Cloudrippers

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Captain Imadara recalled, as he drew the smoke of his pipe into his lungs, some seven years ago when the beating of those ivory wings subsumed all sound north of the Nysus River. A clattering like the most violent of thunderstorms accosted the ears of all those simple folk as they toiled their fields or plied their crafts in the central hamlet of Yon-Kat.

THUM!

The billow of the smith’s forge ceased, along with the hubbub normally emanating from the market stalls and households scattered intermittently through the square. The clamor of the only inn within a hundred miles fell to a dread silence. Even the clucking of the spinehens had reached an eerie stoppage. The shuffling of feet filled the town as all came from the presumed safety of their dwellings to fill the wide dirt roads, eyes gazing skywards in reverential quiet.

This town was humble, with loving stonework hovels and homes set deep within the rolling hills that served to give the place a near-natural ambience. Thick grasses had overtaken the terracotta roofing of most of the homes long ago, further leaning the aesthetic of the town in that direction.

It was hours before the sun was at its throne, and that fact was less than obvious given the surroundings.

The day was cloudy, and a thick sheet of dew still covered the shimmering grass and candlewhip flowers that covered nearly the whole of the river Valley. This dew was merely accent for the intrinsically magical flora of this land.

Hundreds of years before plain human eyes had ever lain their covetous gaze upon this place, Far-and-Away druids and the treefolk of nearby Narilwon joined hand and bark laden hand to enrich this place with fertile magicks. Great vines and roots coursed throughout the land, once, and flowers as large as buildings and as animated as any lithe beast could be seen in any direction. As with most natural wonders, however, the arrival of the short-lived and overly curious human race caused a recession of these magicks as even the most minor of industries and lumbering forced the treefolk back into the beauteous woodland that flanked the eastern side of the Valley. Over time the majesty of this place dwindled: the roots retreated, the great flowers crumbled to dust, and the great beasts that feasted on the land’s bounty moved on to less competitive pastures.

Now all that was left was the perfectly average vegetation that would not seem out of place outside a bustling human city, and the grass, o’ the grass, which shimmered at its tip and edges like so many enchanted blades.

Revenge is come.

At last the Angered Forest descends upon us.

We have encroached our last.

These thoughts and more raced through the simple Yon-Katan minds as the only explanation for such an arcane and alien sound. What anger would be cast from the sky was unbeknownst to them, yet surely it would be recompense for these folks and their ancestors’ actions on the ground. Imadara, known then as Addum Jei, was also beset by such unsure ideas as he stumbled out of the Cospian Inn. He was already superbly drunk, as was usual for him, and gripped a torch-post just outside – the shock of the thundering sound from the sky was like-enough the only sobering thing about him.

A girl of no more than twenty summers, a servant of Nadely and Harbin Cospian, whom the nearly-thirty Addum had been borderline harassing in his drunken state came to stand beside him. Whether her approach was from comfort or shock at the ear-splitting roar of the sky was unclear – there had been times when a more sober Addum could be sweet, endearing, even charming, and he’d possessed a sharp and handsome face, save for the swollen nose-tip that announced his alcoholism. Indeed, there were nights that the inn-girl had considered spending with him, though nothing so illicit had ever taken place. It was days like this that stayed her curiosity when he’d only a mind to drink and drink.

Such thoughts seemed small as dust as the cacophony behind the clouds announced itself once more.

THUM!

The encapsulating beat wrapped its ungraceful fingers around every human throat that dared to listen, sinking their collective hearts in to their stomachs.

THUM!

Closer and closer did the sound come, and with it, so came the frantic speed of heartbeats of those on the ground. Mothers clutched babies and lovers embraced in terror, as one fell truth crept through the minds of all present.

Whatever is behind this noise, is fully capable of turning this Valley to dust.

KATHUM!!!

The tavern girl grabbed Addum’s hand for comfort. He remained still as stone. Then the clouds cracked open.

_____________________________________________

The combination of such a vivid memory and the presence of a cold, scaled hand on his shoulder brought Imadara back to the present. He jumped lightly, startled, spilling a strand of pipe weed onto the ground. The scaled hand receded, though the Captain’s expression seemed unmoved, almost stoic, still. His eyes remained transfixed out of the crenellation of the Greatfort, gazing o’er the wind-rustled grasses of the Valley. He’d no fear of heights, but the tall tower instilled him with a unique in-between of ease and tension – an overall comforting feeling, for, as he'd learned these past few years, to be completely comfortable implies a lack of awareness which he could ill afford in his position. He turned his neck, and his shining hazel eyes shot back to the rigid figure behind him, that cowed its head in fear of retribution for the slight.

“What is it, Lonto?” He asked flatly.

The figure of Lonto’s namesake possessed qualities of both man and dragon, with scaled skin the color of the ocean night, a distinctive draconic snout, craned neck, and legs almost bird-like. Despite this, perhaps in pervasive darkness he could still be mistaken for a man from certain angles. His demeanor was dissimilar to his sibling dragonkith, being frail, meek, and eager to please. These traits made him a perfect manservant to Imadara, who stood nearly a head taller than him.

“Apologies – deepest apologies Captain! Intent was not to startle; I will announce myself more dutifully when next I approach!” He spoke with a slight slur that some might mistake for a drunken antic, but Imadara knew that words and air sometimes slipped from the right corner of his mouth, near his jaw. This peculiarity was the remnant of a physical trauma suffered from the kith’s broodling days. The Captain no longer minded it after some adjustment, it wasn’t as if the skittish Lonto could help himself, after all. What he did mind, however, was the way he bowed his head constantly, over and over, when he was attempting to grovel. This bastardized mimicry of human custom grated the Captain’s nerves, and he let the thought speak for him.

“Lonto! Why have you come?!” His raspy and weathered voice came out much harsher than he intended, and he softened his face after realizing this. He valued the kith-man; truly, he did, but there’d been much on his mind, and he hadn’t the time to placate the fearful one.

Lonto bowed his head and dared not to look the Captain in the eye.

“Something stirs between the broodfathers. Lord Hersir bids you come to his side.” His voice shook, seeming to fear the words as they escaped his lips.

After a pause, Imadara took a long drag from his pipe, catching light on the ember once more. Lonto waited in silence as the smoke trailed from the bronze-skinned Imadara’s bark-brown lips. Those humans that first settled the Nysus valley were of fairer complexion. Addum, having emigrated from the Isle of Tibae under heavily veiled reasoning, was ever the physical outlier in this land. Yet it was his tendency towards the demon drink that defined him to the locals. Indeed, deep in his cups ever lived the secretive man, and debts owed to the Valley’s own crime syndicate, the Tatarov Family, served to push him even farther down into them.

Imadara, grinned halfway through his smokey exhale, toothy and wry. The vivid memory of Emran Tatarov’s face as dragonfire rushed to consume him was one the Captain held dearly, among so many other dreadful ones.

The only one truly deserving. He had thought on the matter.

He blinked slowly, breathing a deep inhale, free of smoke, elucidating the lines of his face as well as the dark circles beneath his eyes. Lonto waits for his master, familiar, at this point, with his tendency to be lost in thought since the great betrayal. The sun, diving beneath the waves of the horizon, shone a deep golden hue upon him, shining upon his clean-shaven head and face. He squinted his eyes then turned to the staircase Lonto had emerged from. His elegant red layered robes flowed behind him.

He began to walk, trailed tightly by the kith-man.

Downward and downward the mountainside tower do they go. There are no pauses in their purposeful gait, save for Lonto’s as he struggles to speak of business – the industries and fields of Yon-Kat and the Ushkari Deepmine that lie beneath the mountain that the fort was built into, and further even beneath Lord Hersir’s lair. Men and women, near-starving and clothed only in the basest of rags, bow their heads at the passing of Captain Imadara. Were it not for their shuffling into the myriad hallways of the keep moments after he passed, one could mistake them for near-lifeless husks, shambling through the stonework in aimless wandering.

After what seemed like an eternity of pretending to listen to Lonto’s prattling, they arrive at the lift at the bottom of the tower. Reinforced with metal frames, the creaky thing was mostly wood, housed in a cylindrical stone room with a high roof that connected it to the rest of the grand tower. On the lift’s edges were deep cradles of dark abysm, broken up only by the rusted metal bridge that led into the rickety carriage. Only Imadara crossed the bridge as Lonto manned the outer lever to send him downward into that primordial black.

“I’m ready, Lonto.” He spoke softly, as if to make up for his previous outburst.

“Yes… Of course.” The kith-man paused after placing a gentle claw on the lever. “Best of luck, master.” Genuine moments like these are what had endeared the drake-man to the Captain.

He nodded sternly as the lever was pulled. The descent began and Imadara steeled himself, swallowing whatever fear he might have before it had any chance of rising to the surface. He could show no signs of hesitation or cowardice – not before his Lord.

_____________________________________________

The image of the sun being completely eclipsed by the wings of the two great wyrms was burned into Addum’s mind for days. He rapped his fingers on the wooden table at which he sat in the town’s square. All the folk that were left had gathered to discuss the issue of the ghost-white dragons, who roared through the sky nearly a week ago like specters of the greatest sins, that had made their home in the shadow of the Keystone mountain no more than twenty miles north-west of Yon-Kat. The stormclouds and dry lightning had persisted throughout the entire week, portending of a great doom to the more superstitious locals. Such talk did not interest Addum Jei, who had found clarity since the arrival of the wyrms, and hadn’t touched a drop of liquor since.

Nearly a third of the town, and some of the farmers closer to the newly nested dragons had fled in a hurried way, taking most of their belongings. Only the promise that the powerful families of the town, including the Tatarovs and their hired muscle, would be staying to formulate a plan to save the folk of the valley was enough to stifle the mass exodus that had persisted through the week.

Now, nearly all that remained were here, in the town center, with only a few affluent individuals trusted to speak. These folk sat in a sort-of circle in the middle of the crowd, and included most of the influential landowners of the valley.

“I remain unconvinced that we have aught to gain from staying here.” Spoke Kaspar the smith. His heavy-set and grating voice gave him authority that was only undermined by his unsurety in his words.

“Nonsense. The treefolk to the west have come at us with bark-laden monsters near three times our size for decades, and ever have we persisted.” Retorted Andreic Croyse, whose investment in three farms between the town and the dragons made it hard to see his words as free from biases. “Could we not hire adventurers for the task as well? Their thirst for blood and glory knows next to no limit after all.” An air of disdain trailed after his words.

Pipa Enekton rolled her eyes at the notion. The two were rivals in the livestock trade, and some even suspected Andreic of cattle rustling some years ago, though no proof was ever found. “And who exactly will be paying for these adventurers? Are you even aware of the prices the Guilds are charging these days?”

“Perhaps the Tatarovs should front the bill – put their ill-gotten gains to noble use.” Andreic snapped back with all the insecurity of his now-threatened privilege buried under his tone.

Emran Tatarov leaned forward in his stool. He was a mountain of a man, and the stool creaked with his motion. Balding blonde hair and scraggly beard framed his old, wrinkled, round face. A stark black greatbear cloak sat on his back against his fine black, silver, and red clothes. His pale blue eyes seemed to gaze right through Andreic. The town’s square fell silent in reverence for this man possessed of a great and known violence. Andreic’s forehead began to pool with sweat.

“And you would have my men make the hundred-mile trip to Sastantin on your behalf as well, Andreic?” Emran’s voice was such that every syllable seemed to bare a grim threat. “Or perhaps you would have me make the trek myself, hm?” Calm but purposeful, the same way this beast always professed his intention.

Andreic immediately lost his composure, bowing his head as he talked and darting his eyes to and from the intimidating man. “I didn’t… ah – mean to imply… I was only suggesting…”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgot all the things my family has done for you and yours, Croyse.”

Pipa cringed but strained to hide her discomfort. If the coin to rustle her aurochs came from Croyse, then it was little doubt as to whose men performed the act.

Emran sighed, seeming to calm the storm within him.

“It’s no threat, Croyse. I preach only practicality.” His tongue danced a slow jig behind his lips. Ever thoughtful, Emran was always slow to choose his words, allowing bouts of silence to intimidate on his behalf as folk awaited his next words.

“After running off the Sastantin taxmen – a task I did gleefully at the behest of ALL in the Nysus – my men are the only ones well equipped enough to be the law ‘round here. Does anyone disagree?”

Silence.

The presence of two of his men behind him, burly and grim, same as he, did much to aid his words.

Pipa piped up, though her words were meeker than when she spoke to Andreic.

“So what do you suggest then, Tatarov? Shall we do nothing in the face of certain death? Perhaps commit to servitude to those great white demons?”

Her lips pursed on her soft-featured face, framed delicately by her messy brown hair, for to lower herself before such a base man did greatly wound her ego.

“She’s right… Servitude to those beasts would be no better than taxation from Sastantin…” Croyse spoke, having rediscovered his voice.

All sat in silence, even Emran, as a collective dread set in. Whatever their decision, their way of life was at a great turning point.

“Give me command of some of your men and I will set a trap.” Addum Jei had stood up and stared down the mouth of Tatarov the Great Beast.

Emran was flabberghasted.

“The town’s own lush addressing me in such a way… Forget ye what you owe to me, boy?”

Addum shook his head ‘no’.

“I will repay my debt by ridding us of these two great beasts, and I will stake my life wholly on this plan.” He stood now on the table he’d sat at and spoke with a confidence – and lack of slurring – that the townsfolk were unaccustomed to hearing from him. All gazed at the drunk, some agape of mouth at his confidence in speaking to Tatarov.

Even the Great Beast himself sat silent, half from the impertinence, and half from interest. Such acts of insolence were what made Emran stand out amongst the many gangsters of Sastantin and allowed him to make a name for himself before coming to the Nysus valley.

Addum continued.

“I give you my plan, my life, and all that I own. I only ask for your best men to aid me in doing so.”

The girl from the inn, who Addum had been sweet on sat nearby. She struggled to contain the small semblance of adoration she felt for the former drunk’s newfound purpose. Emran smacked his lips, shuffling around the physicality of the idea within himself.

A gust of wind blew through the square, as if by the will of some unseen playwright.

“Very well boy. I will at least listen to your plan, as surely it is better than listening to the whinging of these dirt farmers.”

Emran sat back in his chair. Addum smiled.

_____________________________________________

The descent into the heart of the Keystone lair was mind-numbing. Punishing darkness was illuminated only by torchlight every few minutes, and the lift itself was almost embarrassingly slow.

“Surely, we’re due for a replacement…” Imadara muttered out loud, to no one in particular.

After what might as well have been an eternity to him, the lift approached the bottom. The Captain saw the top of the great mouth of the cave first, but the great size of the passage always surprised something within him. That anything could require a doorway so large boggled the mind, but sure as not, he knew the thing’s purpose.

Finally the achingly slow lift reached its destination, but Imadara was already stepping down onto the rocky precipice before it had settled. His stride did not let up and he began the jaunt down the great passage. He’d always felt small, even when he was still Addum Jei, looked down upon like a weakling child, or even an animal, by the townsfolk. Here, however, under the rule of another, he held true power – dominion, even, over most others of his kind.

Why, then, did he still feel so, so small?

His eyes fluttered as he blinked the thoughts out of his mind.

He came to a great spanning land bridge that overlooked a dim-lit chasm within the cave. One would be forgiven for assuming the chasm was barren, but Imadara knew better. He looked below to be met with dozens of pairs of glinting eyes, like rats in a cellar. These wretches were no rats, but once could be called the race of men that inhabited the valley, now reduced to a squalor unlike any they’d ever known. Imadara felt like a god with all their beady, sunken eyes looking up at him as he strode overhead.

Do the Gods live in constant regret as I do? He thought.

He was approaching the edge of the land bridge when a pitiful figure stepped out from the edge of sight at the next passage. Skin once burnt to crisp now sat wearily on a skin-and-bones frame, pale as the winter snows. The figure, wrapped in so many unfitting rags stepped towards Imadara with fervor before noticing him. It bowed its head as he walked by, ne’er diminishing in his gait. Strands of scraggly blonde hair clung to the creature’s head. Its pale blue eyes flitted up only for a second to meet the Captain’s. Imadara stopped in his tracks, to which the creature only swallowed its fear in repose.

Mind your eyes, Great Beast. He’d thought but could not find the cruelty to speak.

Sweat formed on the creature’s warped skin as Imadara turned his gaze once more to his destination and continued walking. He could hear the skittering of the thing behind him as he turned the cave’s winding corners. He winced, unable to contain his disgust.

Finally the nature of this place laid itself bare to him. Great tapestries, smatterings of golden things, and the ribs and skeletal limbs of once whole creatures sat like the most attentive of audiences along the cave’s walls. Imadara steeled himself, tightening his core and straightening his back as an almost inert response to these ghastly sights.

A figure stood before the Chamber of Reflection that housed the Captain’s godly master. Likened to Lonto, this beast, illuminated by torchlight, was a dragonkith as well. Only this one was much taller, and possessed of greater muscle mass, with gangly, long arms hanging down from his tall frame. He stood nearly three heads above the human Imadara and poised himself before him to make his size known.

“Imudakaia…” The Captain spoke, his hint of courtesy betrayed by his loathing for this kith-man.

The corner of Imudakaia’s snout curled with delight.

“Always a pleasure when the master’s pet comes down to play.” He snickered, gouts of smoke puffing from his nostrils. He paced around Imadara, like a predator circling prey, his silver scaled and blue orb-like eyes glinting in the torchlight. The Captain did not move.

“I was summoned. I need not be attached at Lord Hersir’s hip to gain his favor.” Imadara’s sly comment went not unnoticed for even a second as Imudakaia snapped his teeth right in the human’s ear.

“Mind your tongue. Mind your place. A traitor is ever a traitor…” He hissed as he backed off to the side. The kith-man turned to walk down the path Imadara had just tread. “And I yearn for the day when the master is done playing with you.” His serpentine vocalizations did not cease, and his lizard’s feet smacked the ground with exaggerated force.

“Ever the dramatist, Imadakaia.” Imadara spoke in a hushed, exhausted voice. He shook off the taunting, and made for the Chamber

The contrast between the cave’s passages and the Chamber of Reflection was stark, to say the least. Years of alteration and hoarding had turned this place into a lair of legend. Hersir’s dragonfire had transformed the walls into crystalline mirror-like surfaces, giving the place its namesake. Even more of the accoutrements that lined the hallway leading here were scattered about in no particular order, with the addition of human servitors in similar rags to the others scattering about, all tending to the impossible task of keeping the place clean.

In the middle of this monumentally large room sat the Snow-White Death himself.

Hersir was possessed of a size that few creatures, even dragons, ever achieve, and few mortals would ever be capable of understanding. His ivory-white scales shone with brilliance, and the glittering frame of the room cast an eerie light onto the beast’s body. White wing-frames linked by greying membrane sat folded at his side. Large but slender, Hersir’s neck was the length of a wealthy man’s Yon-Katan dwelling, and at its end was his beautiful head. Elements of both serpents and aquatic creatures were embedded in its shape, flared by winding horns that webbed together to frame his godly beauty.

For all the terror that he inspired, Imadara could scarce help being awestruck every time he looked upon his Master.

"Ya muktasij (My favored son.)"

To say that Hersir spoke would be a misnomer. His thoughts alone, should he deem it so, had the ability to enrapture a mind to make themselves known. When he spoke in his own tongue the true meaning of the words hung off them quite literally, making themselves equally known to the listener. This was the power of the dragon’s tongue. Rarely did the great wyrm open his mouth to vocalize.

Imadara bowed his head low before sinking to one knee. This was the only one he was ever beholden to, the only one he answered to now, and to prostrate himself before him was an easy price to pay for such freedom.

"I call upon your kathress (insight) once more." Hersir’s voice, as ethereal as it was, was soft and deep-set, carrying with it the wisdom of a near thousand years of living.

“Anything you ask, Lord Hersir.” Even speaking to his master turned Imadara’s stomach. Though Hersir doted upon him, the prospect of his master’s fury – a fury he had bore witness to himself – was never lost on the Captain.

The human servitors nearby had stopped their work, backed into corners, and bowed their heads, for Lord Hersir’s voice was worthy of quiet reverence. Or perhaps they still feared for their lives, even as dreadful as they had become.

Hersir hummed low, his physical voice filling the Chamber as he stared at Imadara with eyes as loving as a dragon was capable of.

"Ya Taransaja (My broodbrother) has turned his hateful raka (ire) against me. Kal (War) comes to this place with haste. I would have you, ya muktasij (my favored son), lead my war-kith against him."

Something caught within Imadara’s throat. Was this a trick of some sort? Never had Hersir attempted such deception. He blinked, suddenly realizing his response had kept his master waiting.

“I thought, my lord Hersir, that I was to never turn my raka against your kind?” Imadara’s eyes darted to the servitors huddled in corners around the Chamber. They’d begun to whisper among themselves.

"You remember my words well. Such is the matorsi (oath) that first bound us together. You, however, are mine – and my saja (brother) has made himself my rakgut (enemy). He has made himself -your- rakgut (enemy)."

”I understand, my lord… I just – to break the oath –“ Imadara had barely finished the word when Lord Hersir belted smoke from his nose, rising his neck high into the air.

Hersir’s ethereal voice thundered throughout the chamber.

"Do you remember your name?!"

“I do, my lord.” He nearly choked on his words, eyes still gazing downward.

"Then speak it."

The Captain swallowed whatever pride had possessed him to speak against his master. In that moment he was Addum Jei the man, not Imadara the trusted of Dragons.

“Imadara.”

Hersir’s neck craned like a great snake towards his ‘son’.

"Imadara. (Great Betrayer.)" Vitriol coated his words, as if to remind the Captain of his nature.

The Captain’s eyes darted around the chamber, with his head still bowed low. All the servitors leered at him. His eyes caught those of another – the girl from the Cospian Inn. Her youthful liveliness had faded under the duress of seven years of servitude to the Snow White Death. He held dearly the memories of her eyes, filled with hope for him. Now they only held hatred. Pure, unrepentant hatred.