Lizard Bait Updated 10/27/06
DM-Rocco
Explorer
Lizard Bait
(Part 5: The Tale of Brunas)
By
C.E.Rocco
As the smallish hoard of Draconians leapt from tree to tree a man dressed in red and black pantaloons and a thick wool cloak somehow managed to keep pace with the beasts. He could not fly, but he too seemed to know his way around the swampy marsh and he kept the brisk pace with the others.
“What do you mean abandoned?” queried the tall man with the bloodied club as he approached a reporting Draconian.
“The city is abandoned,” reported a Baaz draconian with a swath of cloth covering his eye. It was wet with blood and traces of dried crimson began to flake from his scales.
“What, how, where…,” the man look stupefied. He rubbed his fingers to his chin as he thought, “are the pity pits still intact,” he queried fearing a revolt.
“Yess,” replied the Baaz, a long slow his of anger filling him to the bone. He rubbed his eye, a constant reminder of the filthy scum that they had enslaved as manual labor.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a squeaky voice from behind them. They turned to see a small filthy dwarf who boldly strolled bare footed through the muddy swamp. The bandaged Baaz flew into a rage.
“How dare you talk to us without beings addresssed?” screamed the Baaz as he easily picked up the filthy gully dwarf by both arms and held him over his head as if he was going to rip the disgusting creatures arms from their sockets.
“Mind your own tongue Brass lest I feed you to a gold dragon,” cried the little man and soon he grew in size and form. The change was quick, so quick that the brass Baaz was not able to get from under the huge silver beast as it grew to a full ten feet, pinning the baaz under his massive weight.
“Brunas,” demanded the man, “what is going on here, where is everyone?”
“Your servants need a lesson in respect,” he said calmly as he made a cut with a trailing claw down the cheek of the Baaz, “what happened to your eye slave? Let your tongue loose again against another you should have minded?”
“Brunas, allow him to stand, he was attacked by surprise from a gully dwarf, Scum I think.”
The laughter of Brunas filled the hollow trees of the swamp. He regained his composure as he allowed the Baaz to stand.
“Zrit, how was your mission to Planthus?”
“This is not the time for small talk, where is Krothan?”
“No, you are right, this is not the time for games,” he replied in a casual tone, “so lower your guard and take your true form, your mission to Planthus is at an end. We have more pressing needs.” Zrit raised a cautionary finger but decided not to argue with his superior. He concentrated for a moment and then released his hold on the shape of his former victim. His red pantaloons grew pink and then a faded pale red and then a silver as the clothes slowly grew into shining silver scales. He height grew to a little under nine feet and massive wings sprouted from his back and a long tail formed under that. His head elongated and rows of razor sharp teeth pushed their way through his gums forming a toothy smile.
“Now, follow me back to what is left of the camp and I shall tell you a tale you will find hard to believe.” Zrit and the others listened with great interest. They had been stationed in Palanthus to gather information. Zrit had killed, among others, a noble from a prominent family. He then used his Sivak Draconian abilities to assume the form of the individual he had slain. In this form he was able to gather more information and go places where he could not as a dragon man. He had stayed in this form even after leaving Palanthus. Once a Sivak released the form he had stolen from his victim, he lost the ability to assume that form again. Brunas must have had a great need to force Zrit to release his form.
During the short journey back to the village, Brunas related to them the tale of the Dragon Highlord. He told them of the history this man had presented. How he was the grand son of the fabled Lucien, Dragon Highlord of the Black Dragon Army during the War of the Lance. He mentioned how he came baring the sword of this once mighty general and how at the site of it the other Draconians flew into a frenzy. They hung on his every word, listening to his speech as if the Dark Queen herself had spoken to them. He related how they had went from the ruined temple of the accursed Mishakal to their village and packed everything they could manage to carry with them and still travel swiftly, for now they had a purposes.
They arrived at the remains of the village to find it a ghost town. Brunas told them how Krothan lead the others on the blind faith this man had offered and how Brunas had escaped this fate by slaying one of the gully dwarfs and assuming his form.
“What do you mean escape their fate?” queried Zrit.
Brunas looked sad.
It was an odd look for a Sivak. They seldom showed any emotion and when they did, they had a tendency to look sadistic or menacing. This time, however, Brunas looked deeply troubled.
“I followed them, through the swamp, to the very borders of our lands. They were singing songs of old, songs of conquest. They had a gleam in their eye and a spring in their step. They followed the Highlord into Neraka.” Many of the Draconians did a double take to make sure they had heard properly. Neraka was the former base of operations of the Dragon Army. During the War of the Lance it was the temple of the Dark Queen, her doorway into this world from the Abyss. They had only been their once, during the glory days of Neraka, when the streets were run by Draconians and the Highlords ruled supreme. Then they had been assigned to guard an artifact of terrible power in the swampy marsh of Xak Tsaroth and they had never seen their homes again. He waited for the Draconians to settle down before continuing.
“It was in a mountain pass where it happened. He had told them that they needed to enter the cave, a series of narrow openings in the base of the mountain. It was here that it happened. They had entered the caves and I never saw them again. I waited for seven days and no one entered or left. In the form of a gully dwarf I could not assault the keep myself, but I fear something terrible has happened. Even in full form, by myself it would be a complicated task at best. I knew you were due to report, I knew you were on your way. I need your help. We have to rescue Krothan and the others.”
Once a Fool
First Post
In my opinion, if I may be constructive:
You demonstrate a mildly incomplete grasp of grammar at the beginning of your tale (Read it aloud; you'll hear what I mean.), but you have an excellent empathic link with your characters.
This story is good enough that it deserves to be polished.
You demonstrate a mildly incomplete grasp of grammar at the beginning of your tale (Read it aloud; you'll hear what I mean.), but you have an excellent empathic link with your characters.
This story is good enough that it deserves to be polished.
DM-Rocco
Explorer
Once a Fool said:
Well, I never.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Two things, one, I have different versions of my stories in different progressions of the story, I'll check to make sure I have the one I want up there. Some of them are a bit more unpolished than others.
two, actually, I have a very creative mind, but lack a bit of technical structure, like grammar. My friends feed me input and offer grammar checks but I write more than they are able to check. A have been sensitive in the past to criticism but have come to realize that if I don’t share what I write I don’t improve. I have two writing threads, this one and The Tomb of Horrors, see link below. This one is more of a story format, like a short story.
I concentrate more on writing than spelling and grammar. Yes, I know they are important, but the most important things is the story and the completion of the story. Einstein had once said that success is 2% knowledge and 98% perseverance, or something like that.
So, does that mean I disregard grammar, by no means. In fact, now, I listen to everything people say. So, if you have the time to point a few things out, I will listen. Please send any corrections or suggestions to grammar to my e-mail address, c.e.rocco@comcast.net.
Thanks for the comments though
Last edited:
DM-Rocco
Explorer
Hello all.
It has been a while since I wrote on this. Actually, what follows is a rehash of what was already written, but with grammer fixes and such.
Also, as a treat, I included the ending of the story, the complete ending. Nothing left out. There is a middle part in my brain, it is screaming to get out, but I really want to move on from this project and start to write about other characters, namely the Savage Tide adventure path. In the future I may come back and finish the middle, but in the mean time, once I get started on Savage Tide, please continue to read on there.
As a teaser for what may never come, the middle of this story is called Death Throws and it is the story of how Brunas infiltrates the Dragon high lords lair and rescues his brethern. I thought it would be a great story to finally make full use of the Silvak death throw ability to kill many people and then take their formto get close and kill others. mean while, the other draconians use their own death throw abilities, like acid and explosions, to help free themselves.
I still want to write it, but for now, other projects interest me.
I hope you enjoy, and when I start the Savage Tide Adventure path, I will place a link here.
Special thanks to Jessica Babcock for going over this story, even though she hates fantasy, to correct the many grammer errors that I can't seem to find.
In the depths of the swampy jungles of Xak Tsaroth, the cloaked man strode down the spongy road that cut its way through the dense overgrowth of the surrounding marsh. Long blades of grass, thick weeds and unchecked brush had slowly crept unto the road for many years. Vegetation had long ago overrun much of the road, making it little more than a hunter’s path. The soft rustle of his robes could barely be heard over the symphony of the swamp. Crickets on one side of the path chirped an eerie calling while another responded on the other side of the road. In the distance, a bird gawked and as if he had sensed a predator near by, he took to flight; the quick flutter of wings adding to the ambient noise. The wind blew through hollow reeds making of weeds an unnerving flute. The dark dank water rippled with unseen aquatic creatures feasting on the pond skimming insects. A rustle of brush, the snapping of a twig, the warning cry of a beast when you get to close to their territory all made of the marsh a wall of noise. It was not a noise like a market square, rather a strangely soothing music of the natural order. Splashes of water announced the presence of different water animals. Birds of all sorts chimed in to add harmony to the rhythm of the pounding rain.
A strange and unfamiliar call cut through the symphony and an unearthly calm settled on the spongy bog. Immediately all other noise ceased. A second call, in a lower key, but with the same tone, echoed off of the thick ironclaw trees. The cloaked man sped up slightly, not understanding the change in the ambient sound of the swamp, but knowing that it could not be good to linger. A higher- pitched note chimed in response a few minutes later, and as the man moved down the overrun road the calls became more frequent, creating a new symphony. Unlike the other, this one was marked with an eeriness that chilled one to the bone; and as suddenly as it started, it had stopped.
The robed man stopped at the eerie silence. He was afraid to move, afraid that should he take a step forward and break the silence that it would draw unwanted attention. He darted his head around to see if he was being stalked; nothing. He turned around, ready to try and move further down the road and when he turned he was faced off on the road with another robed man.
“Stand fassst and present yourself, “ hissed Blith, a Baaz draconian. He held forth his spear, butt to the ground, in an open challenge to smite his authority. He stood with purpose and with faith, for he stood not alone. He knew others were about, and he knew he was safe. From the spear, his brass-tinted, scaly hide disappeared in the shrouds of a large voluminous black cloak, concealing his body within its shadows.
The figure on the road was dressed in a similar cloak, covering him from head to toe in deepest black, with his head engulfed in darkness. Nothing penetrated its dark depths; it was a shadow within a shadow. The cloaked man stood silent in the night, the wind whipping at his robes.
Blith strained his eyes through the driving rain and ignored the chill that it sent through his body. The two faced off in the dead of the night, each not moving, each not talking.
“Stand and deliver,” shouted Blith once again. He made no other move since the robed man did nothing as well. Deep in the swamps of Xak Tsaroth, the heavy overgrowth blocked out what little light that shed through the large ominous trees. The exposed roots of the ironclaw trees drank from the murky depths of the surrounding swamp water and thick pools of mud. Vines crept onto every rock, tree and ruined pillar in the jungle like setting. The vines, for lack of other places to grow, snaked from one tree to another, making of the swamp’s sky a spider web of vegetation.
“Last chance, bear your arms and make full your intent,” shouted Blith. Blith was neither a jumpy individual by nature, nor a man of timid intent. He didn’t care whether or not this cloaked man answered or not. He patiently awaited for an answer; not because he was afraid of this man before him, but because he was buying time.
The shadowed man made no move or gesture. He stood in silence, in direct defiance of the Blith’s authority. Neither spoke after that, nor did either make a move. The cloaked man made no gesture to advance, so Blith simply stood his ground, for he knew he had no need to move.
They emerged from nature like a tornado from the clouds, swift and undetected. The bronze and copper hues of the Bozak and Kapak made the appearance of bronze and copper crocodiles appearing from the murky waters on either side of the road. They used their massive tails to steer and swim and like giant snakes. They emerged from the deep, to crawl on the land in silence, daggers and short swords drawn and at the ready. The soft rustle of willow weed was the only indication that other Baaz draconians had made their presence known from behind the cloaked man while silver streaks in the sky beheld the arrival of three Sivak draconians. They circled their prey in wide, sweeping patterns, in such a way that the heavy overgrowth of the swamp seldom let the cloaked man from their piercing sight; yet far enough from each other that they need not fear from colliding in mid-flight or spells that could take down many in an enclosed area. Always they had their bows drawn and as their comrades advanced they each let loose a volley of arrows, pricking the ground at the robed man’s feet.
“Make no move, whether in friendship or strife,” came from a voice behind him. “You are not recognized by us as either friend or foe. If you wish to become the former, then by all means keep your tongue idle. Speak swiftly and with purpose, for you have been asked thrice and now a fourth time; you shall not be asked again.”
“Impressive,” was the hollow uncaring reply. The voice was empty and deep, as from a man speaking in a cave, and it pierced all who heard it to the very core of their soul. The robed figure made no motion for a weapon but did grab ends of his sweeping cloak and turned slightly from left to right, ignoring the voice from behind. “I must say that I did not hear the ripple of water from the swampy pond to either side. Also, I did not expect that such an avenue would be used as an ambush. No doubt the Kapak blades are envenomed and the Bozak’s have spells slipping from their lips. Bravo, bravo,” he had said in over dramatic delight. He clasped his hands like a proud parent watching his new born take its first steps.
The Kapak and Bozak draconians to either side of the cloaked man stood their ground and as the stranger advanced he stopped just short of the area of threat where a draconian would consider attacking. The cloaked man turned his head from side to side and up and down, as if examining a statue in a museum and taking mental notes of the exhibit, but always he respected the space of the draconians. This fearlessness, combined with a healthy respect, seemed to unnerve the dragon men to the core.
“An attack from above is not all together unexpected, but I am impressed that creatures of such bulk could maneuver in such a confined space. Draconian are fairly big in general, but Sivaks being commonly over nine feet in height, I would have not suspected them to be able to maneuver in this dense jungle. Ah, there now; I see something else that was not there before: three, no four more hide in trees, but not with bows like their brethren, rather with their trademark saw-tooth two-handed sword. No doubt ready to glide from the advantage of higher ground and charge their jagged blades into my hide. Again, I am impressed.”
Krothan stood dumbfounded by this fool. Krothan stood dumbfounded by this genius.
In any other situation he would have been in complete control, but this simple robed man had made him question himself. Worst of all this man had made him hesitate, the kiss of death for a soldier. Whether this man had the sheer confidence in his skills to defeat such a large company of draconians, or he was a retard who somehow managed to survive the dangers of the swamp by luck, he cared not.
This had to end, and end now.
“You have much to say, but little of importance. Your next words had better be straight and true, for they will determine your life,” again threatened the voice from behind. Envenomed weapons raised and ready to strike a final blow, the draconians felt secure that this mans ranting would soon falter.
“So impersonal you are, I would know your name before I reveal more. Fear not, I shall answer your questions. I simply wish to know the name of those that I address.”
“You have earned no such right with me or my kin, but I will oblige you, if it will speed your tongue to more useful information. I am Krothan, leader of this band of draconians and captain of the lands of Xak Tsaroth. You are not here by invitation or need, so now speak swiftly to the living or your next words will be to the dead.”
“Well met, Krothan. Where did you come from dragon man?” came the reply, as the robed man turned to face his addresser. “I neither did see you upon the road, nor in the trenches or faro ways, so where then did you spring from?” The robed man did not look upon the host of draconians that had sneaked up behind him as much as he analyzed them as a general would a battle tactic.
Krothan was not the only draconian to have reached his wits’ end with this fool as others from behind him made their ways from the ranks behind so as to start an attack.
“Stand down to you, dragon man. Do you not know your master when you see him?” With that, the man unrobed his head and drew back his cloak to reveal the glistening red scales of dragon hide fitted together with locking plates of finely forged steel and a wicked horned helm that covered his face, further concealing his identity. “I am Dragon Highlord Nethera and I come to you on behalf of our Queen.”
The draconians stood their ground and held fast their weapons. Not since the days of the War of the Lance had a Dragon Highlord been in power let alone seen and this perplexed the host of dragon men.
“Our Queen is gone from this world,” replied one of the draconians.
“Banished in the ending of the Chaos Wars she was, saved her children she did,” chimed in another.
“They are lies that you speak,” challenged Krothan and he raised his sword to attack.
“I never lie, honorable dragon man, neither in practice nor in jest. She yet lives and is here, in this world,“ the Highlord replied matter-of-factly and dismissed the approaching Krothan with the mere wave of a hand. “But come now, my road was long and weary and I still have much to do. Let us continue this conversation once purging appetites are satisfied and the dusty road has been washed from my mouth.” The draconians marveled in wonder as a door of light emerged from the darkness behind the self proclaimed Highlord. “Look for me in the ruined temple of the accursed Mishakal and let us finish our conversation there.” With that the door of light that had ripped a hole in time and space moved forward to engulf the Highlord in its blinding light, then shrank into a pin-hole of light and was gone. Only the confused draconians were left on the spongy road, left behind in wonder and confusion.
In the confines of the draconians huts there was much confusion and continued conversation that had begun on the cold wet road. The appearance of a Dragon Highlord, whether real or false, was the most important tidbit of news that had made its way into the deep black swamp of Xak Tsaroth since the ending of the Chaos Wars and the departure of the Gods. It was unnerving how the appearance of one man had put the well-disciplined encampment into turmoil.
Only a small brigade returned to the main encampment. Most followed Krothan into the pity pits where the large yet agile draconians struggled for footing upon the always crowded and unaware gully dwarves that inhabited this small plot of land. Years ago, when the Heroes of the Lance had made their way into Xak Tsaroth to retrieve the Disks of Mishakal, they did more than retrieve knowledge of the ancient Gods: they destroyed a city. Granted, the city was in disrepair since the days following the Cataclysm, when the wrath of the Gods had split the earth and slid the city into the depths of the swamp, but the Heroes of the Lance finished what the Gods had started. Using the power of the Gods to slay the sinister black Dragon Khisanth, more commonly known as Onyx, the Heroes caused whatever force that held the New Sea at bay to fill into the cavern that housed the doomed city, forever destroying the remains in a watery grave.
In the days following the sinking of the city, Krothan had ascended as the new leader of what few draconians that had managed to survive. He led his men to Neraka and served faithfully under the Dragon Highlords for the remainder of the war. Following the ending of the War of the Lance he led those draconians that had survived into the swamp as other places of safety were few and far between under the watchful eyes of the Solamnic Knights.
Upon his return, he found a colony of another race that had also survived in some numbers: the gully dwarves. While not known for their quick wit, or for that matter any wit, they had managed to build, more or less, (mostly less,) modest homes and attempts at gardens. Squat homes made from mud and straw had sunken walls and very little in the way of roofs. It did not matter to gully dwarves, they seldom needed more than a patch of earth to call home. The fact that they realized that they could try to build homes suggested something similar to intelligence; the fact that those homes would implode and kill them, suggested something to the degree of their complexity.
The first reaction of Krothan, upon seeing the filthy creatures infesting the swamp. was death. It could have been creatures of any race and he would have quickly come to the same conclusion; death to all other races that weren’t of dragon blood. Draconians were not a race born into the world, they were created by ancient and foul magic. It was a common source of contention amongst others races of Krynn. As creatures created and not born, many felt that they did not have the right to live. Many considered them an abomination of nature and therefore must die. The draconians blind devotion to the Dark Queen just gave other races a justification to slay all draconians. Other races had served the Dark Queen, but that did not matter to others. You see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. The fact that other humans fought on the side of the Dark Queen didn’t mean that the humans would kill everyone of themselves, but they did want to kill all draconians. Krothan and his draconians had been hunted from the lands of Neraka to the borders of the Swamp. Over half of his followers had fallen. Krothan was by no means a gentle soul but he was a living creature. While most of his thoughts would be typical of the race of draconians he had the right to live and die by his own convictions. Draconians never had mothers to nurture them and guide them into proper paths in life. They were created and steered towards one purpose in life, death of the enemies of The Dark Queen. Once their Queen had been banished from the world, some looked within themselves and took up the role of leaders. Some of them had grown in their complexity; Krothan was one that had grown.
On that day when they returned to Xak Tsaroth he had ordered all of the gully dwarves rounded up and thrown into one encampment where he intended to have sport with the pathetic lives of these little retched creatures before he carried out his master plan. Fresh from the war and needing to relieve some frustration and anger, they played games with the filthy creatures. They would have the gully dwarves hold plates or wooden cups and try shooting them off of their heads. The gully dwarves would stand still, for the most part, not out of fear, but out of lack of understanding. They would stare dumbly at those shooting at them and even at times cheer them on. While in a drunken stupor, the draconians usually missed and occasionally hit a gully dwarf in the head. Other games included lining the gully dwarves up in a straight lines and testing new blades by seeing how many they could cut through in one swing; Brunas held the record at seven. Even as they fell, the gully dwarves would lack an understanding of what was happening. Sure they were in pain, but it was a fleeting thought as they died. Even those that survived would show little emotion. Not because they were not capable of emotion, but rather, because in the very near future, they would forget the pain of lose. At times they would even unleash massive hounds into the woods and watch a scared pack of gully dwarves be torn apart in quick order. Most of the dwarves would die quickly, not bright enough to realize they were in any danger, while others would hide behind a stone way too small to hide themselves.
Krothan and his draconians had killed several before they had stopped. There was something missing. There was no satisfaction.
When a person died there was a moment in the eyes when they knew they were never going to see their loved ones again; never going to walk as a free man; never going to do any of the things that others took for granted. There was nothing that he could do about it now, so alone and helpless at the business end of a sword. This was the power that was so captivating, so rewarding about slaying others: the power of life and death. It was the most rewarding feeling in the world, and it was stripped from Krothan by the stupidity of a race of dwarves too dumb to know that they were about to die.
In a move, uncharacteristic of a draconian, Krothan ordered the area sealed and labeled the area the pity pits. It was here that the gully dwarves thrived, for the most part, and as the years passed Krothan made use of the dwarves as slave labor. Of course, this was harder than he remembered when they had used the gully dwarves as slaves before the War of the Lance. Few of the gully dwarves who survived the destruction of the city knew how to count past two, and none remembered any of the chores that had been assigned to them before the war. It took several patient years to teach them to do the tasks that needed to be done. In the end, the draconians still did most of the complicated ones themselves.
Krothan and his men passed through the pity pits, some running, most leaping and gliding, taking advantage of their long leathery wings. Some of the gully dwarves scrambled out of the way while others ran straight for the approaching draconian swarm, thinking that it was some sort of game. A few remained still, playing in the mud or making mud pies for dinner.
Krothan ordered the draconians to stop at the far edge of the pity pits, where they could barely make out the outline of the ruined temple of Mishakal through the canopy of thick vines that hung from the ironclaw trees.
“I do not trust this man. None of the other Highlords had such power, save Lord Ariakus, and that was granted to him by our Queen,” said Hammel in his sly and cool voice. He landed next to Krothan and immediately gully dwarves beseeched him. Four came to him and pulled on his wings, while a fifth used a dirty rag to clean his scaly tail.
The only reason for the draconians to ever come into the pity pits was to find a slave who forgot to anachronistic show up for duty or to have their wings massaged, one of the few tasks that the putrid dwarves actually did well. Since it wasn’t later than two hours past noon, and since he couldn’t count higher than two, Dope, the King of the gully dwarves assumed that the draconians had come to have their wings attended to. Dope forgot his real name before he was named Dope. Krothan detested the use of any reference to high or better when it came to the gully dwarves and replaced the title of HighBulp, the former name they gave to their king, with that of Dope, besides, the HighBulp could count to three and Dope could not.
“You no worry, scale man,” said Dope as he scratched his lice filled head with one dirty little hand, “me rub your wing for you, me rub it good.”
“Dope, you and your men are relieved of duty for the night,” Krothan replied in a calm and controlled voice. “Jist, I want you to take your men and circle the temple from the east. Hammel, take the secret entrance from the west and close in from behind, Branik, take your men and fly to the top most windows and prepare to strike from above and Hilth, prepare a company of Bozak to sneak in ahead of us under the cover of invisibility. I too do not trust this man. Now- what the- Dope, I told you, you were relieved.”
“You no fret, me almost done,” said Dope as he happily spit on the foot of Krothan and continued to polish the scales with a dirty rag. It wasn’t until this moment that Krothan understood his mistake; he used words with more than one syllable.
“You work no more, we leave now,” said Krothan and this seemed to work, as the hoard of gully dwarves immediately backed of off the draconians and some even returned to the main portion of the pity pits. “Now, does anybody have any questions?”
He looked around the gathering and none spoke, yet from below a small hand shot into the air.
“What is quest ons?” asked Dope, forgetting that he was not supposes to talk unless talked to. Krothan and his fellow draconians moved, without a reply, leaving Dope to figure it out on his own.
“Who she be,” said E, his small filthy hands clutching a dead lizard in one hand and a small branch in the other that he used to hold back a mass of thick vines.
“Me not know,” replied Filth as she bumped Scum in the ribs to get a better look. Scum did not talk all that much, in fact, he never said more than a few words in his entire life that the others could remember. Most of the Dragon men never thought much of it, but in the Gully Dwarf circles, it was considered rude to not speak when spoken to. Some say it was because of the fact that he saw his father murdered from a young age and the trauma was too much for him to handle; some just say it is because it is the fact that he is a gully dwarf; but most who know of such matters suggest a different reason: it was his name.
Gully dwarves were not the brightest race of creatures on Krynn, but they took pride in their names. Scum was not his birth name, as most would have you believe, it was a name that the draconians had given him as part of their round up effort. Krothan had named these three unwittingly one day when he called one of them filthy scum. Gully dwarfs, not to proficient in the use of words with more than one syllable, came to the conclusion that Krothan was naming them. What’s more, they had thought that Filthy Scum were the new names of the three, one of them Filth, the other E and the last Scum. Scum had never spoken after that, whether because he was a mute, as the draconians had suspected, or because he understood, more than any of the others, what the draconians had done by naming them. By naming them, the draconians had done two things. First, they removed their connection to the past; and second, they dehumanized them to nothing so much as a word, most hurt full. They had chosen words that did not reflect well on others.
All of the draconians had thought him a mute, and a dumb mute at that, all except Krothan. Krothan had spent days watching the dwarf he had inadvertently named Scum, as he went about his chores. Unlike most of his kin, Scum was what most would consider normal, but amongst Gully Dwarfs, he showed a promise that the others did not. It did not take him five threats and ten explanations to understand that draconians do not eat mud; he understood when told once. The other draconians thought this a result of their supreme intimidation tactics, but Krothan had always thought of another conclusion: Scum could count past two.
He had heard from the other gully dwarves that Scum had been a most talkative type before the draconian occupation, but ever since he had been named, he had remain silent. Most thought out of fear, some out of trauma, but Krothan thought more likely out of shame.
E and Filth stared out from behind the tree, their short, fat, greasy fingers making a hole in the curtain of vines. In the distance they saw her striding down a path, towards the village. The village was still several miles away, but she headed that way nonetheless, as if she knew where it was. Her long legs and easy grace made it seem as if she floated on the air. She parted her thick locks of hair and stopped for a moment. She held Her hand to Her heart and closed Her eyes for a moment. A soft glow cracked through her fingers as if her heart was glowing and the hand had captured the light.
“She talk to self,” said E. Scum peeked his head from behind the two to get a better look. She had long lean features that made the Dwarfs seem that much smaller and squat by comparison. Long golden strands of thick locks of hair were masterfully braided in thick rope-like strands that flowed freely down her chest, past her slender waist. Two tiny pointed ears and her framed face were all that could be seen through her head of hair. Her skin was soft, and when the moonlight hit it just right, it glistened with a slightly silver sheen. Perhaps it was just an illusion, as the woman was, for why would such a creature of beauty be walking through such place of filth? Indeed, her soft, elegant features and graceful limbs were a stark contrast to the thick ironclaw trees, jagged slime-covered rocks and draping vines.
She paused, speaking to herself for a moment as if she had heard something in the distance. Then, whether thinking better of an idea or just determined to not spend any further time in the confines of the swamp than she needed to, the woman continued down the game trail.
She moved with a swift stride that the three gully dwarves found hard to keep pace with. Were it not for the fact that they knew every inch of the swamp like the back of their filthy little hands, they surely would have been outpaced.
She paused again some time later, and peered around a thick tree that the gully dwarves knew well, for it was hollow and the gully dwarves had used it many times. Gully dwarves were forbidden to wander the swamp, with the exception of doing errands for their masters, which seldom involved going beyond the borders of the village. After years of servitude to the draconians they had managed to find ways to explore their old haunts, but when one was found to be wondering in the swamp without permission, they were denied food. This seldom mattered to the gully dwarves since they would eat anything without thought or care for their digestive track, so the draconians later forbad them to carry dead lizards and such; a tactic that worked much better than depriving them of food.
Once in the swamp, they could hide from the draconians, for the most part, without being seen. They had developed a series of places in the swamp to hide from the draconians and with their natural filth and dirt; they were mostly camouflaged from the prying eyes of their draconian masters. The tree was just one of their favorite hideouts from the tyranny of the draconians.
E and Filth were about to spring from the brush to get a better view when something grabbed them from behind. A quick yelp from Filth and then a hand covered her mouth. She looked up in a frantic state and saw Scum atop her, one hand covering her mouth and the other held to his lips, indicating shhh. What most would call birdcalls or cricket clicks was more commonly known as, to those who knew, draconian speak. The sound of a high-pitched chirp echoed off of the ironclaw trees, bouncing across the swamp. A lower, more sustaining called replied back. As the draconian speak continued to crescendo the orchestra of the swamp fell to silence.
Scum dared a look to The Lady through the thick vines: she was still there, but apparently not aware that anything was amiss. To his right, just a few feet away, he heard the most unlikely sound in the swamp, unlikely coming from this source anyway. He heard a branch breaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the form of the Baaz draconian, clawing with stealth towards The Lady. He had to warn her; he felt the need to say something. He turned her way, about to speak for the first time in quite awhile. No, he tried to scream, but his voice, not accustomed to speaking, failed him.
Scum swallowed trying to gain some moisture in his unusually dry throat. He tried to speak again and it came out as a grunt as his voice failed him. Frustration filled his need. He was desperate. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he needed to warn The Lady. Perhaps it was because he had never seen one of such beauty in all of his life; more likely it was because he hated the draconians who had so named him and didn’t want to see anyone fall to these deadly enemies. Again he mumbled, trying to speak and then frustration turned to foolishness. With a burst of speed that surprised even himself he crashed through the underbrush and screamed.
“No,” he screamed, and just as quickly as he burst through the brush he was hit full in the face by a draconian tail, knocking him back into a nearby tree. Something inside of the normally docile Filth, looking at the fallen form of, Scum snapped in that moment. All of her life she had been abused by these draconians. She had been born after the second draconian occupation and had never knew what freedom was. She was born into oppression and tyranny. She had never known that your care takers were not supposed to abuse you and beat you. She had not know that in a civilized society you did not have to serve others needs. Normally she obeyed what others told her; no more.
She looked at the draconian hovering over the fallen form of Scum and fear took her. She knew a terror that she had never felt before. The draconian licked his thin reptilian lips with a long forked tongue. He raised a short blade in the air and went to strike Scum, finishing him off. She couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let Scum die. Scum was her only friend, next to E, he was all she had. Filth broke her bonds of fear, screamed and charged the draconian, jumping onto his back and began clawing out the Dragon man’s eyes with her dirty little fingernails.
“Leave Scum be,“ she yelled. The first swing succeeded beyond her hopes and struck the draconian in the eye. Her little pudgy fingers clasped the eye and squeezed hard. When the draconian tried to throw the wild gully dwarf from his back, Filth squeezed all the harder. The eye of the Baaz was ripped from its socket, but she lacked the remainder of the strength to tear it out, so it dangled down its cheek when she finally was forced to release the eye or fall to the ground. She got in one or two more quick swings when her body went flying through the air hitting the same tree that Scum had hit.
Scum looked at Filth laying in the ground, her neck was twisted at an impossible angle, she did not move. He looked back towards the Baaz, who was now consumed with rage, and a man who stood next to him holding a bloodied club. The Baaz flailed about wildly, striking blindly at anything that he could see move with his one good eye. He stepped on E as he ran away from his hiding spot. The clawed foot of the Baaz ripped into E’s flesh and E screamed like nothing Scum had ever heard before. The Baaz, then blindly reached for E’s head and with both claws he dug into E’s throat, under his skull and then began to pull. E stopped screaming when Scum heard his neck snap, but that didn’t stop the Baaz, he continued to pull, the sickening snapping and crunching of bone brought bile to the back of Scum’s throat. The Baaz roared in pain and protest, and then triumph as he pulled the Gully Dwarf’s head from its body. He held the head high like a trophy, blood pouring over the veins tangling from the severed head. The Baaz was quickly joined be a few other draconians and the man with the bloody club, all delighting in the scene of the filthy head deprived of its body.
Scum felt more alone now than any other time in his life. In a matter of minutes his two best friends had died and he knew he was to be next. He looked towards the tree to see to the Lady, but she was no where to be seen. He closed his eyes as he began to cry, for he had just seen death and he was about to die, and he did not wish to see it coming.
The lone figure of the Dragon High Lord casually tossed aside scraps from piles of trash. Occasionally he picked up an item to admire it for a brief second before discarding it into another pile of filth. The High Lord showed little interest in this activity, his search was more like something to pass the time than any pursuit of finding something of value. During the War of the Lance, the Temple of Mishakal had been destroyed by a violent earthquake that proceeded the death of the sinister black Dragon Khisanth. Much of the remaining city had been destroyed and the temple was no exception.
“You can come in if you wish,” he said as he admired a cracked goblet he found in the ruins and quickly discarded it in favor of a dented plate. He did not look at any of the other draconians, in fact, other than acknowledging their presence with words, it would have appeared that he paid them need heed at all.
Krothan ignored the man who held so little regard towards the draconian that he didn’t even bother to look in their direction. With hand gestures and body movements Krothan signaled for the others to get into place.
The high pitched chirping of the draconian leader sent the signal to the others. From the rafters six Sivak draconians glided on the drafts of air, armed with long spears, they descended in a tight spiral meaning to spear the High Lord. From the dark of the night a murder of Baaz shifted in the shadows. Only a keen eye could see them and only if closely observed. Further from the rear of the temple the slightest creak betrayed the drawing of bows with poison tipped arrows from Kapaks. Unseen to the naked eye, more cleverly concealed than the Baaz who hide in shadow, the Bozak used magic to turn light in such a way as to make them invisible.
The first of the Sivaks was descending swiftly, its massive nine foot frame so bulky on the ground found a unmatched grace in the air. He closed the gap to the ground and as he did so his sweeping circles drew in tighter and faster. In an instance he had the self proclaimed High Lord in his sights braced himself for the impact of the spear driving through the body of the man. Krothan looked on in glee as the Sivak gently glided behind the man, ten feet, five feet, impact. Only the man was not their, in the last second before the spear tip was to come into contact with the man, he vanished in the blink of an eye and the Sivak, prepared for the impact of flesh through steel and wood, tumbled end over end on the ground as he over extended himself.
The color drained from the scaly face of Krothan as he scanned the temple ruins for a sign of the High Lord. He appeared for a brief second by the hidden shadows of the Baaz and then he was gone, in his wake a wall of flame encircled the Baaz, as if he could see the hidden draconians clearly and unobstructed.
Scanning the temple again he soon found the man at the base of ancient pillars, right under foot of the invisible Bozak, but his time it was not only Krothan who had seen the man appear, the Bozak had seen him as well. Spidery words filled the air as the ancient words of magic rolled from forked tongues. Glowing white missiles flew from scaly fingers towards their mark, the lone so-called High Lord. The High Lord seemed to be casting some sort of spell as well for he seemed self-absorbed in concentrating on something. The glowing white missiles closed in on the High Lord and exploded on impact, but they did not harm the High Lord as planned, instead they impacted on an invisible shield, which absorbed them and dispersed them as harmless light. Krothan’s jaw dropped at the ineffectiveness of draconian magic, but his jaw unhinged when he saw the High Lord raise his arms to the ceiling and complete a spell of his own. Krothan could not see the Bozaks but he knew from years of planning for every contingency where they would most likely be and in that area a thick greenish cloud filled the air and one-by-one the Bozaks began to cough and choke on the stench of the magical mist.
In the blink of another eye, Krothan lost track of the High Lord as he again disappeared. Over the coarse of the next couple of minutes he watched in helplessness as the High Lord blinked in and out, from one side of the temple to the other, time and time again. Sometimes he would cast spells, using magic to increase his size, flash bolts of lightning at draconians, sheathing his body in wreaths of flame or to mimic the actions of his draconian combatants, appearing to look just like them. Other times he would tease them by appearing behind them, spooking them with pokes, jabs or laughter.
Krothan watched helpless, he could do nothing, he could not begin to attack the man, for he disappeared and reappeared to quickly to be caught. Chaos ruled the temple and the High Lord was the master of that scene. He could only bark orders, occasionally giving commands in the nick of time to avoid a draconian loss , but over all he felt helpless.
Then, in the heat of the battle, it happened, he lost track of the High Lord. The only thing he could do in the battle was to give warning to his troops and now he could not even do that. How could this happen under his command? How could this one man over power his troops? How was he able to see the invisible Bozaks? How could it all happen?
“Are you done Krothan?” came a voice from behind him. Krothan frantically turned to face the man behind the voice and for his effort he was easily lifted off of his feet by a huge metal clad hand. The wind was knocked out of him as the figure of the High Lord thrust him hard into the stone wall. Krothan could not breath, his ribs were cracked and the world was slipping away in a pool of inky black.
“The Dragon High Lords are not misplaced upon us; we served then loyally in the days of the War of the Lance. The ending of that war also doomed the Dragon High Lords into obscurity. Out of the ashes of the reign of the High Lords came the Dark Knights of Neraka. The oath of the Dark Knights and the binding of their souls to the Queen left little doubt in who they served so there was no need for Dragon High Lords who could become corrupted with power like the infamous High Lord Kitiara or easily manipulated like High Lord Toede.”
“I don’t believe the words you speak,” shouted the silver scaled Hammel, a Sivak draconian.
“Nor do I,” simply stated Brakka, another Sivak.
“Our Queen abandoned us, along with the other Gods of Krynn, after the Chaos War,” shouted a challenge.
“The High Lords are no more, what proof have you,” cried a bronze scaled Bozak named Hilth.
“Yes, give us proof,” came a reply from Jist, a brass scaled Kapak.
The ruined temple gave way to loud burst of chatter. Many draconians shouted for blood of this intruder, few had the peace of mind to verify his story. Krothan silenced them with a raised hand. He had cracked ribs and a pounding headache and was in no mood to talk. He gestured for the so called High Lord to talk and sealed the command with a lethal glare.
“It is not with false hope that I come to you, our queen has sent me for she yet lives and is here. In the shadow of the land she has been regaining her power, to strike a blow against the mighty dragons that have taken over rulership of Krynn. Her planning and scheming have been slowly put into play for months now, but her appearance remains hidden from our foes. Just as her new champion, Nina has been sent back to the realms of the mortals, so have I been chosen to re-establish control of her beloved dragon men.
“I am born of High Lord blood, my father’s father was Lucien and he led the Black Dragon army during the War of the Lance. During the collapse of the Dragon Army, in the death throws of betrayal, my ever-clever Grandfather had made preparations for just such a contingency. When the other High Lords scrambled for control of the Crown of power, Lucien realized the inevitable outcome and flew with all haste towards his holdings to the south, near the great Icewall Glacier. It was there that he awaited word from his Queen. It was also here that he withered and rotted. Without the aid of his Queen and the support of the other Highlords, he spent more and more time plotting and less and less time doing. His once brilliant military mind that so carefully calculated for every inch of a battlefield proved to be his undoing. More and more he became convinced that his time to strike had not yet come. Whether it was insufficient troops to hold a town, not enough supply lines or mistrust of a potential allied force, he lost all faith in his ability to lead.
“My father never had the same merit or clever mind that was so gifted in my grandfather. He neither desired battle nor rulership. Rather, he spent his years living the fat life of a spoiled brat. I on the other hand have been given visions from the Dark Queen since before memory was a close friend. My grandfather trained me in warfare and arms and gave to me his mighty sword.”
The High Lord, in one swift move that drove back those closest a step, drew forth his sword. The gleaming blade held the draconians attention like a piece of candy would captive a child.
“Look upon me and know the truth I speak. I have our Queens favor and now, as in the days of old, she has a need of her children. Gather every brass scaled Baaz who can wield a spear and throw back your cloaks for the days of hiding in shadows are over. Walk freely upon the land, in the service of our Queen. Summon every bronze scaled wizard of the Bozak kin. Speak your spells with slippery tongues and know your worth. Bring forth every available copper scaled Kapak. Envenom your blades and prepare to kill again for the glory of the Queen. Let every silver scaled Sivak embrace their hatred of others and forget not from that which you come.
The wide eyed draconians began to chatter and chirp. Anger and resentment turned into respect in the mere matter of moments. A sound rose from the collective that could only be described as a rekindled pride. Their Dark Queen had sent them a champion filled with a purpose. It mattered not what that purpose was. Their Dark Queen called them; and they would answer.
In the shadows, two watched the scene with growing interest. One watched from the safety of a tree with dread, as his brethren went wild in admiration. The other watched from a shadow with pain in her heart as her children were so close, yet so far.
Comfortable in their familiar surroundings they glided on massive wings towards their home. As occasion would call, they would leap with their mighty legs onto the upper branches of the thick ironclaw trees to gain more altitude for better gliding. Sharp, powerful claws tore into the large trucks leaving noticeable divots in the bark. They had traveled a long distance and they were so close to home, they cared no more if others could track them.
As the smallish hoard of Draconians leapt from tree to tree a man dressed in red and black pantaloons and a thick wool cloak somehow managed to keep pace with the beasts. He could not fly, but he too seemed to know his way around the swampy marsh and he kept the brisk pace with the others.
The Lady in the woods was not a good omen. They had killed the gully dwarves who had warned her of their approach and in that brief moment The lady managed to evade them. They didn’t know who this lady was, but they knew what she was. It had happened twice before. A different one every time of course, but it never ended well for those involved. They needed to get back to the camp before things got out of control, they had to warn the others and another was coming.
Lost in thought, the man in red lost his balance as he almost slammed into a tree. He stumbled a moment and then stopped when he saw the advance scout return.
“What do you mean abandoned?” queried the tall man with the bloodied club as he approached a reporting Draconian.
“The city is abandoned,” reported a Baaz draconian with a swath of cloth covering his eye. It was wet with blood and traces of dried crimson began to flake from his scales.
“What, how, where…,” the man look stupefied. He rubbed his fingers to his chin as he thought, “are the pity pits still intact,” he queried fearing a revolt.
“Yess,” replied the Baaz, a long slow his of anger filling him to the bone. He rubbed his eye, a constant reminder of the filthy scum that they had enslaved as manual labor.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a squeaky voice from behind them. They turned to see a small filthy dwarf who boldly strolled bare footed through the muddy swamp. The bandaged Baaz flew into a rage.
“How dare you talk to us without beings addresssed?” screamed the Baaz as he easily picked up the filthy gully dwarf by both arms and held him over his head as if he was going to rip the disgusting creatures arms from their sockets.
“Mind your own tongue Brass lest I feed you to a gold dragon,” cried the little man and soon he grew in size and form. The change was quick, so quick that the brass Baaz was not able to get from under the huge silver beast as it grew to a full ten feet, pinning the Baaz under his massive weight.
“Brunas,” demanded the man, “what is going on here, where is everyone?”
“Your servants need a lesson in respect,” he said calmly as he made a cut with a trailing claw down the cheek of the Baaz, “what happened to your eye slave? Let your tongue loose again against another you should have minded?”
“Brunas, allow him to stand, he was attacked by surprise from a gully dwarf, Scum I think.”
The laughter of Brunas filled the hollow trees of the swamp. He regained his composure as he allowed the Baaz to stand.
“Zrit, how was your mission to Planthus?”
“This is not the time for small talk, where is Krothan?”
“No, you are right, this is not the time for games,” he replied in a casual tone, “so lower your guard and take your true form, your mission to Planthus is at an end. We have more pressing needs.” Zrit raised a cautionary finger but decided not to argue with his superior. He concentrated for a moment and then released his hold on the shape of his former victim. His red pantaloons grew pink and then a faded pale red and then a glistening silver as the clothes slowly grew into shining silver scales. His height grew to a little under nine feet and massive wings sprouted from his back and a long tail formed and snaked around his legs. His head elongated and rows of razor sharp teeth pushed their way through his gums forming a toothy smile. He stretched his wings high in the air glade to finally shed the human disguise.
“Now, follow me back to what is left of the camp and I shall tell you a tale you will find hard to believe.” Zrit and the others listened with great interest. They had been stationed in Palanthus to gather information. Zrit had killed, among others, a noble from a prominent family. He then used his Sivak Draconian abilities to assume the form of the individual he had slain. In this form he was able to gather more information and go places where he could not as a dragon man. He had stayed in this form even after leaving Palanthus. Once a Sivak released the form he had stolen from his victim, he lost the ability to assume that form again. Brunas must have had a great need to force Zrit to release his form.
During the short journey back to the village, Brunas related to them the tale of the Dragon High Lord. He told them of the history this man had presented. How he was the grand son of the fabled Lucien, Dragon High Lord of the Black Dragon Army during the War of the Lance. He mentioned how he came baring the sword of this once mighty general and how at the site of it the other Draconians flew into a frenzy. They hung on his every word, listening to his speech as if the Dark Queen herself had spoken to them. He related how they had went from the ruined temple of the accursed Mishakal to their village and packed everything they could manage to carry with them and still travel swiftly, for now they had a purposes.
They arrived at the remains of the village to find it a ghost town. Brunas told them how Krothan lead the others on the blind faith this man had offered and how Brunas had escaped this fate by slaying one of the gully dwarfs and assuming its form.
“What do you mean escape their fate?” queried Zrit.
Brunas looked sad.
It was an odd look for a Sivak. They seldom showed any emotion and when they did, they had a tendency to look sadistic or menacing. This time, however, Brunas looked deeply troubled.
“I followed them, through the swamp, to the very borders of our lands. They were singing songs of old, songs of conquest. They had a gleam in their eye and a spring in their step. They followed the Highlord into Neraka.” Many of the Draconians did a double take to make sure they had heard properly. Neraka was the former base of operations of the Dragon Army. During the War of the Lance it was the temple of the Dark Queen, her doorway into this world from the Abyss. They had only been their once, during the glory days of Neraka, when the streets were run by draconians and the High Lords ruled supreme. Then they had been assigned to guard an artifact of terrible power in the swampy marsh of Xak Tsaroth and they had never seen their homes again. He waited for the draconians to settle down before continuing.
“It was in a mountain pass where it happened. He had told them that they needed to enter the cave, a series of narrow openings in the base of the mountain. It was here that it happened. They had entered the caves and I never saw them again. I waited for seven days and no one entered or left. In the form of a gully dwarf I could not assault the keep myself, but I fear something terrible has happened. Even in full form, by myself it would be a complicated task at best. I knew you were due to report, I knew you were on your way. I need your help. We have to rescue Krothan and the others.”
“Perhaps you are over reacting,” replied Zrit. “The High Lord could be legitimate. Have you given thought to that?”
“No,” stated Brunas, “I am sure he is a fraud. I can’t say for sure why he is. I can’t place a finger on what is wrong. His story is to flawless and impossible to verify.”
“Perhaps you need more faith in your life,” said one of the others.
“I had faith during the reign of the Dark Queen. Faith is not the reliable shield you are seeking. Faith won’t protect you from your foes, it won’t save you from death, only you can do that. If you rely on others to be truthful you will only attract honest fools and deceitful friends. I have not lived as long as I have by allowing faith to rule my life, nor should you.”
“Sometimes faith is all a person needs, sometimes it can be stronger than a blade.”
“A blade is straight and to the point. It cuts and kills, it blocks and parries. It is only as strong as the weakest point and only as deadly as the man wielding it. A blade is a certainty that can be counted on. Faith is a measure of a mans beliefs. Faith can’t be tested without great pain and is only as reliable as the man doing the testing and the unknown dedication to an ideal. Blind faith is worse and that is the dilemma before us, for none of them left because of faith; they followed the High Lord on blind faith.
“Faith can test a man but blind faith can kill him. It is one thing to have faith in a cause or a God, but to blindly follow any is an act of insanity. Yes the High Lord demonstrated power unseen since the day of the War of the Lance, but such a show of power does not mean that he is a High Lord or that he has the ear of our Dark Queen. Our comrades has made a fools choice and now I fear that they are not to return from whence they came.”
“If we should not take orders or commands on faith,” queried one copper, “then why should we blindly follow you?”
Brunas spun around and drew his massive saw-toothed blade. In one quick and controlled move he drove the massive blade upon the coppers head. Each tooth of the blade torn through the copper like a saw through wood. The blade split the skull and the spin lodged itself in the breast bone of the draconian. The Baaz gurgled, trying to breathe one last breath as he reached for the blade, hoping to regain his balance. Brunas pushed the blade forward, the teeth of the blade effortlessly snapping the ribs and then pushed down so the sword would lodge in the beasts belly. The draconian spat blood and chocked on what he could not spit. One last grasp towards Brunas and the copper died. Brunas didn’t release the sword. Instead, he held the limp body of the copper up right with his sword and waited. In a moment the scaly hide of the draconian turned from a soft copper hue to a pale white as the creatures flesh turned to stone. The saw-toothed blade was soon encased in the make shift scabbard and then Brunas lifted the dead creature over his head.
“Because,” he said, “I out rank you.” Brunas’s raptor eyes scanned the crowd of his brethren. “Any of you having a crisis of faith?” When none answered he slammed the statue of the dead draconian against a tree. The body shattered into pieces, freeing the sword from its stony sheath.
“Good, let’s go.”
He awoke frantically. In an instant he knew that he was not sure where he was. His head spun as terror crept into his body. Uncertainty filled his heart, he tried to remember what had happened, where he was, to breath. He struggled, gasping for air. Each breath was labored and pained him dearly. Inhaling burned his lungs and exhaling filled him with anxiety, wondering whether or not he would be able to inhale again. He scrambled, in a haze, to comprehend where he was. No time for that now, he needed to breathe.
Bending his bulk around, he tried to crawl to the nearest tree, but his right arm gave out and he crashed hard upon the ground. Still hyperventilating, he braced himself on his strong left arm and pathetically inched his way to the tree with a trembling hand. Placing his back to the bark, in a defensive position and more out of force of habit than conscious thought, he slowly regained control of his breathing. It hurt to breathe; his chest was ablaze with pain, as if a dragon had landed on his chest and danced a little jig. Each gasp of air he gulped, unsure if another would soon follow, as he slowly came to an understanding of his surroundings.
He was in a wooded area filled with thick oaks and thorn shrubs. A blanket of yellow green grass lined the patches of earth that trailed from the nearby riverbed, exposing the roots of the mighty trees. Small jagged rocks covered what wasn’t blanketed in grass as wild flowers attempted to embrace life from in between spaces of cold stone. A trail of blood, his blood to be sure, pooled from the spot he had awoken to where he now sat, struggling for life.
He reached for his left arm, but as he did so he felt a stabbing pain shoot through his body, running up and down his right side. Glancing at his right arm, it was impossible to tell where his flesh began and his armor ended. Blackened and sooty, it appeared to have been burned. Leather straps that once held the armor firm, now barely prevented it from falling to the ground. It was hard to tell if the straps were melted through by fire or ripped from their supports by a beast of incredible strength. The armor on the right side of his body was impossible to distinguish from his scaly hide. It was so tangled and twisted it was hard to tell what it was. The pieces of armor resembled lumps of unprocessed ore from a smithy more than plates of fine protection. His breastplate resembled an iron door that led to his vitals more than a defense from the blade. Cuts lined his fingers, as if he was parrying a sword with his hands.
He had lost enough blood to die three times over; yet, he was alive.
He reached inside his breastplate and grabbed at his chest with his good arm. He felt a fluid pouring from his wound and when he pulled his hand away it was soaked in a blackish crimson blood. Quickly he reached for his belt with trembling fingers, for a vial filled with a thick golden liquid. He uncorked the potion and, with much effort so as not to spill a single drop, he drained the contents. He fingered the wound in his chest again then. It was a jagged cut, through bone and sinew, but it was starting to heal. This was the draconadan, the dragon’s revenge, hard at work. Every Sivak was given a vial of draconadan for when he eventually died. The thick golden liquid inside healed every wound, so that he might better kill his slayer. Warmth spread across his chilled body and his pain lessened. Small tremors of pain irritated him as his bones set and muscle and sinew reformed from his gapping wounds. He reached again for his chest, but touched only solid scales. It was still tender, but he could breathe, and more importantly, he could move.
A sudden sleepiness fell over him, although he tried to resist it. These woods were nowhere to take a nap when one was in good health, were a death sentence when the scent of blood hung so heavy in the air. The loss of blood had made him weary, however, and he tried to stand once more to keep himself awake. It was to late: he fell to the forest floor in an exhausted slumber. It wasn’t until his last waking thought that the truth of the situation hit him full in the face.
He had died.
He awoke, again, in a frantic haze. He struggled with his memory to clear his head, but to no avail.
“Brunas,” he said his name to himself to test his voice. It was good to speak, to know that you were alive. But he wasn’t alive. Someone had killed him. But who? He stretched his arms into the air and his wings followed suit, relaxing his tight muscles. Still in a mental fog he focused on one thing above all else.
He was thirsty.
Weary with fatigue, he began crawling on hands and knees. Unsure whether to test his balance by standing, he made his way slowly down to the raging river. His head began to spin, disorientating him, but he crawled on, oblivious to whether or not anyone else was around. Reaching the river bank, he drank greedily from its icy waters. He drank greedily, and in great gulps, as if every drop of water were another potion of healing. The coolness of the water cleared his head and brought life into his bones.
His thirst quenched, he focused on the next task at hand: he needed to look upon himself, to see his reflection.
Searching for a cropping of rocks to find an eddy, he made his way up river a few yards. The raging water even affected the mirroring effects of the eddy. The water was not still: it rippled and distorted his image of himself. He couldn’t make out exact details, but there was one thing that was crystal clear: He was a draconian.
“I am dead Brunas,” he addressed himself, “by the hands of my kin.”
During the War of the Lance, Sivaks were used as the ultimate spies. With the uncanny ability to assume the form of those that they slew, Sivaks were the undisputed masters of espionage. With the close of the War of the Lance, like most other draconians, their chaotic nature turned on themselves and got the best of them as they fought bloody battles for control of draconian armies. In the end, most of the draconians fought a race breed of survival, and formed mercenary bands like the one Brunas was from.
He pondered for a moment, and then retraced his steps back to the clearing where he had awakened.
“Why didn’t I heal?” he said aloud to get a better feel for the answer. Sivaks received their shape changing abilities from their Silver dragon parents who frequent mortal form from time to time. When Sivaks die they assume the shape of their slayers, healing their bodies on a molecular level to change and shift into an exact replica of their killer, right down to their bad breath. Even if another Sivak had killed him, he should have changed into an exact copy of that Sivak. He should not have had to fight for his life on the forest floor; unless, in his death throws, he had killed his killer at the exact same time.
“I am all alone; there are no others around,” again to himself. Examining the tracks on the ground gave him little satisfaction. No trace of another attacker was to be found in the area, just a trail of blood leading to the west and his Sivak sword. He retrieved it from the dried pool of blood and examined it. Its saw-like blade was designed to not only do terrible hacking damage to an opponent, but also to catch weapons in its blades teeth. Judging by the fresh nicks and different types of blood, he could tell that he had done so, and recently.
What made the puzzle even more mysterious bits were the of scales that clung to the blade, a testament to its last use, a clue that the blade had been used to kill other draconians.
His senses were not quite what they used to be, death will do that to you. He did however hear it at the last minute, a soft rustle of grass, and a strange scent on the coat tails of the wind. He turned his blade to his flank grudety? just enough to avoid being skewered by the spear thrust; then another defensive parry and another as he fought to gain his footing. His armor was still loose in some places, and digging into his skin in others, making movement a hard proposition at best.
He managed to side step another thrust while catching the shaft; he then went with the momentum and turned his body into the thrust, whipping his armored tail at his attacker. It slammed home on the assailants over extended stance and pummeled his opponent to the ground. how do we know this? Giving a taste of her own medicine, he raised the spear in the air and thrust it into her right shoulder blade, shattering bone and lung, pinning her to the ground.
“I could smell you, Elf,” Brunas taunted his hapless victim. “Did you think you could take me so unaware? I am a draconian, not some simpleton dwarf. On my worst day I could hear you from a thousand paces.” Perhaps a bit of exaggeration since she almost did stick him, but she was an elf, what did she know? Brunas twisted the shaft of the spear, widening the gaping hole so her lifeblood would flow more freely.
“Nothing to say, are you a mute?” To Brunas’s surprise she said nothing, not even more than a grunt at the pain. It was obvious she was hurting, but she just stared at him with her almond eyes, as if there were some other wound that pained her more. There was something strange about her, something exotic, aside from the fact that she ignored the long spear protruding from her chest. Long strands of thick, tightly curled hair framed her soft, tan skin. Her hair shimmered with a silver hue in the pale moonlight of Solinari and her skin appeared to be spun of gold. She held herself with a grace and dignity that seemed above everything around her, but the strangest thing about her were her penetrating eyes. Her eyes held a sorrow welled in pools of pity.
Brunas forced his gaze elsewhere. He quickly scanned the horizon and sniffed the air.
“Where are the others? You elves never travel alone,” he said but to his dismay he found no trace of other creatures in the area, let alone another elf.
Brunas violently twisted the spear again until the young elf screamed a rightful tune of anguish. Then he placed a clawed foot on her chest and jerked the spear from her limp body. Blood pored from the ghastly wound as trickles of crimson spittled through her parched lips and down her delicate chin. He raised the spear to strike her a killing blow, but stayed his hand. Tears flowed down her ageless cheek, but not tears of pain, and not tears agony: they were something he could not place.
She defied him with a glance, a look that held mystery. She had an air of confidence that belied her position, as if she could escape, but chose not to. Killing her should be no big deal: he had killed many elves during his life, and dined on their bones as a tasty treat. Unaware of his actions, he lowered the spear, hypnotized by her gaze. A strange force stayed his hand as he looked with longing into her soothing eyes. He knew her from somewhere, or so he thought. What did he know: all elves looked alike. Still, there was something he could not place.
“I have many things to do this night and killing you wasn’t on the list,” he said in harsh tones. “Don’t you worry; you will die and I will flay your flesh from your bone as a last meal, but not until I settle some unfinished business. I wouldn’t want my last supper to spoil before I have the chance to cook her.” Then he raised the spear and struck her; with the shaft of the spear he knocked her unconscious.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious when he awoke the first time, or even how long he slumbered after drinking the healing potion, so he had no idea how long he had to live. Normally a Sivak has seventy-two hours to find his slayer, kill him, and then either go on a killing spree or live the good life for the remainder of his short time left in the world. He knew from experience that the wounds he had sustained would have taken at least twenty-four hours to heal with the aid of strong magic and it was likely he had awoken the first time right after his death, or he would not have had time to drink a potion. Given that information, it was probable that he had less than forty-four hours to find his killer and roast his last meal.
Brunas used just a touch of his remaining healing salve on the elf to clot the bleeding and tentatively patch her lung. He didn’t want her dead, yet, but feeling no sympathy for her he didn‘t care for her comfort either. She would suffer in pain, lingering at death’s door, until he was ready to feast on her flesh. He had removed his breastplate and made of it a backboard that he could carry his last meal on. He tied her off with articles of clothing, making of them a crude rope. His massive ten-foot frame provided enough material from the clothes to wrap her cocoon style from head to toe, leaving a slight opening for her face to show. He wanted her to see the world go by her one last time, to know what she would be missing, right up to the time of her death. He would keep her alive, stringing her along on the strands of hope that someone would come to rescue her.
Three hours had passed since he left his deathbed behind him and he still had very little to go on: bloody sword, no other trace of tracks, even from the elf, and a lot of dented armor. He discarded most of his armor in heaps, since most of it was useless and would only proved to slow him down. He followed his footprints to the west, looking for tell tale signs of what had happened.
He knew that another Siva had killed him, but he knew only of two other Sivaks in the area, both part of the same mercenary clan as he. With his fragmented memory, he could not remember meeting either before his death.
He bounded and leaped his way through the forest. Using his wings to glide, he made good time. Brunas stopped on occasion to check his tracks and to try to remember his surroundings. Nothing reminded him of where he was; maybe that was how it was when a Sivak died. How would he know? He had never died before.
He traveled all day, avoiding conflict on more than one occasion with local tribes, in an attempt to find just one clue of his final days. The curtain of night did little to hinder the Sivak; he had precious little time to waste on sleeping, and even fatigue did not hinder him. It was almost as if a strange strength, or perhaps determination, had taken over him. Only one thing mattered, and it would not be settled by lying under the stars.
Before the sun cracked the horizon the following day, he followed his tracks into a clearing in the woods. The signs were hard to read to the untrained eye, but to another draconian it was as clear as the approaching dawn. Burnt patches of ground told the story of a Kapak death. Acid had eaten away everything in its path. A few piles of rough gray dust held the secret of a recent Baaz death. You could never really see any sign of a Bozak death, for the bones explode into a devastating blast, leaving little in the way of evidence. However, he suspected that at least two had died here.
He unceremoniously threw the elf to the ground with a thud to get a better picture of the battlefield.
This time his senses knew it was coming long before it happened. He stooped to the ground, inspecting traces of blood, and at the last second rolled forward, narrowly dodging the attack from above. In a flash he had his wicked sword out to parry another sword blade, a Sivak blade.
Parry, parry, then a counter as he moved in haste to do battle with this new foe; he took a moment to look at his opponent, at the Sivak, at himself. He almost lost the grip on his sword when he saw that he was engaged in a battle with a copy of himself.
He had found his killer.
His opponent’s armor flashed in the rising sun, but which was already wounded. His aerial attack seemed to reopen an old wound and he clutched the right ride of his body.
Brunas took this opening for all it was worth and used all the momentum of his massive nine foot frame to hack off his attackers sword arm. He raised his sword again to deliver a killing blow, but he couldn’t. He stopped himself when his gaze fell to his opponent’s mirrored breastplate. In its reflection he saw something that caused his heart to stop for a moment. His sword fell from his grip as his legs gave out.
“No,” he screamed, and his scream became a great roar that would have done his dragon heritage proud. Ignoring the final throws of the other Sivak, he placed his clawed legs on the other Sivak’s hips, gripped the breastplate and ripped it from the chest of his attacker. Looking in the reflection, he stared back, at himself.
The elf maid stared at Brunas in silence: she neither made a motion to move her body or avert her eyes. Brunas had built a fire, a large cooking fire, for his final feast. She must know that she was about to die, yet she made no attempt to escape, prayed no prayers to the gods. She just lay there on the ground, bound in a draconian cocoon, staring at her capturer.
“How could I have killed myself?” he said out loud. He wondered if that was another trait of a Sivak’s death, talking to oneself. He had seen his own reflection in the breastplate, and the other Sivak was not yet dead. That meant that he had killed himself. But why? The other Sivak was a copy of Brunas, meaning that the other Sivak had been his killer. However, if that was the case, why did he see his own reflection in the mirror of the breastplate?
It could only mean one thing: Brunas had killed this other Sivak before he, himself, had died.
Judging by the similar wounds that the other Sivak had sustained on the right side of its body, Brunas concluded that he had killed this Sivak, and killed him before he had sustained his fatal chest wound. No signs of any wounds in the chest or hands meant that there was still a mystery.
Brunas threw another log onto the fire as he struggled with his failing memory. If he thought about it too much he was sure that he would go mad. Stoll, he wanted to know why. There were no answers, none that he could remember at any rate. He was right about to resign himself to his fate and kill his last meal, he heard the sharp crack of a branch behind him.
He turned to see the elf maid before him; standing unwrapped, staring into his eyes. She was in pain from her arm, yet she held herself with confidence as she gently strolled towards Brunas. Her left arm hung limply from her body, yet she walked with grace. Brunas tried to move, tried to speak, but could not. He stood frozen, a pillar of awe preventing movement.
Then he could move: not to attack, but to bow. He tried to resist, to no avail. It was then that the elf placed a single kiss on his forehead and his world changed.
Images flooded his head and he knew. He knew how he died, and why.
“You great bitch,” he roared and he broke the awe that held him. His sword lay on the ground, out of reach, but he had his claws and he used them. Swinging his right arm around, he reached for the elf’s throat, but he felt nothing. No hard claws sinking into soft flesh, no warm blood covering his clawed hand, he could only hear. He heard the sound of what remained of his armor hitting the ground in an echoing clang. He looked at his arm and it was gone. A thick sooty dust nearly choked him as he quickly countered with an attack from his left claw, only to find out that his left claw was nothing but a black and chard sculpture of its former self. When it hit the elf she didn‘t move; rather, she let it hit her, did not so much as blink as Brunas’s whole left arm shattered into sooty ash. He took a step forward and fell to the ground as his leg disintegrated into dust. He could feel the rest of his body convert to its final sooty form as he cursed her name. He knew her name, just as he knew what happened. In his final moments of life, he relived the past.
Images of an elf flooded his memory: his kin fighting him over such a tasty treat and the battle that ensued when she revealed who she was, what she was. He fought his own clansmen because they all thought that he had turned on his own kind. He relived each death, every killing blow. From the Bozak that had melted in his right arm, to the Kapak that exploded not much further away, to the Sivak he slew shortly thereafter. They had tried their best to kill him, but he slew them instead. Not to defend the elf, no, he slew them because of their mistaken belief that he had sided with the forces of good, that he accepted this woman into his life. Even just the thought that Brunas would accept her drove his clansmen into a killing frenzy.
More images flooded his mind: images of him running away, far away, to a forest clearing, to a riverbed, to a good place to die. He saw himself picking up his own sword, feeling the cold hard steel biting into his scaly hand, and then his chest, as he plunged the blade deep into his heart. He had killed himself in disgrace. No, that wasn’t true, right before he had died he had seen her, the elf. He was to live until that moment, until he realized the truth of who she was, to the extent of what she wanted, why she was there. He had killed himself because it would pain her, pain the bitch, pain his mother.
She had cast a spell that she was forbidden to cast while Paladine still remained in power. With Paladine cast from the heavens, she was free to cast the seeking spell to find her offspring. It would find them even if they were now draconians, even if they didn’t want to be found, even if her offspring hated her for their cursed existence. She had found him, for what purpose none would ever know; he never gave her the chance to say, nor would any other of his kin.
“Rest my son, and know your mother loves you,” was all she said, in sorrow.
She watched in silence as Brunas slipped from the bonds of this world. When his last thoughts of hate and anger were no more and he dissolved in a haze of blackish sooty dust, she collapsed to the ground weeping tears of silver.
It has been a while since I wrote on this. Actually, what follows is a rehash of what was already written, but with grammer fixes and such.
Also, as a treat, I included the ending of the story, the complete ending. Nothing left out. There is a middle part in my brain, it is screaming to get out, but I really want to move on from this project and start to write about other characters, namely the Savage Tide adventure path. In the future I may come back and finish the middle, but in the mean time, once I get started on Savage Tide, please continue to read on there.
As a teaser for what may never come, the middle of this story is called Death Throws and it is the story of how Brunas infiltrates the Dragon high lords lair and rescues his brethern. I thought it would be a great story to finally make full use of the Silvak death throw ability to kill many people and then take their formto get close and kill others. mean while, the other draconians use their own death throw abilities, like acid and explosions, to help free themselves.
I still want to write it, but for now, other projects interest me.
I hope you enjoy, and when I start the Savage Tide Adventure path, I will place a link here.
Special thanks to Jessica Babcock for going over this story, even though she hates fantasy, to correct the many grammer errors that I can't seem to find.
Lizard Bait
By
C.E.Rocco
By
C.E.Rocco
In the depths of the swampy jungles of Xak Tsaroth, the cloaked man strode down the spongy road that cut its way through the dense overgrowth of the surrounding marsh. Long blades of grass, thick weeds and unchecked brush had slowly crept unto the road for many years. Vegetation had long ago overrun much of the road, making it little more than a hunter’s path. The soft rustle of his robes could barely be heard over the symphony of the swamp. Crickets on one side of the path chirped an eerie calling while another responded on the other side of the road. In the distance, a bird gawked and as if he had sensed a predator near by, he took to flight; the quick flutter of wings adding to the ambient noise. The wind blew through hollow reeds making of weeds an unnerving flute. The dark dank water rippled with unseen aquatic creatures feasting on the pond skimming insects. A rustle of brush, the snapping of a twig, the warning cry of a beast when you get to close to their territory all made of the marsh a wall of noise. It was not a noise like a market square, rather a strangely soothing music of the natural order. Splashes of water announced the presence of different water animals. Birds of all sorts chimed in to add harmony to the rhythm of the pounding rain.
A strange and unfamiliar call cut through the symphony and an unearthly calm settled on the spongy bog. Immediately all other noise ceased. A second call, in a lower key, but with the same tone, echoed off of the thick ironclaw trees. The cloaked man sped up slightly, not understanding the change in the ambient sound of the swamp, but knowing that it could not be good to linger. A higher- pitched note chimed in response a few minutes later, and as the man moved down the overrun road the calls became more frequent, creating a new symphony. Unlike the other, this one was marked with an eeriness that chilled one to the bone; and as suddenly as it started, it had stopped.
The robed man stopped at the eerie silence. He was afraid to move, afraid that should he take a step forward and break the silence that it would draw unwanted attention. He darted his head around to see if he was being stalked; nothing. He turned around, ready to try and move further down the road and when he turned he was faced off on the road with another robed man.
“Stand fassst and present yourself, “ hissed Blith, a Baaz draconian. He held forth his spear, butt to the ground, in an open challenge to smite his authority. He stood with purpose and with faith, for he stood not alone. He knew others were about, and he knew he was safe. From the spear, his brass-tinted, scaly hide disappeared in the shrouds of a large voluminous black cloak, concealing his body within its shadows.
The figure on the road was dressed in a similar cloak, covering him from head to toe in deepest black, with his head engulfed in darkness. Nothing penetrated its dark depths; it was a shadow within a shadow. The cloaked man stood silent in the night, the wind whipping at his robes.
Blith strained his eyes through the driving rain and ignored the chill that it sent through his body. The two faced off in the dead of the night, each not moving, each not talking.
“Stand and deliver,” shouted Blith once again. He made no other move since the robed man did nothing as well. Deep in the swamps of Xak Tsaroth, the heavy overgrowth blocked out what little light that shed through the large ominous trees. The exposed roots of the ironclaw trees drank from the murky depths of the surrounding swamp water and thick pools of mud. Vines crept onto every rock, tree and ruined pillar in the jungle like setting. The vines, for lack of other places to grow, snaked from one tree to another, making of the swamp’s sky a spider web of vegetation.
“Last chance, bear your arms and make full your intent,” shouted Blith. Blith was neither a jumpy individual by nature, nor a man of timid intent. He didn’t care whether or not this cloaked man answered or not. He patiently awaited for an answer; not because he was afraid of this man before him, but because he was buying time.
The shadowed man made no move or gesture. He stood in silence, in direct defiance of the Blith’s authority. Neither spoke after that, nor did either make a move. The cloaked man made no gesture to advance, so Blith simply stood his ground, for he knew he had no need to move.
They emerged from nature like a tornado from the clouds, swift and undetected. The bronze and copper hues of the Bozak and Kapak made the appearance of bronze and copper crocodiles appearing from the murky waters on either side of the road. They used their massive tails to steer and swim and like giant snakes. They emerged from the deep, to crawl on the land in silence, daggers and short swords drawn and at the ready. The soft rustle of willow weed was the only indication that other Baaz draconians had made their presence known from behind the cloaked man while silver streaks in the sky beheld the arrival of three Sivak draconians. They circled their prey in wide, sweeping patterns, in such a way that the heavy overgrowth of the swamp seldom let the cloaked man from their piercing sight; yet far enough from each other that they need not fear from colliding in mid-flight or spells that could take down many in an enclosed area. Always they had their bows drawn and as their comrades advanced they each let loose a volley of arrows, pricking the ground at the robed man’s feet.
“Make no move, whether in friendship or strife,” came from a voice behind him. “You are not recognized by us as either friend or foe. If you wish to become the former, then by all means keep your tongue idle. Speak swiftly and with purpose, for you have been asked thrice and now a fourth time; you shall not be asked again.”
“Impressive,” was the hollow uncaring reply. The voice was empty and deep, as from a man speaking in a cave, and it pierced all who heard it to the very core of their soul. The robed figure made no motion for a weapon but did grab ends of his sweeping cloak and turned slightly from left to right, ignoring the voice from behind. “I must say that I did not hear the ripple of water from the swampy pond to either side. Also, I did not expect that such an avenue would be used as an ambush. No doubt the Kapak blades are envenomed and the Bozak’s have spells slipping from their lips. Bravo, bravo,” he had said in over dramatic delight. He clasped his hands like a proud parent watching his new born take its first steps.
The Kapak and Bozak draconians to either side of the cloaked man stood their ground and as the stranger advanced he stopped just short of the area of threat where a draconian would consider attacking. The cloaked man turned his head from side to side and up and down, as if examining a statue in a museum and taking mental notes of the exhibit, but always he respected the space of the draconians. This fearlessness, combined with a healthy respect, seemed to unnerve the dragon men to the core.
“An attack from above is not all together unexpected, but I am impressed that creatures of such bulk could maneuver in such a confined space. Draconian are fairly big in general, but Sivaks being commonly over nine feet in height, I would have not suspected them to be able to maneuver in this dense jungle. Ah, there now; I see something else that was not there before: three, no four more hide in trees, but not with bows like their brethren, rather with their trademark saw-tooth two-handed sword. No doubt ready to glide from the advantage of higher ground and charge their jagged blades into my hide. Again, I am impressed.”
Krothan stood dumbfounded by this fool. Krothan stood dumbfounded by this genius.
In any other situation he would have been in complete control, but this simple robed man had made him question himself. Worst of all this man had made him hesitate, the kiss of death for a soldier. Whether this man had the sheer confidence in his skills to defeat such a large company of draconians, or he was a retard who somehow managed to survive the dangers of the swamp by luck, he cared not.
This had to end, and end now.
“You have much to say, but little of importance. Your next words had better be straight and true, for they will determine your life,” again threatened the voice from behind. Envenomed weapons raised and ready to strike a final blow, the draconians felt secure that this mans ranting would soon falter.
“So impersonal you are, I would know your name before I reveal more. Fear not, I shall answer your questions. I simply wish to know the name of those that I address.”
“You have earned no such right with me or my kin, but I will oblige you, if it will speed your tongue to more useful information. I am Krothan, leader of this band of draconians and captain of the lands of Xak Tsaroth. You are not here by invitation or need, so now speak swiftly to the living or your next words will be to the dead.”
“Well met, Krothan. Where did you come from dragon man?” came the reply, as the robed man turned to face his addresser. “I neither did see you upon the road, nor in the trenches or faro ways, so where then did you spring from?” The robed man did not look upon the host of draconians that had sneaked up behind him as much as he analyzed them as a general would a battle tactic.
Krothan was not the only draconian to have reached his wits’ end with this fool as others from behind him made their ways from the ranks behind so as to start an attack.
“Stand down to you, dragon man. Do you not know your master when you see him?” With that, the man unrobed his head and drew back his cloak to reveal the glistening red scales of dragon hide fitted together with locking plates of finely forged steel and a wicked horned helm that covered his face, further concealing his identity. “I am Dragon Highlord Nethera and I come to you on behalf of our Queen.”
The draconians stood their ground and held fast their weapons. Not since the days of the War of the Lance had a Dragon Highlord been in power let alone seen and this perplexed the host of dragon men.
“Our Queen is gone from this world,” replied one of the draconians.
“Banished in the ending of the Chaos Wars she was, saved her children she did,” chimed in another.
“They are lies that you speak,” challenged Krothan and he raised his sword to attack.
“I never lie, honorable dragon man, neither in practice nor in jest. She yet lives and is here, in this world,“ the Highlord replied matter-of-factly and dismissed the approaching Krothan with the mere wave of a hand. “But come now, my road was long and weary and I still have much to do. Let us continue this conversation once purging appetites are satisfied and the dusty road has been washed from my mouth.” The draconians marveled in wonder as a door of light emerged from the darkness behind the self proclaimed Highlord. “Look for me in the ruined temple of the accursed Mishakal and let us finish our conversation there.” With that the door of light that had ripped a hole in time and space moved forward to engulf the Highlord in its blinding light, then shrank into a pin-hole of light and was gone. Only the confused draconians were left on the spongy road, left behind in wonder and confusion.
* * *
In the confines of the draconians huts there was much confusion and continued conversation that had begun on the cold wet road. The appearance of a Dragon Highlord, whether real or false, was the most important tidbit of news that had made its way into the deep black swamp of Xak Tsaroth since the ending of the Chaos Wars and the departure of the Gods. It was unnerving how the appearance of one man had put the well-disciplined encampment into turmoil.
Only a small brigade returned to the main encampment. Most followed Krothan into the pity pits where the large yet agile draconians struggled for footing upon the always crowded and unaware gully dwarves that inhabited this small plot of land. Years ago, when the Heroes of the Lance had made their way into Xak Tsaroth to retrieve the Disks of Mishakal, they did more than retrieve knowledge of the ancient Gods: they destroyed a city. Granted, the city was in disrepair since the days following the Cataclysm, when the wrath of the Gods had split the earth and slid the city into the depths of the swamp, but the Heroes of the Lance finished what the Gods had started. Using the power of the Gods to slay the sinister black Dragon Khisanth, more commonly known as Onyx, the Heroes caused whatever force that held the New Sea at bay to fill into the cavern that housed the doomed city, forever destroying the remains in a watery grave.
In the days following the sinking of the city, Krothan had ascended as the new leader of what few draconians that had managed to survive. He led his men to Neraka and served faithfully under the Dragon Highlords for the remainder of the war. Following the ending of the War of the Lance he led those draconians that had survived into the swamp as other places of safety were few and far between under the watchful eyes of the Solamnic Knights.
Upon his return, he found a colony of another race that had also survived in some numbers: the gully dwarves. While not known for their quick wit, or for that matter any wit, they had managed to build, more or less, (mostly less,) modest homes and attempts at gardens. Squat homes made from mud and straw had sunken walls and very little in the way of roofs. It did not matter to gully dwarves, they seldom needed more than a patch of earth to call home. The fact that they realized that they could try to build homes suggested something similar to intelligence; the fact that those homes would implode and kill them, suggested something to the degree of their complexity.
The first reaction of Krothan, upon seeing the filthy creatures infesting the swamp. was death. It could have been creatures of any race and he would have quickly come to the same conclusion; death to all other races that weren’t of dragon blood. Draconians were not a race born into the world, they were created by ancient and foul magic. It was a common source of contention amongst others races of Krynn. As creatures created and not born, many felt that they did not have the right to live. Many considered them an abomination of nature and therefore must die. The draconians blind devotion to the Dark Queen just gave other races a justification to slay all draconians. Other races had served the Dark Queen, but that did not matter to others. You see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. The fact that other humans fought on the side of the Dark Queen didn’t mean that the humans would kill everyone of themselves, but they did want to kill all draconians. Krothan and his draconians had been hunted from the lands of Neraka to the borders of the Swamp. Over half of his followers had fallen. Krothan was by no means a gentle soul but he was a living creature. While most of his thoughts would be typical of the race of draconians he had the right to live and die by his own convictions. Draconians never had mothers to nurture them and guide them into proper paths in life. They were created and steered towards one purpose in life, death of the enemies of The Dark Queen. Once their Queen had been banished from the world, some looked within themselves and took up the role of leaders. Some of them had grown in their complexity; Krothan was one that had grown.
On that day when they returned to Xak Tsaroth he had ordered all of the gully dwarves rounded up and thrown into one encampment where he intended to have sport with the pathetic lives of these little retched creatures before he carried out his master plan. Fresh from the war and needing to relieve some frustration and anger, they played games with the filthy creatures. They would have the gully dwarves hold plates or wooden cups and try shooting them off of their heads. The gully dwarves would stand still, for the most part, not out of fear, but out of lack of understanding. They would stare dumbly at those shooting at them and even at times cheer them on. While in a drunken stupor, the draconians usually missed and occasionally hit a gully dwarf in the head. Other games included lining the gully dwarves up in a straight lines and testing new blades by seeing how many they could cut through in one swing; Brunas held the record at seven. Even as they fell, the gully dwarves would lack an understanding of what was happening. Sure they were in pain, but it was a fleeting thought as they died. Even those that survived would show little emotion. Not because they were not capable of emotion, but rather, because in the very near future, they would forget the pain of lose. At times they would even unleash massive hounds into the woods and watch a scared pack of gully dwarves be torn apart in quick order. Most of the dwarves would die quickly, not bright enough to realize they were in any danger, while others would hide behind a stone way too small to hide themselves.
Krothan and his draconians had killed several before they had stopped. There was something missing. There was no satisfaction.
When a person died there was a moment in the eyes when they knew they were never going to see their loved ones again; never going to walk as a free man; never going to do any of the things that others took for granted. There was nothing that he could do about it now, so alone and helpless at the business end of a sword. This was the power that was so captivating, so rewarding about slaying others: the power of life and death. It was the most rewarding feeling in the world, and it was stripped from Krothan by the stupidity of a race of dwarves too dumb to know that they were about to die.
In a move, uncharacteristic of a draconian, Krothan ordered the area sealed and labeled the area the pity pits. It was here that the gully dwarves thrived, for the most part, and as the years passed Krothan made use of the dwarves as slave labor. Of course, this was harder than he remembered when they had used the gully dwarves as slaves before the War of the Lance. Few of the gully dwarves who survived the destruction of the city knew how to count past two, and none remembered any of the chores that had been assigned to them before the war. It took several patient years to teach them to do the tasks that needed to be done. In the end, the draconians still did most of the complicated ones themselves.
Krothan and his men passed through the pity pits, some running, most leaping and gliding, taking advantage of their long leathery wings. Some of the gully dwarves scrambled out of the way while others ran straight for the approaching draconian swarm, thinking that it was some sort of game. A few remained still, playing in the mud or making mud pies for dinner.
Krothan ordered the draconians to stop at the far edge of the pity pits, where they could barely make out the outline of the ruined temple of Mishakal through the canopy of thick vines that hung from the ironclaw trees.
“I do not trust this man. None of the other Highlords had such power, save Lord Ariakus, and that was granted to him by our Queen,” said Hammel in his sly and cool voice. He landed next to Krothan and immediately gully dwarves beseeched him. Four came to him and pulled on his wings, while a fifth used a dirty rag to clean his scaly tail.
The only reason for the draconians to ever come into the pity pits was to find a slave who forgot to anachronistic show up for duty or to have their wings massaged, one of the few tasks that the putrid dwarves actually did well. Since it wasn’t later than two hours past noon, and since he couldn’t count higher than two, Dope, the King of the gully dwarves assumed that the draconians had come to have their wings attended to. Dope forgot his real name before he was named Dope. Krothan detested the use of any reference to high or better when it came to the gully dwarves and replaced the title of HighBulp, the former name they gave to their king, with that of Dope, besides, the HighBulp could count to three and Dope could not.
“You no worry, scale man,” said Dope as he scratched his lice filled head with one dirty little hand, “me rub your wing for you, me rub it good.”
“Dope, you and your men are relieved of duty for the night,” Krothan replied in a calm and controlled voice. “Jist, I want you to take your men and circle the temple from the east. Hammel, take the secret entrance from the west and close in from behind, Branik, take your men and fly to the top most windows and prepare to strike from above and Hilth, prepare a company of Bozak to sneak in ahead of us under the cover of invisibility. I too do not trust this man. Now- what the- Dope, I told you, you were relieved.”
“You no fret, me almost done,” said Dope as he happily spit on the foot of Krothan and continued to polish the scales with a dirty rag. It wasn’t until this moment that Krothan understood his mistake; he used words with more than one syllable.
“You work no more, we leave now,” said Krothan and this seemed to work, as the hoard of gully dwarves immediately backed of off the draconians and some even returned to the main portion of the pity pits. “Now, does anybody have any questions?”
He looked around the gathering and none spoke, yet from below a small hand shot into the air.
“What is quest ons?” asked Dope, forgetting that he was not supposes to talk unless talked to. Krothan and his fellow draconians moved, without a reply, leaving Dope to figure it out on his own.
* * *
“Who she be,” said E, his small filthy hands clutching a dead lizard in one hand and a small branch in the other that he used to hold back a mass of thick vines.
“Me not know,” replied Filth as she bumped Scum in the ribs to get a better look. Scum did not talk all that much, in fact, he never said more than a few words in his entire life that the others could remember. Most of the Dragon men never thought much of it, but in the Gully Dwarf circles, it was considered rude to not speak when spoken to. Some say it was because of the fact that he saw his father murdered from a young age and the trauma was too much for him to handle; some just say it is because it is the fact that he is a gully dwarf; but most who know of such matters suggest a different reason: it was his name.
Gully dwarves were not the brightest race of creatures on Krynn, but they took pride in their names. Scum was not his birth name, as most would have you believe, it was a name that the draconians had given him as part of their round up effort. Krothan had named these three unwittingly one day when he called one of them filthy scum. Gully dwarfs, not to proficient in the use of words with more than one syllable, came to the conclusion that Krothan was naming them. What’s more, they had thought that Filthy Scum were the new names of the three, one of them Filth, the other E and the last Scum. Scum had never spoken after that, whether because he was a mute, as the draconians had suspected, or because he understood, more than any of the others, what the draconians had done by naming them. By naming them, the draconians had done two things. First, they removed their connection to the past; and second, they dehumanized them to nothing so much as a word, most hurt full. They had chosen words that did not reflect well on others.
All of the draconians had thought him a mute, and a dumb mute at that, all except Krothan. Krothan had spent days watching the dwarf he had inadvertently named Scum, as he went about his chores. Unlike most of his kin, Scum was what most would consider normal, but amongst Gully Dwarfs, he showed a promise that the others did not. It did not take him five threats and ten explanations to understand that draconians do not eat mud; he understood when told once. The other draconians thought this a result of their supreme intimidation tactics, but Krothan had always thought of another conclusion: Scum could count past two.
He had heard from the other gully dwarves that Scum had been a most talkative type before the draconian occupation, but ever since he had been named, he had remain silent. Most thought out of fear, some out of trauma, but Krothan thought more likely out of shame.
E and Filth stared out from behind the tree, their short, fat, greasy fingers making a hole in the curtain of vines. In the distance they saw her striding down a path, towards the village. The village was still several miles away, but she headed that way nonetheless, as if she knew where it was. Her long legs and easy grace made it seem as if she floated on the air. She parted her thick locks of hair and stopped for a moment. She held Her hand to Her heart and closed Her eyes for a moment. A soft glow cracked through her fingers as if her heart was glowing and the hand had captured the light.
“She talk to self,” said E. Scum peeked his head from behind the two to get a better look. She had long lean features that made the Dwarfs seem that much smaller and squat by comparison. Long golden strands of thick locks of hair were masterfully braided in thick rope-like strands that flowed freely down her chest, past her slender waist. Two tiny pointed ears and her framed face were all that could be seen through her head of hair. Her skin was soft, and when the moonlight hit it just right, it glistened with a slightly silver sheen. Perhaps it was just an illusion, as the woman was, for why would such a creature of beauty be walking through such place of filth? Indeed, her soft, elegant features and graceful limbs were a stark contrast to the thick ironclaw trees, jagged slime-covered rocks and draping vines.
She paused, speaking to herself for a moment as if she had heard something in the distance. Then, whether thinking better of an idea or just determined to not spend any further time in the confines of the swamp than she needed to, the woman continued down the game trail.
She moved with a swift stride that the three gully dwarves found hard to keep pace with. Were it not for the fact that they knew every inch of the swamp like the back of their filthy little hands, they surely would have been outpaced.
She paused again some time later, and peered around a thick tree that the gully dwarves knew well, for it was hollow and the gully dwarves had used it many times. Gully dwarves were forbidden to wander the swamp, with the exception of doing errands for their masters, which seldom involved going beyond the borders of the village. After years of servitude to the draconians they had managed to find ways to explore their old haunts, but when one was found to be wondering in the swamp without permission, they were denied food. This seldom mattered to the gully dwarves since they would eat anything without thought or care for their digestive track, so the draconians later forbad them to carry dead lizards and such; a tactic that worked much better than depriving them of food.
Once in the swamp, they could hide from the draconians, for the most part, without being seen. They had developed a series of places in the swamp to hide from the draconians and with their natural filth and dirt; they were mostly camouflaged from the prying eyes of their draconian masters. The tree was just one of their favorite hideouts from the tyranny of the draconians.
E and Filth were about to spring from the brush to get a better view when something grabbed them from behind. A quick yelp from Filth and then a hand covered her mouth. She looked up in a frantic state and saw Scum atop her, one hand covering her mouth and the other held to his lips, indicating shhh. What most would call birdcalls or cricket clicks was more commonly known as, to those who knew, draconian speak. The sound of a high-pitched chirp echoed off of the ironclaw trees, bouncing across the swamp. A lower, more sustaining called replied back. As the draconian speak continued to crescendo the orchestra of the swamp fell to silence.
Scum dared a look to The Lady through the thick vines: she was still there, but apparently not aware that anything was amiss. To his right, just a few feet away, he heard the most unlikely sound in the swamp, unlikely coming from this source anyway. He heard a branch breaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the form of the Baaz draconian, clawing with stealth towards The Lady. He had to warn her; he felt the need to say something. He turned her way, about to speak for the first time in quite awhile. No, he tried to scream, but his voice, not accustomed to speaking, failed him.
Scum swallowed trying to gain some moisture in his unusually dry throat. He tried to speak again and it came out as a grunt as his voice failed him. Frustration filled his need. He was desperate. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he needed to warn The Lady. Perhaps it was because he had never seen one of such beauty in all of his life; more likely it was because he hated the draconians who had so named him and didn’t want to see anyone fall to these deadly enemies. Again he mumbled, trying to speak and then frustration turned to foolishness. With a burst of speed that surprised even himself he crashed through the underbrush and screamed.
“No,” he screamed, and just as quickly as he burst through the brush he was hit full in the face by a draconian tail, knocking him back into a nearby tree. Something inside of the normally docile Filth, looking at the fallen form of, Scum snapped in that moment. All of her life she had been abused by these draconians. She had been born after the second draconian occupation and had never knew what freedom was. She was born into oppression and tyranny. She had never known that your care takers were not supposed to abuse you and beat you. She had not know that in a civilized society you did not have to serve others needs. Normally she obeyed what others told her; no more.
She looked at the draconian hovering over the fallen form of Scum and fear took her. She knew a terror that she had never felt before. The draconian licked his thin reptilian lips with a long forked tongue. He raised a short blade in the air and went to strike Scum, finishing him off. She couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let Scum die. Scum was her only friend, next to E, he was all she had. Filth broke her bonds of fear, screamed and charged the draconian, jumping onto his back and began clawing out the Dragon man’s eyes with her dirty little fingernails.
“Leave Scum be,“ she yelled. The first swing succeeded beyond her hopes and struck the draconian in the eye. Her little pudgy fingers clasped the eye and squeezed hard. When the draconian tried to throw the wild gully dwarf from his back, Filth squeezed all the harder. The eye of the Baaz was ripped from its socket, but she lacked the remainder of the strength to tear it out, so it dangled down its cheek when she finally was forced to release the eye or fall to the ground. She got in one or two more quick swings when her body went flying through the air hitting the same tree that Scum had hit.
Scum looked at Filth laying in the ground, her neck was twisted at an impossible angle, she did not move. He looked back towards the Baaz, who was now consumed with rage, and a man who stood next to him holding a bloodied club. The Baaz flailed about wildly, striking blindly at anything that he could see move with his one good eye. He stepped on E as he ran away from his hiding spot. The clawed foot of the Baaz ripped into E’s flesh and E screamed like nothing Scum had ever heard before. The Baaz, then blindly reached for E’s head and with both claws he dug into E’s throat, under his skull and then began to pull. E stopped screaming when Scum heard his neck snap, but that didn’t stop the Baaz, he continued to pull, the sickening snapping and crunching of bone brought bile to the back of Scum’s throat. The Baaz roared in pain and protest, and then triumph as he pulled the Gully Dwarf’s head from its body. He held the head high like a trophy, blood pouring over the veins tangling from the severed head. The Baaz was quickly joined be a few other draconians and the man with the bloody club, all delighting in the scene of the filthy head deprived of its body.
Scum felt more alone now than any other time in his life. In a matter of minutes his two best friends had died and he knew he was to be next. He looked towards the tree to see to the Lady, but she was no where to be seen. He closed his eyes as he began to cry, for he had just seen death and he was about to die, and he did not wish to see it coming.
* * *
The lone figure of the Dragon High Lord casually tossed aside scraps from piles of trash. Occasionally he picked up an item to admire it for a brief second before discarding it into another pile of filth. The High Lord showed little interest in this activity, his search was more like something to pass the time than any pursuit of finding something of value. During the War of the Lance, the Temple of Mishakal had been destroyed by a violent earthquake that proceeded the death of the sinister black Dragon Khisanth. Much of the remaining city had been destroyed and the temple was no exception.
“You can come in if you wish,” he said as he admired a cracked goblet he found in the ruins and quickly discarded it in favor of a dented plate. He did not look at any of the other draconians, in fact, other than acknowledging their presence with words, it would have appeared that he paid them need heed at all.
Krothan ignored the man who held so little regard towards the draconian that he didn’t even bother to look in their direction. With hand gestures and body movements Krothan signaled for the others to get into place.
The high pitched chirping of the draconian leader sent the signal to the others. From the rafters six Sivak draconians glided on the drafts of air, armed with long spears, they descended in a tight spiral meaning to spear the High Lord. From the dark of the night a murder of Baaz shifted in the shadows. Only a keen eye could see them and only if closely observed. Further from the rear of the temple the slightest creak betrayed the drawing of bows with poison tipped arrows from Kapaks. Unseen to the naked eye, more cleverly concealed than the Baaz who hide in shadow, the Bozak used magic to turn light in such a way as to make them invisible.
The first of the Sivaks was descending swiftly, its massive nine foot frame so bulky on the ground found a unmatched grace in the air. He closed the gap to the ground and as he did so his sweeping circles drew in tighter and faster. In an instance he had the self proclaimed High Lord in his sights braced himself for the impact of the spear driving through the body of the man. Krothan looked on in glee as the Sivak gently glided behind the man, ten feet, five feet, impact. Only the man was not their, in the last second before the spear tip was to come into contact with the man, he vanished in the blink of an eye and the Sivak, prepared for the impact of flesh through steel and wood, tumbled end over end on the ground as he over extended himself.
The color drained from the scaly face of Krothan as he scanned the temple ruins for a sign of the High Lord. He appeared for a brief second by the hidden shadows of the Baaz and then he was gone, in his wake a wall of flame encircled the Baaz, as if he could see the hidden draconians clearly and unobstructed.
Scanning the temple again he soon found the man at the base of ancient pillars, right under foot of the invisible Bozak, but his time it was not only Krothan who had seen the man appear, the Bozak had seen him as well. Spidery words filled the air as the ancient words of magic rolled from forked tongues. Glowing white missiles flew from scaly fingers towards their mark, the lone so-called High Lord. The High Lord seemed to be casting some sort of spell as well for he seemed self-absorbed in concentrating on something. The glowing white missiles closed in on the High Lord and exploded on impact, but they did not harm the High Lord as planned, instead they impacted on an invisible shield, which absorbed them and dispersed them as harmless light. Krothan’s jaw dropped at the ineffectiveness of draconian magic, but his jaw unhinged when he saw the High Lord raise his arms to the ceiling and complete a spell of his own. Krothan could not see the Bozaks but he knew from years of planning for every contingency where they would most likely be and in that area a thick greenish cloud filled the air and one-by-one the Bozaks began to cough and choke on the stench of the magical mist.
In the blink of another eye, Krothan lost track of the High Lord as he again disappeared. Over the coarse of the next couple of minutes he watched in helplessness as the High Lord blinked in and out, from one side of the temple to the other, time and time again. Sometimes he would cast spells, using magic to increase his size, flash bolts of lightning at draconians, sheathing his body in wreaths of flame or to mimic the actions of his draconian combatants, appearing to look just like them. Other times he would tease them by appearing behind them, spooking them with pokes, jabs or laughter.
Krothan watched helpless, he could do nothing, he could not begin to attack the man, for he disappeared and reappeared to quickly to be caught. Chaos ruled the temple and the High Lord was the master of that scene. He could only bark orders, occasionally giving commands in the nick of time to avoid a draconian loss , but over all he felt helpless.
Then, in the heat of the battle, it happened, he lost track of the High Lord. The only thing he could do in the battle was to give warning to his troops and now he could not even do that. How could this happen under his command? How could this one man over power his troops? How was he able to see the invisible Bozaks? How could it all happen?
“Are you done Krothan?” came a voice from behind him. Krothan frantically turned to face the man behind the voice and for his effort he was easily lifted off of his feet by a huge metal clad hand. The wind was knocked out of him as the figure of the High Lord thrust him hard into the stone wall. Krothan could not breath, his ribs were cracked and the world was slipping away in a pool of inky black.
* * *
“The Dragon High Lords are not misplaced upon us; we served then loyally in the days of the War of the Lance. The ending of that war also doomed the Dragon High Lords into obscurity. Out of the ashes of the reign of the High Lords came the Dark Knights of Neraka. The oath of the Dark Knights and the binding of their souls to the Queen left little doubt in who they served so there was no need for Dragon High Lords who could become corrupted with power like the infamous High Lord Kitiara or easily manipulated like High Lord Toede.”
“I don’t believe the words you speak,” shouted the silver scaled Hammel, a Sivak draconian.
“Nor do I,” simply stated Brakka, another Sivak.
“Our Queen abandoned us, along with the other Gods of Krynn, after the Chaos War,” shouted a challenge.
“The High Lords are no more, what proof have you,” cried a bronze scaled Bozak named Hilth.
“Yes, give us proof,” came a reply from Jist, a brass scaled Kapak.
The ruined temple gave way to loud burst of chatter. Many draconians shouted for blood of this intruder, few had the peace of mind to verify his story. Krothan silenced them with a raised hand. He had cracked ribs and a pounding headache and was in no mood to talk. He gestured for the so called High Lord to talk and sealed the command with a lethal glare.
“It is not with false hope that I come to you, our queen has sent me for she yet lives and is here. In the shadow of the land she has been regaining her power, to strike a blow against the mighty dragons that have taken over rulership of Krynn. Her planning and scheming have been slowly put into play for months now, but her appearance remains hidden from our foes. Just as her new champion, Nina has been sent back to the realms of the mortals, so have I been chosen to re-establish control of her beloved dragon men.
“I am born of High Lord blood, my father’s father was Lucien and he led the Black Dragon army during the War of the Lance. During the collapse of the Dragon Army, in the death throws of betrayal, my ever-clever Grandfather had made preparations for just such a contingency. When the other High Lords scrambled for control of the Crown of power, Lucien realized the inevitable outcome and flew with all haste towards his holdings to the south, near the great Icewall Glacier. It was there that he awaited word from his Queen. It was also here that he withered and rotted. Without the aid of his Queen and the support of the other Highlords, he spent more and more time plotting and less and less time doing. His once brilliant military mind that so carefully calculated for every inch of a battlefield proved to be his undoing. More and more he became convinced that his time to strike had not yet come. Whether it was insufficient troops to hold a town, not enough supply lines or mistrust of a potential allied force, he lost all faith in his ability to lead.
“My father never had the same merit or clever mind that was so gifted in my grandfather. He neither desired battle nor rulership. Rather, he spent his years living the fat life of a spoiled brat. I on the other hand have been given visions from the Dark Queen since before memory was a close friend. My grandfather trained me in warfare and arms and gave to me his mighty sword.”
The High Lord, in one swift move that drove back those closest a step, drew forth his sword. The gleaming blade held the draconians attention like a piece of candy would captive a child.
“Look upon me and know the truth I speak. I have our Queens favor and now, as in the days of old, she has a need of her children. Gather every brass scaled Baaz who can wield a spear and throw back your cloaks for the days of hiding in shadows are over. Walk freely upon the land, in the service of our Queen. Summon every bronze scaled wizard of the Bozak kin. Speak your spells with slippery tongues and know your worth. Bring forth every available copper scaled Kapak. Envenom your blades and prepare to kill again for the glory of the Queen. Let every silver scaled Sivak embrace their hatred of others and forget not from that which you come.
The wide eyed draconians began to chatter and chirp. Anger and resentment turned into respect in the mere matter of moments. A sound rose from the collective that could only be described as a rekindled pride. Their Dark Queen had sent them a champion filled with a purpose. It mattered not what that purpose was. Their Dark Queen called them; and they would answer.
In the shadows, two watched the scene with growing interest. One watched from the safety of a tree with dread, as his brethren went wild in admiration. The other watched from a shadow with pain in her heart as her children were so close, yet so far.
* * *
Comfortable in their familiar surroundings they glided on massive wings towards their home. As occasion would call, they would leap with their mighty legs onto the upper branches of the thick ironclaw trees to gain more altitude for better gliding. Sharp, powerful claws tore into the large trucks leaving noticeable divots in the bark. They had traveled a long distance and they were so close to home, they cared no more if others could track them.
As the smallish hoard of Draconians leapt from tree to tree a man dressed in red and black pantaloons and a thick wool cloak somehow managed to keep pace with the beasts. He could not fly, but he too seemed to know his way around the swampy marsh and he kept the brisk pace with the others.
The Lady in the woods was not a good omen. They had killed the gully dwarves who had warned her of their approach and in that brief moment The lady managed to evade them. They didn’t know who this lady was, but they knew what she was. It had happened twice before. A different one every time of course, but it never ended well for those involved. They needed to get back to the camp before things got out of control, they had to warn the others and another was coming.
Lost in thought, the man in red lost his balance as he almost slammed into a tree. He stumbled a moment and then stopped when he saw the advance scout return.
“What do you mean abandoned?” queried the tall man with the bloodied club as he approached a reporting Draconian.
“The city is abandoned,” reported a Baaz draconian with a swath of cloth covering his eye. It was wet with blood and traces of dried crimson began to flake from his scales.
“What, how, where…,” the man look stupefied. He rubbed his fingers to his chin as he thought, “are the pity pits still intact,” he queried fearing a revolt.
“Yess,” replied the Baaz, a long slow his of anger filling him to the bone. He rubbed his eye, a constant reminder of the filthy scum that they had enslaved as manual labor.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a squeaky voice from behind them. They turned to see a small filthy dwarf who boldly strolled bare footed through the muddy swamp. The bandaged Baaz flew into a rage.
“How dare you talk to us without beings addresssed?” screamed the Baaz as he easily picked up the filthy gully dwarf by both arms and held him over his head as if he was going to rip the disgusting creatures arms from their sockets.
“Mind your own tongue Brass lest I feed you to a gold dragon,” cried the little man and soon he grew in size and form. The change was quick, so quick that the brass Baaz was not able to get from under the huge silver beast as it grew to a full ten feet, pinning the Baaz under his massive weight.
“Brunas,” demanded the man, “what is going on here, where is everyone?”
“Your servants need a lesson in respect,” he said calmly as he made a cut with a trailing claw down the cheek of the Baaz, “what happened to your eye slave? Let your tongue loose again against another you should have minded?”
“Brunas, allow him to stand, he was attacked by surprise from a gully dwarf, Scum I think.”
The laughter of Brunas filled the hollow trees of the swamp. He regained his composure as he allowed the Baaz to stand.
“Zrit, how was your mission to Planthus?”
“This is not the time for small talk, where is Krothan?”
“No, you are right, this is not the time for games,” he replied in a casual tone, “so lower your guard and take your true form, your mission to Planthus is at an end. We have more pressing needs.” Zrit raised a cautionary finger but decided not to argue with his superior. He concentrated for a moment and then released his hold on the shape of his former victim. His red pantaloons grew pink and then a faded pale red and then a glistening silver as the clothes slowly grew into shining silver scales. His height grew to a little under nine feet and massive wings sprouted from his back and a long tail formed and snaked around his legs. His head elongated and rows of razor sharp teeth pushed their way through his gums forming a toothy smile. He stretched his wings high in the air glade to finally shed the human disguise.
“Now, follow me back to what is left of the camp and I shall tell you a tale you will find hard to believe.” Zrit and the others listened with great interest. They had been stationed in Palanthus to gather information. Zrit had killed, among others, a noble from a prominent family. He then used his Sivak Draconian abilities to assume the form of the individual he had slain. In this form he was able to gather more information and go places where he could not as a dragon man. He had stayed in this form even after leaving Palanthus. Once a Sivak released the form he had stolen from his victim, he lost the ability to assume that form again. Brunas must have had a great need to force Zrit to release his form.
During the short journey back to the village, Brunas related to them the tale of the Dragon High Lord. He told them of the history this man had presented. How he was the grand son of the fabled Lucien, Dragon High Lord of the Black Dragon Army during the War of the Lance. He mentioned how he came baring the sword of this once mighty general and how at the site of it the other Draconians flew into a frenzy. They hung on his every word, listening to his speech as if the Dark Queen herself had spoken to them. He related how they had went from the ruined temple of the accursed Mishakal to their village and packed everything they could manage to carry with them and still travel swiftly, for now they had a purposes.
They arrived at the remains of the village to find it a ghost town. Brunas told them how Krothan lead the others on the blind faith this man had offered and how Brunas had escaped this fate by slaying one of the gully dwarfs and assuming its form.
“What do you mean escape their fate?” queried Zrit.
Brunas looked sad.
It was an odd look for a Sivak. They seldom showed any emotion and when they did, they had a tendency to look sadistic or menacing. This time, however, Brunas looked deeply troubled.
“I followed them, through the swamp, to the very borders of our lands. They were singing songs of old, songs of conquest. They had a gleam in their eye and a spring in their step. They followed the Highlord into Neraka.” Many of the Draconians did a double take to make sure they had heard properly. Neraka was the former base of operations of the Dragon Army. During the War of the Lance it was the temple of the Dark Queen, her doorway into this world from the Abyss. They had only been their once, during the glory days of Neraka, when the streets were run by draconians and the High Lords ruled supreme. Then they had been assigned to guard an artifact of terrible power in the swampy marsh of Xak Tsaroth and they had never seen their homes again. He waited for the draconians to settle down before continuing.
“It was in a mountain pass where it happened. He had told them that they needed to enter the cave, a series of narrow openings in the base of the mountain. It was here that it happened. They had entered the caves and I never saw them again. I waited for seven days and no one entered or left. In the form of a gully dwarf I could not assault the keep myself, but I fear something terrible has happened. Even in full form, by myself it would be a complicated task at best. I knew you were due to report, I knew you were on your way. I need your help. We have to rescue Krothan and the others.”
“Perhaps you are over reacting,” replied Zrit. “The High Lord could be legitimate. Have you given thought to that?”
“No,” stated Brunas, “I am sure he is a fraud. I can’t say for sure why he is. I can’t place a finger on what is wrong. His story is to flawless and impossible to verify.”
“Perhaps you need more faith in your life,” said one of the others.
“I had faith during the reign of the Dark Queen. Faith is not the reliable shield you are seeking. Faith won’t protect you from your foes, it won’t save you from death, only you can do that. If you rely on others to be truthful you will only attract honest fools and deceitful friends. I have not lived as long as I have by allowing faith to rule my life, nor should you.”
“Sometimes faith is all a person needs, sometimes it can be stronger than a blade.”
“A blade is straight and to the point. It cuts and kills, it blocks and parries. It is only as strong as the weakest point and only as deadly as the man wielding it. A blade is a certainty that can be counted on. Faith is a measure of a mans beliefs. Faith can’t be tested without great pain and is only as reliable as the man doing the testing and the unknown dedication to an ideal. Blind faith is worse and that is the dilemma before us, for none of them left because of faith; they followed the High Lord on blind faith.
“Faith can test a man but blind faith can kill him. It is one thing to have faith in a cause or a God, but to blindly follow any is an act of insanity. Yes the High Lord demonstrated power unseen since the day of the War of the Lance, but such a show of power does not mean that he is a High Lord or that he has the ear of our Dark Queen. Our comrades has made a fools choice and now I fear that they are not to return from whence they came.”
“If we should not take orders or commands on faith,” queried one copper, “then why should we blindly follow you?”
Brunas spun around and drew his massive saw-toothed blade. In one quick and controlled move he drove the massive blade upon the coppers head. Each tooth of the blade torn through the copper like a saw through wood. The blade split the skull and the spin lodged itself in the breast bone of the draconian. The Baaz gurgled, trying to breathe one last breath as he reached for the blade, hoping to regain his balance. Brunas pushed the blade forward, the teeth of the blade effortlessly snapping the ribs and then pushed down so the sword would lodge in the beasts belly. The draconian spat blood and chocked on what he could not spit. One last grasp towards Brunas and the copper died. Brunas didn’t release the sword. Instead, he held the limp body of the copper up right with his sword and waited. In a moment the scaly hide of the draconian turned from a soft copper hue to a pale white as the creatures flesh turned to stone. The saw-toothed blade was soon encased in the make shift scabbard and then Brunas lifted the dead creature over his head.
“Because,” he said, “I out rank you.” Brunas’s raptor eyes scanned the crowd of his brethren. “Any of you having a crisis of faith?” When none answered he slammed the statue of the dead draconian against a tree. The body shattered into pieces, freeing the sword from its stony sheath.
“Good, let’s go.”
To Slay My Slayer
By
C.E.Rocco
By
C.E.Rocco
He awoke frantically. In an instant he knew that he was not sure where he was. His head spun as terror crept into his body. Uncertainty filled his heart, he tried to remember what had happened, where he was, to breath. He struggled, gasping for air. Each breath was labored and pained him dearly. Inhaling burned his lungs and exhaling filled him with anxiety, wondering whether or not he would be able to inhale again. He scrambled, in a haze, to comprehend where he was. No time for that now, he needed to breathe.
Bending his bulk around, he tried to crawl to the nearest tree, but his right arm gave out and he crashed hard upon the ground. Still hyperventilating, he braced himself on his strong left arm and pathetically inched his way to the tree with a trembling hand. Placing his back to the bark, in a defensive position and more out of force of habit than conscious thought, he slowly regained control of his breathing. It hurt to breathe; his chest was ablaze with pain, as if a dragon had landed on his chest and danced a little jig. Each gasp of air he gulped, unsure if another would soon follow, as he slowly came to an understanding of his surroundings.
He was in a wooded area filled with thick oaks and thorn shrubs. A blanket of yellow green grass lined the patches of earth that trailed from the nearby riverbed, exposing the roots of the mighty trees. Small jagged rocks covered what wasn’t blanketed in grass as wild flowers attempted to embrace life from in between spaces of cold stone. A trail of blood, his blood to be sure, pooled from the spot he had awoken to where he now sat, struggling for life.
He reached for his left arm, but as he did so he felt a stabbing pain shoot through his body, running up and down his right side. Glancing at his right arm, it was impossible to tell where his flesh began and his armor ended. Blackened and sooty, it appeared to have been burned. Leather straps that once held the armor firm, now barely prevented it from falling to the ground. It was hard to tell if the straps were melted through by fire or ripped from their supports by a beast of incredible strength. The armor on the right side of his body was impossible to distinguish from his scaly hide. It was so tangled and twisted it was hard to tell what it was. The pieces of armor resembled lumps of unprocessed ore from a smithy more than plates of fine protection. His breastplate resembled an iron door that led to his vitals more than a defense from the blade. Cuts lined his fingers, as if he was parrying a sword with his hands.
He had lost enough blood to die three times over; yet, he was alive.
He reached inside his breastplate and grabbed at his chest with his good arm. He felt a fluid pouring from his wound and when he pulled his hand away it was soaked in a blackish crimson blood. Quickly he reached for his belt with trembling fingers, for a vial filled with a thick golden liquid. He uncorked the potion and, with much effort so as not to spill a single drop, he drained the contents. He fingered the wound in his chest again then. It was a jagged cut, through bone and sinew, but it was starting to heal. This was the draconadan, the dragon’s revenge, hard at work. Every Sivak was given a vial of draconadan for when he eventually died. The thick golden liquid inside healed every wound, so that he might better kill his slayer. Warmth spread across his chilled body and his pain lessened. Small tremors of pain irritated him as his bones set and muscle and sinew reformed from his gapping wounds. He reached again for his chest, but touched only solid scales. It was still tender, but he could breathe, and more importantly, he could move.
A sudden sleepiness fell over him, although he tried to resist it. These woods were nowhere to take a nap when one was in good health, were a death sentence when the scent of blood hung so heavy in the air. The loss of blood had made him weary, however, and he tried to stand once more to keep himself awake. It was to late: he fell to the forest floor in an exhausted slumber. It wasn’t until his last waking thought that the truth of the situation hit him full in the face.
He had died.
* * *
He awoke, again, in a frantic haze. He struggled with his memory to clear his head, but to no avail.
“Brunas,” he said his name to himself to test his voice. It was good to speak, to know that you were alive. But he wasn’t alive. Someone had killed him. But who? He stretched his arms into the air and his wings followed suit, relaxing his tight muscles. Still in a mental fog he focused on one thing above all else.
He was thirsty.
Weary with fatigue, he began crawling on hands and knees. Unsure whether to test his balance by standing, he made his way slowly down to the raging river. His head began to spin, disorientating him, but he crawled on, oblivious to whether or not anyone else was around. Reaching the river bank, he drank greedily from its icy waters. He drank greedily, and in great gulps, as if every drop of water were another potion of healing. The coolness of the water cleared his head and brought life into his bones.
His thirst quenched, he focused on the next task at hand: he needed to look upon himself, to see his reflection.
Searching for a cropping of rocks to find an eddy, he made his way up river a few yards. The raging water even affected the mirroring effects of the eddy. The water was not still: it rippled and distorted his image of himself. He couldn’t make out exact details, but there was one thing that was crystal clear: He was a draconian.
“I am dead Brunas,” he addressed himself, “by the hands of my kin.”
During the War of the Lance, Sivaks were used as the ultimate spies. With the uncanny ability to assume the form of those that they slew, Sivaks were the undisputed masters of espionage. With the close of the War of the Lance, like most other draconians, their chaotic nature turned on themselves and got the best of them as they fought bloody battles for control of draconian armies. In the end, most of the draconians fought a race breed of survival, and formed mercenary bands like the one Brunas was from.
He pondered for a moment, and then retraced his steps back to the clearing where he had awakened.
“Why didn’t I heal?” he said aloud to get a better feel for the answer. Sivaks received their shape changing abilities from their Silver dragon parents who frequent mortal form from time to time. When Sivaks die they assume the shape of their slayers, healing their bodies on a molecular level to change and shift into an exact replica of their killer, right down to their bad breath. Even if another Sivak had killed him, he should have changed into an exact copy of that Sivak. He should not have had to fight for his life on the forest floor; unless, in his death throws, he had killed his killer at the exact same time.
“I am all alone; there are no others around,” again to himself. Examining the tracks on the ground gave him little satisfaction. No trace of another attacker was to be found in the area, just a trail of blood leading to the west and his Sivak sword. He retrieved it from the dried pool of blood and examined it. Its saw-like blade was designed to not only do terrible hacking damage to an opponent, but also to catch weapons in its blades teeth. Judging by the fresh nicks and different types of blood, he could tell that he had done so, and recently.
What made the puzzle even more mysterious bits were the of scales that clung to the blade, a testament to its last use, a clue that the blade had been used to kill other draconians.
His senses were not quite what they used to be, death will do that to you. He did however hear it at the last minute, a soft rustle of grass, and a strange scent on the coat tails of the wind. He turned his blade to his flank grudety? just enough to avoid being skewered by the spear thrust; then another defensive parry and another as he fought to gain his footing. His armor was still loose in some places, and digging into his skin in others, making movement a hard proposition at best.
He managed to side step another thrust while catching the shaft; he then went with the momentum and turned his body into the thrust, whipping his armored tail at his attacker. It slammed home on the assailants over extended stance and pummeled his opponent to the ground. how do we know this? Giving a taste of her own medicine, he raised the spear in the air and thrust it into her right shoulder blade, shattering bone and lung, pinning her to the ground.
“I could smell you, Elf,” Brunas taunted his hapless victim. “Did you think you could take me so unaware? I am a draconian, not some simpleton dwarf. On my worst day I could hear you from a thousand paces.” Perhaps a bit of exaggeration since she almost did stick him, but she was an elf, what did she know? Brunas twisted the shaft of the spear, widening the gaping hole so her lifeblood would flow more freely.
“Nothing to say, are you a mute?” To Brunas’s surprise she said nothing, not even more than a grunt at the pain. It was obvious she was hurting, but she just stared at him with her almond eyes, as if there were some other wound that pained her more. There was something strange about her, something exotic, aside from the fact that she ignored the long spear protruding from her chest. Long strands of thick, tightly curled hair framed her soft, tan skin. Her hair shimmered with a silver hue in the pale moonlight of Solinari and her skin appeared to be spun of gold. She held herself with a grace and dignity that seemed above everything around her, but the strangest thing about her were her penetrating eyes. Her eyes held a sorrow welled in pools of pity.
Brunas forced his gaze elsewhere. He quickly scanned the horizon and sniffed the air.
“Where are the others? You elves never travel alone,” he said but to his dismay he found no trace of other creatures in the area, let alone another elf.
Brunas violently twisted the spear again until the young elf screamed a rightful tune of anguish. Then he placed a clawed foot on her chest and jerked the spear from her limp body. Blood pored from the ghastly wound as trickles of crimson spittled through her parched lips and down her delicate chin. He raised the spear to strike her a killing blow, but stayed his hand. Tears flowed down her ageless cheek, but not tears of pain, and not tears agony: they were something he could not place.
She defied him with a glance, a look that held mystery. She had an air of confidence that belied her position, as if she could escape, but chose not to. Killing her should be no big deal: he had killed many elves during his life, and dined on their bones as a tasty treat. Unaware of his actions, he lowered the spear, hypnotized by her gaze. A strange force stayed his hand as he looked with longing into her soothing eyes. He knew her from somewhere, or so he thought. What did he know: all elves looked alike. Still, there was something he could not place.
“I have many things to do this night and killing you wasn’t on the list,” he said in harsh tones. “Don’t you worry; you will die and I will flay your flesh from your bone as a last meal, but not until I settle some unfinished business. I wouldn’t want my last supper to spoil before I have the chance to cook her.” Then he raised the spear and struck her; with the shaft of the spear he knocked her unconscious.
* * *
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious when he awoke the first time, or even how long he slumbered after drinking the healing potion, so he had no idea how long he had to live. Normally a Sivak has seventy-two hours to find his slayer, kill him, and then either go on a killing spree or live the good life for the remainder of his short time left in the world. He knew from experience that the wounds he had sustained would have taken at least twenty-four hours to heal with the aid of strong magic and it was likely he had awoken the first time right after his death, or he would not have had time to drink a potion. Given that information, it was probable that he had less than forty-four hours to find his killer and roast his last meal.
Brunas used just a touch of his remaining healing salve on the elf to clot the bleeding and tentatively patch her lung. He didn’t want her dead, yet, but feeling no sympathy for her he didn‘t care for her comfort either. She would suffer in pain, lingering at death’s door, until he was ready to feast on her flesh. He had removed his breastplate and made of it a backboard that he could carry his last meal on. He tied her off with articles of clothing, making of them a crude rope. His massive ten-foot frame provided enough material from the clothes to wrap her cocoon style from head to toe, leaving a slight opening for her face to show. He wanted her to see the world go by her one last time, to know what she would be missing, right up to the time of her death. He would keep her alive, stringing her along on the strands of hope that someone would come to rescue her.
Three hours had passed since he left his deathbed behind him and he still had very little to go on: bloody sword, no other trace of tracks, even from the elf, and a lot of dented armor. He discarded most of his armor in heaps, since most of it was useless and would only proved to slow him down. He followed his footprints to the west, looking for tell tale signs of what had happened.
He knew that another Siva had killed him, but he knew only of two other Sivaks in the area, both part of the same mercenary clan as he. With his fragmented memory, he could not remember meeting either before his death.
He bounded and leaped his way through the forest. Using his wings to glide, he made good time. Brunas stopped on occasion to check his tracks and to try to remember his surroundings. Nothing reminded him of where he was; maybe that was how it was when a Sivak died. How would he know? He had never died before.
He traveled all day, avoiding conflict on more than one occasion with local tribes, in an attempt to find just one clue of his final days. The curtain of night did little to hinder the Sivak; he had precious little time to waste on sleeping, and even fatigue did not hinder him. It was almost as if a strange strength, or perhaps determination, had taken over him. Only one thing mattered, and it would not be settled by lying under the stars.
Before the sun cracked the horizon the following day, he followed his tracks into a clearing in the woods. The signs were hard to read to the untrained eye, but to another draconian it was as clear as the approaching dawn. Burnt patches of ground told the story of a Kapak death. Acid had eaten away everything in its path. A few piles of rough gray dust held the secret of a recent Baaz death. You could never really see any sign of a Bozak death, for the bones explode into a devastating blast, leaving little in the way of evidence. However, he suspected that at least two had died here.
He unceremoniously threw the elf to the ground with a thud to get a better picture of the battlefield.
This time his senses knew it was coming long before it happened. He stooped to the ground, inspecting traces of blood, and at the last second rolled forward, narrowly dodging the attack from above. In a flash he had his wicked sword out to parry another sword blade, a Sivak blade.
Parry, parry, then a counter as he moved in haste to do battle with this new foe; he took a moment to look at his opponent, at the Sivak, at himself. He almost lost the grip on his sword when he saw that he was engaged in a battle with a copy of himself.
He had found his killer.
His opponent’s armor flashed in the rising sun, but which was already wounded. His aerial attack seemed to reopen an old wound and he clutched the right ride of his body.
Brunas took this opening for all it was worth and used all the momentum of his massive nine foot frame to hack off his attackers sword arm. He raised his sword again to deliver a killing blow, but he couldn’t. He stopped himself when his gaze fell to his opponent’s mirrored breastplate. In its reflection he saw something that caused his heart to stop for a moment. His sword fell from his grip as his legs gave out.
“No,” he screamed, and his scream became a great roar that would have done his dragon heritage proud. Ignoring the final throws of the other Sivak, he placed his clawed legs on the other Sivak’s hips, gripped the breastplate and ripped it from the chest of his attacker. Looking in the reflection, he stared back, at himself.
* * *
The elf maid stared at Brunas in silence: she neither made a motion to move her body or avert her eyes. Brunas had built a fire, a large cooking fire, for his final feast. She must know that she was about to die, yet she made no attempt to escape, prayed no prayers to the gods. She just lay there on the ground, bound in a draconian cocoon, staring at her capturer.
“How could I have killed myself?” he said out loud. He wondered if that was another trait of a Sivak’s death, talking to oneself. He had seen his own reflection in the breastplate, and the other Sivak was not yet dead. That meant that he had killed himself. But why? The other Sivak was a copy of Brunas, meaning that the other Sivak had been his killer. However, if that was the case, why did he see his own reflection in the mirror of the breastplate?
It could only mean one thing: Brunas had killed this other Sivak before he, himself, had died.
Judging by the similar wounds that the other Sivak had sustained on the right side of its body, Brunas concluded that he had killed this Sivak, and killed him before he had sustained his fatal chest wound. No signs of any wounds in the chest or hands meant that there was still a mystery.
Brunas threw another log onto the fire as he struggled with his failing memory. If he thought about it too much he was sure that he would go mad. Stoll, he wanted to know why. There were no answers, none that he could remember at any rate. He was right about to resign himself to his fate and kill his last meal, he heard the sharp crack of a branch behind him.
He turned to see the elf maid before him; standing unwrapped, staring into his eyes. She was in pain from her arm, yet she held herself with confidence as she gently strolled towards Brunas. Her left arm hung limply from her body, yet she walked with grace. Brunas tried to move, tried to speak, but could not. He stood frozen, a pillar of awe preventing movement.
Then he could move: not to attack, but to bow. He tried to resist, to no avail. It was then that the elf placed a single kiss on his forehead and his world changed.
Images flooded his head and he knew. He knew how he died, and why.
“You great bitch,” he roared and he broke the awe that held him. His sword lay on the ground, out of reach, but he had his claws and he used them. Swinging his right arm around, he reached for the elf’s throat, but he felt nothing. No hard claws sinking into soft flesh, no warm blood covering his clawed hand, he could only hear. He heard the sound of what remained of his armor hitting the ground in an echoing clang. He looked at his arm and it was gone. A thick sooty dust nearly choked him as he quickly countered with an attack from his left claw, only to find out that his left claw was nothing but a black and chard sculpture of its former self. When it hit the elf she didn‘t move; rather, she let it hit her, did not so much as blink as Brunas’s whole left arm shattered into sooty ash. He took a step forward and fell to the ground as his leg disintegrated into dust. He could feel the rest of his body convert to its final sooty form as he cursed her name. He knew her name, just as he knew what happened. In his final moments of life, he relived the past.
Images of an elf flooded his memory: his kin fighting him over such a tasty treat and the battle that ensued when she revealed who she was, what she was. He fought his own clansmen because they all thought that he had turned on his own kind. He relived each death, every killing blow. From the Bozak that had melted in his right arm, to the Kapak that exploded not much further away, to the Sivak he slew shortly thereafter. They had tried their best to kill him, but he slew them instead. Not to defend the elf, no, he slew them because of their mistaken belief that he had sided with the forces of good, that he accepted this woman into his life. Even just the thought that Brunas would accept her drove his clansmen into a killing frenzy.
More images flooded his mind: images of him running away, far away, to a forest clearing, to a riverbed, to a good place to die. He saw himself picking up his own sword, feeling the cold hard steel biting into his scaly hand, and then his chest, as he plunged the blade deep into his heart. He had killed himself in disgrace. No, that wasn’t true, right before he had died he had seen her, the elf. He was to live until that moment, until he realized the truth of who she was, to the extent of what she wanted, why she was there. He had killed himself because it would pain her, pain the bitch, pain his mother.
She had cast a spell that she was forbidden to cast while Paladine still remained in power. With Paladine cast from the heavens, she was free to cast the seeking spell to find her offspring. It would find them even if they were now draconians, even if they didn’t want to be found, even if her offspring hated her for their cursed existence. She had found him, for what purpose none would ever know; he never gave her the chance to say, nor would any other of his kin.
“Rest my son, and know your mother loves you,” was all she said, in sorrow.
She watched in silence as Brunas slipped from the bonds of this world. When his last thoughts of hate and anger were no more and he dissolved in a haze of blackish sooty dust, she collapsed to the ground weeping tears of silver.
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DM-Rocco
Explorer
Here is a link to my current project Savage tide adventure path
