Deep in the Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. This land was a desolate land, a pyre, smoldering in anguish, mourning the fallen kings. The majestic rulers of the skies smited by their own arrogance, naivete and gods who turned against the creator.

Dragons were gorgeous beings; just as powerful and pure as any. There are those that say that angels are the purest and most just creature alive. Perhaps that would be true in the lands that dragons have abandoned. Unimaginable magic, unadulterated and unrestrained; perhaps one of the most loved species of the creators. The other being just as pure and lovable, the gentle bumblebee, how pure and satisfying to watch them grow together.

Deep in a valley there was beautiful scenery, dancing nymphs. Frolicking elves, sleeping dragons with little bees booping about. Of course peace is short-lived when creatures are tempted by darkness. When the great disaster struck, dragons were unaffected and merely ignored the pandemonium enveloping the worlds. Until their hatchlings were slaughtered, corrupted by death, the dragons were blissfully unaware as the lands burnt due their own negligence. Nymphs and elves left first for woodlands further away, their brethren slaughtered, ravaged or enslaved. The seirins and phoenixes followed departing for their own abodes, to find dwellings away from the doomed kings. Some dragonkin and the worshippers began to colonize various worlds to spread their might and follow their life missions.

When the slaughter struck, a cunning deceptive god stood forth and suggested the dragons isolate themselves to a valley. Of course he did this having shapeshifted into a dragonoid, one that trod in the humanesque flesh, he had made himself appear like a dragon of flame. Easy to fly into anger, tempered and true, with a few months of subtle mind washing and endless slaughters he never got caught for. The dragon valley shut out the others, forcing those creatures whom took solace in their lands away.

Leading to the grand hunt, a period that brought plagues upon humans. Wars and slaughters; phoenixes, unicorns, sirens and various fae fell into obscurity. Those who had not left prematurely were chased to near extinction. The huntsmen were waiting, at the beginning of the discourse between humanity and magicks it was easy to raise a slaughter. Witch trials, wolf hunts, mixed blood or cross-breeders, purges ran rampant. It was a tumultuous age, an era without a leader. A century of blood rained out, dragons kept to themselves, mourning the loss of their children and rearing warriors. Guardians they brought in themselves, even dragonkin were still accepted in the dragonic lands during this age.

Certain fanatics offered prayers to the dragons, feeding into their powers; over time the slaughter of those believers led to the weakening of a barrier protecting the dragons. Unrivaled for centuries it would be hard to imagine an age without dragons, yet a century later. The mystic valley where the dragon cries were heard, fell silent. A fire ravaged the land, magics exploded as life after life was ended. Their souls returning home, if they were not banished to the beginning, the void. The hole of nothingness, an abyss controlled by death; who was conveniently missing. Of course the anger of this species spoiled so strongly by Trie, turned on her when she failed to step forward; breaking a promise with a dragon, even as a parent, was unforgivable.

Trie Inane devali Vestre, was indisposed. The cunning trickster had laid careful work, trapping Inane, Deimos LoAesir was a blood-thirsty psychopath. Perhaps the original sociopath from ancient times, the true reason ‘Pandora’s box’ found the mortal lands. Inane was the true mother of all, and the slaughter of her most prized race shattered her whimsical romantic nature. Tortures that she faced in disembodied shambles, were nothing to watching, feeling each life ripped from her.

Perhaps far to graphic, but the amplified tortures her children faced channeled right to her soul. They say that death overlooks all, and that the creator is always with us. Such is true, Inane is connected to her creations directly, like a thin thread in the tapestry she has woven connects to her. In the beginning the vanquished souls had no land to return to, all of the realms were young and she had yet to create a home away from the abyss, the void that would house the spirits who could no longer reincarnate. So that child would return to her embrace, floating around her absorbing power before it found its next life. Some little children never wanted to leave, and came back extraordinarily gifted; gods, guardians and warriors. Not all gods were just, and not all devils are impure; preferences are quite pure. As soul after soul returned to her, the body housing her crumbled and the power broke directly into her soul.

Imagine a ball of plasma being touched on all sides, released and touched in rapid succession. Eventually the container will overwhelm and explode, with genocide after genocide of premature death. When creatures of pure good, evil and magic are slaughtered in harmony, when the memories of a mother losing it’s child, a murder laughing over a kill, a fox being tormented to death and many others flash across one’s consciousness simultaneously it would be impossible to walk out unscathed. Symphonies of pandemonium fueled pure insanity.

When Inane possessed her next body, storms rained from the heavens she created. As the rains fell the starlands were born, above the clouds, the vacuum of space to house the broken, the damned and the betrayed spirits of her children. As the world darkened, she broke one of her cardinal rules, lives should not be instilled; the body she possessed had just barely chilled from the influenza. She reanimated the corpse of her child, still warm. Her usual hosts were babes, dead before they breathed their first breath. A ripe seventeen year lass of human flesh changed to her container. At first the body had tanned skin, pallor in illness and lush honey brown hair and eyes. Upon the landing of the soul the body morphed; ivory white flesh, candied pink hair and sky blue hair. Whimsical and soft as the createss herself. Slowly her eyes opened, tears fell as she was wracked by emotions.

Anger, hatred, wrath. Wraiths were born, guardians weakened. Out for blood her favorite pink hair turned snowy. Her baby blue irises turned red, the queen of the vampyre race was born by complete accident. Vampyres, a race that dines on blood, that takes pride in sophistication; a gatekeeper to the realms, a race who had until that moment been led by the trickster, became her home.

With each movement magic exploded from her body, rejected in excess. She lay upon a marble altar, it cracked with a simple touch, flames licked the ground where her feet touched. Inane’s next name was born that day ‘Poenus’ the scarlet plague. The country she was in fell to ruin, an advanced society of humans turned to ash. Wiping it off the maps, only derelict stone ruins remained a relic of a society that would have lead the world into glory. Threatened by the flattening rebellions they had raised, an island sank to the depths. Human child after child returned to her, as the spirits returned to her side Inane cried. Blood stained her cheeks when water started running crimson, she lived up to the name of Poenus.

A star would inherit that name and the power of fiery destruction years later. When she reached the middle of the pavilion she awakened in, she stopped advancing. Closing her eyes she turned her face towards the skies and screamed. A shriek so heartrending, lonely, pained and destructive. Some depraved children walked away from her that day, creatures of legends were born from her pain. All of the beings born that day ushered life and death in different degrees. Disfigured and beautiful dullahans, headless riders and horses; gorgeous and compassionate. Sharing wine, the blood of their mother to return them silently to be reawakened. Banshees children that screamed ushering death to keep their mother from feeling lonely. Poltergeists the devilish tricksters who would protect their homes, their mother when she was hurting, but mostly themselves. The chaotic fun loving children. Shadow-walkers, a fae race that could walk through shadows to stop trouble before it arose. Polymorphs, a race rarer than a centaur, with their true form being an orb of power; the shapeshifters walked. Their original purpose to merge with the various races and stop these genocides and wars before they began.

As she screamed and sank to her knees a sword stabbed through her back. Anguish, unrivaled sadness overtook her as she turned her head. Flowing black hair, silver eyes and pointed teeth and ears: the creature before her was Yevetti, a dragonoid of ore. Inane did not understand, she stared blankly as she was penetrated, tears streaming like a river. “Traitor! Finally I have found you even if my life is forfeit! You bloody traitor hear our words. Liar, you shall never set foot upon our land again! How dare you kill our young, how dare you take your vengeance out on the poor weak humans! This great land we built in Greece! Brought to ruin by your own hand. How horrid can you be?! Our valley shall not home death any longer, because of you we risk extinction. You and those incorrigible pigeons!” He spat at her feet “How vile, LoAesir was astute in his judgment of you witch.”

Inane stared dumbly, ignoring the pain of the blade removed from her, she sat upon the ground and stared. Feathered wings of black began spouting from the hole as spirits overfilled her vessel, still she sat for a moment rain not dampening the sheer anger facing her. Beside herself laughter spilled out of her before words, a sound unlike her normal jingle bells, but an uproariously distorted cackle. When she calmed the wings were spanned around seven feet cross. Her ruby eyes nearly black crimson in crazed thirst, she smiled fangs stretching over her red lips the size of an adolescent fairy’s body protruded awkwardly out. “LoAesir? The charlatan god still breathes?” Laughter mixed with anger caused her to smile “No wonder I had to watch my beautiful children perish in waves. Leviathan, Zyra, Akari, Wouli, Rezza… So many dear friends I could not see off, how much resentment they must have felt. How many have been drawn into the void he so desires to control, the god of love, of wealth and even bounty have fallen.”

Her heart was distorted, happy to know the cause. Angry to know it was a lad she had appointed she could no longer control. Sad to make her children suffer. Her emotions and desire for blood caused a warp to the gentle creator. Her tears continued until the moment her sanity snapped. Countries flooded, others burned, still she cried. She did not protest the sword penetrating her time and time again, her words as her tears stopped were nearly drowned by the rain. A simple phrase “Long live the rulers of the skies and seas. Mighty children of mine, may you be blessed to ever rise.”

Sitting just out of their view, close compatriot of Deimos was Elvira, the god of Fate. A walking curse, any who see him shall never have a ‘happy ending.’ Having come in contact with such a destructive being, during such a volatile time was chillingly cruel. After this, ‘Death’ would never be tied to be creation, her duties would need to be handled by her trusted friends time and life as her capacity for affection diminished. Inane goddess of death and rebirth, became known as Peonus Aetunes. The first full changing of her name, she would accept. As Yvetti futility tried to end her existence, Inane just waited, wondering how physical pain was non-existent compared to the agony of her heart having been destroyed. Dulled by starvation, pain and rebirth she was unable to react as Yvetti’s head separated cleanly from her body, or to the magic that knocked her unconscious.

When her eyes opened, she was bound in the village of Draconic worshipers. Metals imbued with magics enough to slow her escape and binding cuffs to seal powers. Tears of crimson rolled down her cheeks once more, seeing Yvetti’s head upon a spike. As pure madness descended, the ghosts of the dead and the spite of the living fell upon her. The stake she was bound to was lit ablaze. A storm took overhead lightning lit the dark village, the dragonkin were perishing from powers outside of her own. Still in the records of history she would be the sole cause recorded. As her new body burned she slowly broke the shackles restraining her, and strode from the flames. Her body raw red, flesh regrowing wings flared out, and she took the village head who lit the flames and devoured his blood. Her first vampyric meal, the blood of a fire dragon mated with a human. That blood was a toxin, but it reacted to her as a shackle. Any protector in the future who shared the knighthood of flames, would be able to unlock their power with the goddess of death.

An unbreakable vow, in sheer insanity; she attacked. The dragons bound to her became fire, water, poison, ore, lightning, shadow, light and oblivion. When she regained herself the village was no more, she was pushed out by a barrier the dragons placed. In her brief moment of care she erected a protection around theirs to save those who were inside from any wishing to use them. Whether the deity of war, fate or even the valkyries. None would cross the first threshold with thoughts of ill-intent. Then she hollowed a land, birthing a lake and raised a mountain to encompass the land in full protection.

There were not always dragons in the valley, deep in the valley of death lays the graves of the mighty. Deep in the valley the souls of the dragons turn with anger, in a place death may never touch. Millenia later, the war of the Warriors and the Ryders would return dragons to the valley where only foliage grows. The land fervent with magic, sealed away from the outside worlds, hold the fallen warriors; who now deem dragonkin traitors for holding a human form, a form that their creator would use.

Deep in the valley, the pyre of graveyard smolders with resentment, misplaced for millennia. The war of the fallen is about to begin.