed her to approach the dragon, who by now was most awake at this extensively intrusive observation.
“You tell the truth,” she said, the stern stoicism melting in her voice.
“And from what I can see, so are you,” Geron responded, causing a flickering of nervous whispering as he bridged the gap and petted the dragon on the snout.
The Community were of good spirits and thus little provocation was required in order to throw something of a celebration. The arrival of the awaited legendary dragon served such a purpose quite easily.
Geron’s eyes widened noticeably at the large plate of food that was placed before him.
Laughing, Abarath patted him on the shoulder as he took the bench seat next to him. “Do not fret my brother, we do not feast in such a manner every day.”
It was a joyful sight, but also underlined the contrasting misery that Tallagate faced daily. Content, Geron sat silent as conversation buzzed about him, he was happy to play the role of the mysterious dragon handler. And such a role demanded respect and an air of importance. An illusion he was not willing to shatter for the sake of idle small-talk.
After the plates were cleared away, so too were the benches and tables pushed to the extremities of the hall. Lacking the designated uniform, it was uncertain if the troubadours were official, swept away from their lives to join this community, or just enthused amateurs. Regardless the mood of gaiety maintained, as pairings formed to take to the makeshift dancefloor. No ale nor wine was present, yet things were still just as merry.
“Not a dancer?” Abarath asked, sitting next to him once more.
“No, not without libations at least.”
“There are casks fermenting, but alas, the time to brew versus the time to consume is tilted unfairly,” Abarath joked, though his humour was tinged with longing.
Geron smiled, wondering if peaceful isolation from the world was worth it for a consistently sober existence.
“I suppose I had better find somewhere to rest my head for the night.”
Abarath looked at him with confusion, gesturing towards the walls of the hall. “We rest here brother. The community sleeps together as a commune.”
Geron silently motioned towards the other buildings that looked most vacant.
“Those huts are for the beasts to lay,” Abarath replied simply
“But of course,” Geron nodded, “they are the ones who need privacy and boundaries,” he added under his breath.
With a timed precision, each member took their place within the forming pile. Positions seemed pre-agreed upon, perhaps out of frequency, perhaps out of desire. Regardless, Geron eased himself into a neutral corner, but soon found the encroaching mass spreading toward him.
Sleep did not come willingly that night. Adjusting himself to avoid interaction with other's sticking flesh resulted in coming into contact with another. Growing weary of this discomfort, Geron rose and tip-toed over the mound of bodies, exiting the hall, down to where the dragon lay.
It looked up from its elongated rest as Geron removed his coat to make a pillow.
“If it is all well with you friend, I will lay here tonight. Can imagine it shall only be marginally less strange than the alternative.”
The dragon did not mind and the two continued their slumber until the rising sun's light beckoned another day.
On the road, Geron was used to spacing his meals by practical availability. Here in this small communal gathering, the succession of food so close in order seemed almost gluttonous, yet he accepted the bowl willingly, choosing a spot in the corner whereupon he could be somewhat left alone. Not one for socialising, Geron still maintained a keen observation in reading the actions of others, and at that moment he interpreted the co
mmunity as reserved. The quietness of the communal meal was hushed, conversations muted, heads pointed towards their bowls. Abarath and Grawnya stood by, at the head of the table, passively awaiting an indication that the meal had concluded. As the last utensil was placed upon the table, Abarath stepped forward, on the precipice of speaking. Little was required to grasp the community’s attention, all heads immediately turned toward Abarath in admiration. He thanked them for their heed and gestured for Grawnya to take over.
Lovingly, the community were cast in her warm gaze. “Thanks to our joined efforts we all can eat well this morning, and the morning next. But one guest among us needs to be fed with just as much acclaim.”
Alongside an air of giddy intrigue she led the community, with Geron in tow, outside to where the dragon lay.
Waiting for the suitable ambiance to begin her display, she signalled for something to be brought forth. The hog was carried with resistance, the beast squirming in the arms of the two that carried it. Confused looks were exchanged between some.
“We are all beasts,” Grawnya explained. “Everyone here who embraced this principle was often vehemently opposed, trivialized, simply ignored or worse, attacked for this belief. Lornus expelled beasts from Tallagate and now the Kingdom lies in shambolic ruin. Arconan is not so innocent neither, whilst a royal decree does not exist, still all throughout the land, beasts are killed, hunted, vilified for the actions of a mere few. But every one of you have the recognition of our own personal obligation to minimize the harm we cause by our existence, and to develop in ourselves the qualities necessary to become citizens not of a Kingdom but of a better future; where no one is oppressed, where no one is treated as a means to an end, and no beast is cast aside for human!”
At the summit of her words, she reached into the folds of her garments, whereupon a dagger emerged in her grasp.
Well concealed, Geron noted, eyeing how nimbly she wielded the blade in her fingers.
“Oh great dragon, you whose beastly nature, defied by most, is celebrated here. Accept this most humble sacrifice so that you may prosper and we may flourish in your presence.”
Geron was used to seeing beasts defeated in mutual combat, not willingly led to a virtuous slaughter. Grawnya noticed his grimace at the butchery, misreading his distaste as a prudishness towards bloodshed.
“There is a circle of life to be observed. It is not pretty, nor forgiving, but it is inevitable and best we can do is serve that circle.”
Mumbles of appreciation came from the group, all iterations of understanding that it made a sort of sense. Geron cared not for all the excessive hyperbole, but instead he was gratified to see the dragon fed so well.
Some members of the community excused themselves, their adoration of the dragon’s every action stunted by the grisly feeding.
One by one they dispersed, beginning the day’s tasks anew. The tools used, if not old and worn were homemade and rustic, though each were put to use with just as much vigour as any pristine instrument tending to the highest of farmland across the lands.
Geron watched on, impressed by their solidarity in labour, but couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about spending another night in the community, sleeping arrangements aside.
Rested, sheltered and fully satiated, Geron felt want to complain, yet did so regardless. And when the evening’s meal was concluded, he approached the leader seeking the advancement of his journey. “Not to be unappreciative of this hospitality, but Abarath said that we were travelling to Wyrmgard.”
She finished the broth with a loud and gratified gulp, beckoning Geron to follow her towards the mountain’s edge. The two stood, staring up at the far distant peak of the Insurmountable.
Deep in induced reflective thought brought on by the majestic peak’s domineering presence, Grawnya sighed and turned to Geron. “We live here not because of the isolation, not because we are free from the trappings of royal interference. Your journey is at its end. For we are at the foothold of Wyrmgard itself.”
Geron looked around with surprise, but yet the humble community dwellings remained unchanged by the supposed revelation.
“But I thought Tommamare's Creed said that it was a land ruled by dragons, that Savant said-” Geron groaned wearily and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Please don't tell me that this is one of those allegories where Wyrmgard is a state of mind or some other nonsense.”
She tutted. “Don't be so cynical...nor so literal. Follow me.”
Grawnya enjoyed to walk whilst she pontificated and so another tour was at hand. “Look around you, these tunnels, this circuit, we did not craft them. They have been here for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Wyrmgard did not used to stand here, it still does. The entrance has been sealed, and Wyrmgard itself wants a sacrifice in order for us to enter.”
They arrived at a fence that had been erected to serve, as Geron found out, as a concealment to another tunnel that led away from the residence. Grawnya entered, to which Geron assumed was an invitation to follow.
“A sacrifice, you speak as if it were a person, a living thing,” he said, catching up to her, the tunnel stretching ahead with just as much depth as the one he had entered to arrive.
“I realise how fanciful it sounds,” she replied with a hint of amusement. “But it is as simple as finding the right key for the right lock. The entrance to Wyrmgard lies within the mountain itself, beyond the capacity of any sword or hammer.”
Their footsteps were intermittently lit by candles that were for the most part long extinguished, and yet Grawnya seemed to know the way instinctively.
Doubly impressive, Geron noted, having spied several alternate paths hidden in the dark. Wherever their destination lay, it was at the heart of a mass assembly of twisting and interlocked pathways.
They emerged upon a clearing, where the daunting slope of the mountain awaited. Beneath their feet, smoothened stone spilled out.
Grawnya crouched, placing her palm upon the stone floor. “It is an altar. I am ashamed to admit we have spilled the blood of more beasts than I dare not say in pursuit of that key.” Unfurling her sleeve she unveiled her arm, scarred with embellished lesions. “We have even sacrificed our own. No single person in this community has not contributed towards unlocking this door.”
Withdrawing away, Geron looked back to the tunnel that led to the community. An assembly had begun to form at the tunnel’s mouth. “Abarath said he had been tracking me ever since Hybrawn. But you didn't want me. You wanted me to bring the dragon here.”
She nodded. “It has been the key this whole time. A sacrifice of a dragon to grant us access to the realm of beasts. A most suitable and noble sacrifice.”
The assembly blocking the path back to the community had grown again. Trickles of individuals gradually gathering, enforcing the blockade. Geron realised he was no honoured guest; he now was a prisoner.
“You claim to be more righteous than the others of this land, and yet, you too so eagerly will spill the blood of beasts to suit your own cause.”
Her jaw dropped, an accusation that penetrated any pretence of importance. “How dare you accuse me of hypocrisy! I have suffered. I have sacrificed years of my life in penal dungeons for this. I bear the burden of responsibility for all these people. I make the decisions that wear upon my conscience, not theirs. The sacrifice of that great creature is another weight for me alone to wear. And I wear it gladly. You are the selfish one. Abarath tells me you paraded that dragon throughout Tallagate like it was some sort of novelty, an attraction of curiosity, all for the sake of a few coins.”
It was an accurate allegation, and yet the memory of those days seemed a lifetime ago.
“You can hide here befriending beasts, but that dragon and I have walked the entire length of a Kingdom together. Faced death more times than I can count, and have thwarted another attempt at sacrificing it for some supposed self-righteous cause. So, I will agree with you, I shall be selfish and stop any attempt at harming it.” He drew his sw
ord. “I promise you; I will put up more resistance to your blade than that hog did.”
She smiled. “Oh I know you would do so Geron, I heard about your encounter with one of our charmylions. So eager to strike, so ready for conflict. You seek Wyrmgard and you find it, and yet that is still not enough.”
Frowning, Geron had no intentions of arguing further, he indeed did seek Wyrmgard, but as a home for the dragon, not for it to be sacrificed as a culmination of this community’s belief. His intentions clear, so too did the community reveal theirs. Those blockading the tunnel parted, but not out of polite courtesy towards Geron, instead to allow Abarath to proudly step forward, the remainder of the community followed suit, two fistfuls of heavy rope in hand, heaving the dragon forward, each person pulling their weight, the bound beast requiring near a dozen to bring it forward. Knuckles white in their grip, the community stood in place, every petulant head shake of the dragon a worrisome apprehension of its impending escape. And yet the ropes held firm in their binding.
“Torpor’s Kiss,” Abarath humbly admitted. “In small doses it is a most potent medicinal herb. In larger amounts however, it can render even the greatest of all beasts to be more agreeable.”
Geron needed not the explanation, having been duped before in a similar method by Karvel, the dragon apprehended in such fashion by the Beastslaying Elite. However, this time the beast was still awake, either developing an immunity to the now frequently ingested relaxant, or the over-confident Abarath having mistakenly underestimated the dosage required. Though not rendered unconscious, the dragon merely moved timidly against the rope restraints, before being mollified by the enchanting embrace of the ground.
But before it could fully relent, its ears pricked up at the most intrusive sound. Cutting through the fog, the piercing call came. The dragon groaned, even the most unanthropomorphic minded in the community could not deny hearing the groggy irritation in the growl.
It registered the feeling of the restraints, an irritant that could be ignored no further. The sound came again, that piercing command. To rise up, to fight, to flee.
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