A Tamer Has Risen

“There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley.” The ole traveler paused, jabbing his finger in the air. “Nay gents, while they may remain in the lowlands of Resprils greener pastures, way back in the time’s past the sky serpents roamed the clouds of the seven realms. Nay not in the valley at all friends.”

“Take for example, The Blethnor, a terrestrial bound species with a brownish pigmentation, like that of the richest soil, the underbelly whiter than the clouds above, faded and speckled, dotting the soot tinted upper scales like stars in the night. Its most extenuating features were its long spear-like spikes that ran the length of its back all the way to the monster’s tail.” The drunkard dropped his mug and set out some space between his open hands, measuring the questionable dragon skewer in the open air. “Twas this big me boys.” Shakingly, he adjusted again, stretching his palms outward even farther. “Na, this big I believe if memory serves me correct, s’bin a while since I laid me eyes on the scrolls of the realms of yesteryear.” Relinquishing his crude style of measurement, he clasped his fingertips around the splintered wooden table, lurching his head close. Perhaps the warmth of the mead led him to whisper that which need not be secret, but whisper he did. The excited breath of his word twiddled his bushy mustache, “A full-grown male” slamming back in his creaky chair, revisiting his crude value of length. Hands stretched so far it looked like he was ready to bear hug his neighbor. “Pikes, this big lad I swear it, oh and the claws to match.” Like a feeble attempt at charades, the clue being, monster, he gnarled his hands to match that of the talons he spoke.

The latter of his company grinned with amusement. They had their tongues bitten, quelling a hearty chuckle from breaching their lips. The amusement of Festabual’s stories was not to be tainted by laughter; he’d see it as a sign of disrespect. So the company held strong and stuffed their giddiness deep in the low belly. Festabual’s stories were a much welcome bout of merriment on a lowly Saturday evening, his tales mayhaps be a tad on the dis-believable side and even far-fetched, but amusing nonetheless, and tonight his recollection of the dragon’s past from his trips north when he studied the history of the seven realms was particularly rich.

“The Blethnor took to the tunnels of Bithreal, nestled with riches and gold, rubies, and stones of light. Anything that glittered, it seemed, would be fitting enough to lie upon, quenching the odd craving of the mountain king.”

“Nay, I shan't need remind you again there were indeed no dragons who inhabited Respirl’s valleys. They swam in the calm blue painted waters of the Odrana, skimming the water’s seal, casting giant eel-like silhouettes near the ships that embarked on the sea.” Snaking his tethered hands to and fro as he spoke, mimicking the legend in question, as if his present fellowship did not comprehend, and his weak miming would clarify all. “Big they were the Swiftin species, bout as big as a ship that of the general’s fleet, oh and I tell ya faster too. They’d only crack the fragile ocean ceiling when it was time to sunbathe, whirling in the sky, spritzing waves of the Odrana on the sailors and onlookers below. Tales of the oar men would only presume they do this for show, because from all accounts, oh what a show it was.” Festabual took a pause to sooth his dry throat with a hearty inhale of mead, slammed it down promptly, and wiped his wiry goatee free of foam, with a forward lean and a thunder belch he continued on. “Suspended high in the air,” punching the air with a downward-facing palm, once again displaying unforetold feats through minimal display. “Their bodies twisted like a snake in the grass, and they hung there on magic alone, of that the realms seven had an abundance of, way before you and me friend,” pointing to his buddy closest to him. “Catching every ray of the blazing sun, their scales twinkled at the right angle, projected flashings of rainbow across the open sea. The multi-colored theme continued on through the softly padded hair following the pattern of the spine. Full length from tail to snout where its turquoise whiskers, long as a Bloodthorn fighter’s whip, would twist in the wind, sensing its direction, therefore determining the tide. A migratory thing they surmised, but who’s to know?” Disregarding the last part his mate piped up. “What if the beaver on your lip was multi-colored Fest, won’t that be summin?” The fellow drunkard couldn’t help himself; the entire table laughed, even Festabual cracked a grin. “Would you like me to continue Jarlow or should we have a go at my facial hair fur the rest of the eve?” Heaving out his last remnants of a laugh, he said. “Nigh Festy, please I am truly intrigued,” lifting his cup in a gesture of good fortune. An undisputed sign to continue on with his story.

“But alas, the legacy of the dragon took a turn south once the Brooding species known as the Heldorans sought to wreak havoc on our land, uprooting our way of life, fit to see us turned to ash, lest enslave those who were untouched by flame.”

Festabual was no longer as animated. His physical jesting and exaggerated acting gave way to a drawl cadence with a gray breathy undertone. ‘‘Twas to be the end of us all, the mightiest dragons of a time since past, were also the most evil. Precisely why that was the case none could say, but theories were sprung of which the most profound being: endless power, invokes power endlessly. More to the point and a bit more tragic, they did it because they could. The size of the winged demons was immeasurable, comparable to nothing. It was said at full span they’d block out the sun. Corners of their thickly stretched wings ending with a spiked tip. Its seemingly never-ending tail finished with a spearman's javelin jutting out in every direction, like a mace that would be wielded by the gods. Scales thick as an infantryman’s shield and twice as tough. Jagged around the edges of its enormous chest. A long snout filled with teeth like swords clamping down to lock the immense fire billowing inside its belly. A fire that would reach every end of the known lands had we let it. Its most and devilishly captivating feature was its striking complexion, bright red and intensely vibrant, like blood in cold water. That’s why they would be known by no other name than, The Crimson Dragon.”

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Not two tables away, a boy no older than the fourteenth solstice stood in a type of trance. Rockin’ back and forth, shifting his weight from side to side, clutching a dirty rag between his hands. He often would delve deep into the worlds of the diners of the Inn. Lost in the words of travel, adventure, mystery, and a world before his own. He always floated in the stories of the weary visitors, or the exhausted merchant, although rarely, a few soldiers had come to line their empty stomachs in the Ole Moss Tavern. “Part-time busboy full-time daydreamer,” his ailing mother would say with a warm smile. Undoubtedly true, he did rather love to venture outside his own mind, live vicariously through others. Why wouldn’t he? ‘Twas miles better than his own. While rooted deep in his stance near the corner of the long birchwood liquor-soaked bar, his consciousness was elsewhere deeply entangled in the story of the chuckling miscreants. Surely he’d heard a few tales of dragons of winter’s past, but none that instituted this great of lore. He saw himself in the mountains. Fur lined scarf made up of Julibet tails, the cooling wind brushing his hair as he climbed towards the mouth of a cave. He pictured with intricate detail, sailing across the Odrana, grasping masts rope with one hand, peering at lands not yet explored through a looking glass with his other. Catching the steady breeze as the ship swiftly cut the choppy sea, the warmth of the rising sun lay heavy on his exterior, mixed with wisps of the salt air, the blend of the two causing gooseflesh to rise. He saw the rainbow dragon leap from the depths, misting him with a speckle of the briny deep. Rolling high above the crow’s nest, glistening in the morning rays, its beauty so otherworldly it filled his heart with delight.

He was snapped out of his stupor by a swift smack to the back of the head, hard enough to stagger him forward.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing? I see two empty tables, a ripe pile of upchuck, three bowls of cold stew, and ye haven't even started sweeping the front porch. Fetch your supplies and get to it double time. I don’t pay you to stand around like a blubbering idiot do I, Jaygon?” A little perturbed from the hit and still rubbing his head, “sorry Morton, I’ll get right to it.”

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Dipping his sourdough meticulously in every corner of the bowl, Festabual swept up every succulent bite of his beef barley with purposeful intent, followed by a long draw from his frothy beer. This would be his third, enough to rose his cheeks and warm his chest. “Course’ Festy is all talk until food is in his midst,” Jarlow scoffed. While the elation of the men had since fallen with talks of a world almost put to an end, the intrigue doubled. “Would you get on with your story, Fest? Ye can’t leave us hanging. How’d we win? How’d we defeat the Crimson Dragon?” Festabual nearly choked, trying to reply. Wiping the foam from his lip hairs using the entirety of his sleeve, he cleared his throat and piped up again. “Hold your horses Jarlow, we all know you ain’t got nowhere to be. The night is young, there’s oil to burn, and please can ye let me finish my stew without causing a mishap?” The men waited patiently, filling the time with meaningless chatter. Horse grooming, politics, and even the mundane topic of riding chaps were brought into the circle of whispers. Finally, scraping every side of the dish using his last inch of bread with such aggravating precision that it caused Jarlow to wince. Setting the empty crucible aside, Festabual spoke. “Where was I then, friends? Oh right, the red-winged beast,” he said with a hiccup.

“The red demons had almost laid waste to everything but the outlying territories, alas, t’was but a matter of time, for they took those too.” His bloodshot eyes pierced the tablemates.

“They were indeed unstoppable. Not even forged tempered steel, catapults with archer-like precision, not a single weapon here nor the seven realms could touch the iniquitous goliath. They tried their might with an edge in numbers as all realms deployed their armies, freely working together to smite the beast. Regretfully, those numbers dwindled. It seemed the more objection the beast underwent, the stronger it became. Magic seemed to nudge it in the slightest until it didn’t. It faded under its ferocity.”

“Hope seemed to diminish. Evaporating like a puddle on a scorcher of a day. In a last-ditch effort a congregation of the greatest minds and magic wielders gathered to form some sort of plan, Wizards, witches, sorcerers, scholars, and such, among them all the Tamers were to be the key.

“The tamers?” Jarlow said, almost jolting out of his seat. “What in Zarlos’ name? Haven’t heard of such a being.”

“Well, you would if ye’d let me finish, you old frump. Ye have any more queries, or shall I go on?"

Jarlow's silence was all the answer he needed.

“The tamers were much like the sorceres or magic wielders of the time, cept that they had a very special ability that would allow them an undeniable connection to the dragon. A story retelling the events stated as much. An onlooker scribed it was like watching someone crawl into the mind of the dragon while remaining as still as a Bardagan tree, unwavering as the ghostly hand of control ensnared the beast’s mind and created an ethereal tether between the two. The dragon would wriggly and wraith as if in pain until submitting to its new master, like an unruly stead calmed by a rider of a special caliber. No one rightfully knew why these enchanted souls had a unique link of beastly proportions. It was only surmised it was from our ancestors a time long, long ago, when we had much more of an exquisite connection to all things. No other foreboding characteristic was to be proclaimed of the dragon shepherd, other than that they seemed to all be pure of heart, untainted by fear, hate, or negative aura. Pathways so clear it could link to such a greater existence, or so they thought.”

The musty, damp tavern emptied. Barren were its tables, cept a scant few who aimed to spend the night in an inebriated stupor. The cool air leaked in through every pass of the door, refreshing the gents who’d stay. Dimly illuminated by the oil lamp affixed to the entrance, its placement to only serve as visibility for the sign of the tavern post at nightfall. Yet it flickered and crashed across the pane of the glass, the one immense window peering into the outside world. Festabual and his mates came to grow fond of the breeze and the gentle flame like a fire in the dark. But what kept them put wasn’t the aesthetics nor its calming demeanor, instead, it was their friendship that kept them seated. Among the tribulation of the world beyond that shadowy dirt-tinted window with a speck of orange glow they found peace in company, and reveled in nights of laughs and heroic stories, they reveled in nights like these.

“It took all the harbingers of sorcery to finally put an end to the behemoth’s reign of terror. The stage was set, the plan being to open the beast to exposure to attack via the power of the tamer, hopefully permitting the killing blow. The numbers were astounding. A gathering so large it’s unrecognized power would be enough to save the world or tear it to pieces. The air was so rancid on the day of the attack, all who breathed it in say it was that of poison entering their lungs, nerves were well strung, stomachs churned, hearts thumping like they meant to escape. It Twas not because of their lack of confidence in their ability but the thought it may not be enough. The sun peaked highest. Till the monster eclipsed it, showcasing its magnitude as a sign of assured threat. The men and ladies moved swiftly, barring their stance into the ground projecting their essence to the heavens. It reached its target. The fearsome monstrosity fighting the mind attack, thrashing high above the clouds, spouting flames in every direction, fighting an enemy nowhere to be seen. Roars thundered out loud enough to rumble the ground. Casualties befell the side of the humans. Blood swept heavily through the nose of the tamer till they met the ground in a lifeless heap. The dragons were fighting back. Still, the courageous few remained strong; they knew this would be their only shot. Achieving the first part of their goal, the dragons slowly began to submit, bowing to their newly appointed overlord. Now, without haste, the remaining magicians launched their strike. An unholy spell set to put an end to anybody who would catch its potency. With the power of a multitude on their side it seemed to work. The yielded dragons hollered out in pain, nearly bursting the ears of all those not but a mile away. Surrendering their spirit into the underworld, the dragons lie still.”

Festabual paused for a moment. He did not partake in a drink or consume food, nor did he mimic the actions of his story with his body. Instead, he looked off in the distance, unblinking, and let out a hefty sigh that almost ran its way into a belch. The crew remained silent as well. They knew solely from Festabuals demeanor alone there was more story to tell, and they had no intention of threatening its continuation.

Festabual began again, with a tone much more drab than afore. “The souls of the beast did not surrender to the afterlife, you see. Just as it seemed victory was assured and eternal slumber came upon the enemy, a growl beneath the ground stirred, shaking all who stood upon it. In an instant of time, the Heldoran’s eyelids whipped open. Instead of the white that commonly shaded their specs, the entirety of their optics turned pitch black, like that of the night sky sans the twinkling stars. Their uncordial second wind was followed by a mass of wild flames and writhing beast. They were back at it again. Reborn was the plague of humanity, the devils of the sky, and the destroyers of all we hold dear. So were the spirits of the men and women who wished to oppose it. Entrenched in their fighting stance, exhausted and nearly spent, the magicians forged on, the battle withheld deep into the night. No side gave an inch. Casualties abound, falling to the feet of those who remained. The opposition was too furious. Something needed to be done.”

Festabual leaned in close, causing the men to mirror him. Huddled together, he spoke in nearly a whisper once more.

“The scant few among them devised a plan on the spot born of the most brilliant minds of history. ‘ We can not best the world enders, so we shall imprison them.’ That was the line that echoed throughout the masses. An imprisonment spell was to be cast, by all who could bear to cast it. The tamers, the ones that endured anyway, were to pull them close enough to ensnare the goliaths. Close enough to the ground, the confinement conjuring was sent forth with immense size. The earth and dirt below shook violently twas a miracle the lot could keep a foothold. The ground rose in soot and brimstone, closing in on the spellbound monsters, lurking closer like mountains that move. Two gargantuan stones snapped together with a resounding crash, seizing the beast and snuffing its last flame of desperation. All throughout, monoliths formed, sucking the battered adversary inward. Till all were encased in stone, the dessert of the crimson Dragon was no more, instead a dark-lined mountain range and a valley of fissures that were filled with veins of lava pumping through the void in every crack. The battle had been won, but not without its tumultuous toll. The casualties on the side of men stacked somewhere in the thousands, a necessary sacrifice all would say who would retell the wicked story. But a sacrifice for what?” Throwing his hands up in a grand gesture as if to summon lightning from above. “From the world thereafter and the world we know now, evil would only take a different form, that tis not much the fairer, some would say even worse so. When a wicked shade was to be culled, the light should shine out the clearer. But alas, following the vile confrontation, no light was to be shone at all.”

“And don’t we know it!” The lad to Festabual’s right piped up.

“The lot of us have been fighting for how long?” A percussion of nods and hums of agreement followed from all remaining companies.

“Lands and territories left deserted by dragon’s departure, only to be fought over by men with the desire to claim them. A world once charred by fiery creature,. became overwrought with desolation, and greed, crumbling to pieces. Dust in the wind. Worse if you ask me. The number of victims must outweigh those of our history, not to mention those who were banished to the streets. Families fit to beg for help from men who only wish to grant it for themselves. Yes, much worse indeed.”

Chin down, Festabual’s wooly stache overtook his thin line of a mouth as the scales tipped towards the side of somber. Exhaling a small puff of air through his nostrils, laying the hairs flat on his face, he spoke again.

“Aye, I can’t correct ye, Monta. We all know it to be true. We've all spilled blood of our own and those of the enemy, for a cause we cannot rightfully get behind. At the very least, in distant times afore the crimson horde took way to the sky. There was an outright mythical beauty that captivated our lands. Magic was abundant and sought to be used for the side of good. Aye even this tavern in which we sit had potions that racked the back wall.” He panned his open hand left to right across the shelf that lined the pub, there were nothing but dusty bottles that housed a meager amount of alcohol, enough to drown a mob of fruit flies that wadded in its trap. “Bottles and beakers, tubes filled with drinks that matched the vibrant colors of the past, like a rainbow on display. A swallow for whatever ails ya. Cuts, scrapes, bone aches, the pox, even just fur a pick me up, much more than what we’ve filled our cups with.” He lightly lifted his cup an inch from the table. “Flowers lined the pillars of the inn, spinning through its bones and everything it could grasp. Snaking around the finely stained wood, leafy green tendrils ended at a stray white flower with a light dusting of pink through its center. The sunrise orchid twas named. The plants would spritz loving mists of citrus vapor while dancing to and fro like the patrons beside it. Gallivanting round, tapping to the music of the traveling bard.”

“Ever since that day, the last battle of dragon and man. Such a plentiful amount of magic was used, it seemed to disturb more than its intended target. The dragons of harmonious order were imprisoned as well. Magic soon after disappeared almost completely, like a roaring flame to smoldering coals. Granting us fortune of the world in which we live today. Aye, like as said afore, the only dragons left are in the grassy flats of Respril. Feathered and duck-tailed puniest of all the breeds no bigger than me mount. And then soon they should be no more. A man’s worth is measured by the product for which he’s fought. But like now and in times of old, it would seem we ain’t worth much.”

The last line stole the last bit of contentment in the room and in its place, a low humming silence. The men had all succumbed to the weight of the truth in his words.

Jarlow, not fit to end the night on a sour note, sprang out of his seat, pushing it back hastily, startling the crew with a high-pitched screech. “What say ye? How about another round on me?”

“Nother round yer arse!” Morton shouted from behind the bar. As if he waiting for one of the lads to say something untimely stupid.”It's been least an hour since last call, pay your wages and truffle off you drunken fools the morning sun has already hit the horizon.”

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Beyond the Ole Moss Tavern, beyond the crystal blue sea of the Odrana, beyond the lush low hanging vines of the Dradnot forest. The resting place of the Helodran. Black dusted peaks jutting their way to the sky would be the tomb of the unholy. Dismal, silent, and eerily calm was the hellish desert. Despite the staggering wisps of humid air, not a sound echoed through its wasteland until today.

Thoren, son of Dratan, councilman and right-hand man to the king of the Northern Territories. Saw himself marching through the hallowed ground, foot markers in the dark sand, noting the prints with each methodical step. The air remained heavy with a stale heat and the radiance all around him admitting oppressive warmth, even so he insisted on dawning his black robe. Long thick leather that flowed past his aching feet fitted with starch dark and worn riding boots. A fitting garb for today’s ceremony, he thought to himself. Peeling back his lips, unleashing a toothy smile. He dipped down quickly, billowing his midnight cape as he submitted to one knee. Placing his hand down on the tepid soil, fingers stretched to the max, he chanted diligently under his breath with such rhythmic cadence it was hypnotic.

Uttering a last word just below that of a shout, the ground rumbled, and the temperature rose. Small narrow-like cracks opened up, molten snaked through the newly forced desert slits zig-zagging their way to the dragons’ final resting place. Finally reaching the blackened mountainside. The cracks etched their way to the summit, splitting the boulder ever so slightly in two.

The air became heavier still. Tempered with a fiery presence and remnants of evil. A wind so viscous it choked the breath. Its waves carried not a singular sound, the quietness lived only for a moment, a speck in time. Thoren cut his mouth with a devilish smile that spanned the length of his face. For the moment was upon him, the moment he waited a lifetime for.

Smashing open through the top of the freshly made volcano was a boom of tyranny. A sound cut through the land like that of godly thunder. Loud and fearful enough to petrify all who heard.

‘Twas the sound of all to be undone. Twas the sound of anguish. Twas the sound of trepidation. Twas the sound of the end. Twas the sound of… the Crimson Dragon.

Fear and smite were at laden hand

For evil would conquer a fallen land

But sought by prophecies’ vision

Who among you would be a tamer risen

The last words of the wicked have been spoke

Be wary all because, the dragons Have woke.