Astallis

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. But, of course, there weren’t always the rifts in the sky.” Matron Doragiltre carefully pried the massive black leather tome in her lap open to the first page, caressing the paper gently with her silvery scaled claws. “This was before the world itself was ignited by the power of sorcery. It was much a different time back then…”

“Grandmaaa! You’ve already told us this story!”

“Yeah, like a hundred-hundred times! I want to hear the story about Offal the Cheesemaker when he went to the Sepulcher of Woe to look for the right mold to make his cheese!”

“Enri, that’s really dumb. Grandma Dora, can we hear the story about Falsa, the Princess of Brierwood again!”

“And you’re saying I’m dumb?”

“Yes! Cheesemongers are dumb and you’re dumb too!”

The three children on the fine red velvet rug began to bicker amongst one another. Ankerette, with a temper as fiery as her blood-orange scales, had jumped on Enrilaske’s back and began to swing his head around by tugging on his horns viciously like he was an icy-blue-scaled bull. Bonifax shied away, tucking into his shirt to avoid the roughhousing. His head shined like a mound of obsidian gems poking through the shirt’s neck-hole and his tiny wings—already growing in—shivered with agitation.

“Alright now, little ones. Let us settle down!” Grandma Doragiltre sang out with a soft coo—but then scolding sharply: “Anka, get off of Enri’s back now.” She rocked in her chair slowly, pulling down her gilded spectacles and setting them neatly in the crease of the book. She rubbed the bridge of her snout and her aching amber eyes. From her chair in the den, Doragiltre could see out the window of her modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. Above a bluish-green sea of fir trees, swirling clouds of voltaic energy rumbled, darkening the skies as they darted overhead, crackling lightning across each other whenever they got too near. Today would bring another terrible storm as soon as two of those ruptures of magical potential collided in earnest.

Anka slowly dismounted Enri and then patted Bon gently on the head. “There. All better?” She looked up and noticed the pained concern spread across Doragiltre’s face. “Grandma Dora? Are you okay?”

Doragiltre looked down. The fledglings finally had their fill of their play-fighting and were all taken to now watching her every move with quivering, wide eyes. Anka, the bravest of the three, inched forward and tugged on the Matron’s sleeve. “You okay?”

Doragiltre smiled and nodded, though was quickly struck by a string of raspy coughs. Enri, quick to his little blue feet, darted into the kitchen and returned with a fresh pitcher of water. Bon, too, slipped out of the din only to return with a pillow. The three troublemakers quickly turned into nurses, propping the old Dragonfolk matron up in her chair and forcing a glass of water into her hand.

“That’s enough!” Doragiltre finally gasped, waving them away before taking in a long drink. “I’m fine now! Thank you. Now, where were we?” Her claw quaked as she put her spectacles back on. “Ah… Yes, the rifts.”

“No, Grandma!” Enri crossed his arms and pouted, “You told us this one!”

“What? None of you want to hear this story? But what about our history?”

“You could tell us history if you tell the one about Princess Falsa…” Anka set back down on the rug and busied herself with straightening out her jacket.

“And what does Bon say?” Doragiltre turned to the smallest little one, who had already taken to entombing himself in his shirt again.

The shirt whispered in reply: “I don’t know…”

“I know what Bon wants to hear about!” Anka talked over her timid brother with a sing-songy voice, “he always wants to hear the story of the year of lightning!”

“Children—Bonifax get your head out of your shirt before you ruin it—This book, this history is not just a story to enjoy.” Doragiltre patted the black tome gently. “This is our heritage. Without this tale, there never would have been cheesemongers or princesses, or anyone else in all of Brierwood for that matter. Our tales are powerful, and this one is the most powerful. It leads all stories. This, children, is our memory. And one day I hope you’ll be able to share this treasure and pass it down to your children and your children’s children, Maker willing!”

“Children?” Bon scrunched up his snout sourly and stuck out his forked tongue. “I don’t want children!”

Doragiltre asked, “why not?”

“You have to watch ‘em all the time!” Bonifax complained, not realizing the irony he was placing into Doragiltre’s hands.

Enri laughed. “Yeah! You don’t want some Human to come up in the middle of the night and steal your eggs from under your bed!”

“Humans aren’t real, Enri.” Bonifax snapped back with an eye roll.

“Yeah they are!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah-huh! Toni told me he saw one coming through the village the other day. He was big and hairy, and he had big round ears and everything!”

“No, he didn’t! He was just lying to you.”

“It was probably just some Elf with a glandular problem,” Anka offered.

“No! It was a Human! It was! It was!” Enrilaske fumed and stamped his feet, shaking the cottage timbers.

“That is enough! All of you!” Doragiltre winced as a flash of pain rose in her voice.

“Sorry Grandma,” the three whispered in unison.

“It is okay, my little ones…” Dora sighed. She loathed shouting, but when the rifts get volatile, her headaches were at their worst and brought on her naturally irascible tendencies. Every little pain made her feel even more frail. Collecting the post was a day-long errand now. She knew that one day the balance of who was taking care of whom would flip. That day was coming much sooner than she wanted—they had to be ready.

Doragiltre’s voice began to crack, to the point that she could only whisper. “I haven’t ever sat down and told you the whole story. There is so much more—so much that will spark the fire of your imagination! Our histories tell us not only who we once were, but how we can strive and be better in the future. You three have so many tomorrows ahead of you—it is necessary to understand how you can fill them with as much life as you can! Look.” She turned the book around and held it up for them to see. Across the pages laid text written in sharply etched runes that glowed softly.

The children marveled silently at the strange symbols until Anka asked: “What are they?”

“This is the language of our ancestors. Words that were written so long ago that we do not know how many years anymore. This is our legacy, little ones.”

Enri looked up from the tome, “You can really read that?”

“I’m afraid I might be the last one who can.” Doragiltre smiled sadly. “I have asked the historians from the university to come and take a look at it. Maybe we can find someone who can learn the language before it’s too late, carry on the tradition after I… Well, you know…”

“No,” Bon lied, holding back a sniffle, “what?”

Matron Doragiltre ignored the question. It wasn’t important. Not anymore. “Little ones, it’s time for me to tell you the full story. All about the Humans, all about the magic, and all about the Dragons. This is the story of Astallis, the first Dragon, how she came to the valley, and her adventures in our world.” She smiled as she watched the three scoot even closer to the book, examining even more closely the old runic script.

Matron Doragiltre beamed down at the children as she turned the page.