Deep Scars

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. The oldest of the elves told of a time before them, a time when the cracked, dry earth of the Valley was lush and green and vibrant. Then, the dragons arrived. They were ancient, primordial drakes, and their rule was absolute, tyrannical. The Valley went up in a blaze of hellfire that burned for a century, sending ash and smoke and embers into the sky, choking out the lifegiving sun and staining the clouds an inky black. Even the elves struggle to remember for how long the people of Kysaarun lived under that void-like, sunless sky, but they tell of the mass extinction that followed.

The viridian expanses of forests withered without the sun. The acrid air was too harsh for the delicate ecosystems that thrived within them. Cities once flush with resources–food, water–were now starving. The people of these afflicted towns were forced into an unwilling migration which they’d soon find much more treacherous than the plight they fled home to avoid. Those who ventured too far into the Valley, once the burning had stopped, were consumed by the dragons that now called it home. The wagon trains were easily spotted from above and incinerated by the crimson scaled horrors that took wing and scoured for their next meal. So, the people of Kysaarun did the only thing they could think to do; they hid. They retreated from the once life-sustaining Valley and nestled themselves within the protective cliffs of the great, towering mountains piercing that thick, smoke-smothered sky and struggled to rebuild with what they had left.

Ages passed in that all-consuming fear instilled by the draconic tyrants. It was the ancestors of the Barons that ultimately took it upon themselves to lay these dragons to waste. Once the sky had cleared and the sun shone bright on the now ruined continent, these heroes took to the Valley with sword and shield–with magic, arcane and divine–with a singular goal. And they were successful in seeing it through. The First Barons freed the scarred lands of Kysaarun and its scarred people from the terrible plague of the dragons.

The damage was done however. Kysaarun would never be that bountiful land of lush greenery and dense forest. The sundering perpetrated by the ancient dragons left behind a dusty beige desert continent roiling with chaotic elemental energies spewing forth from the tarnished earth. But the First Barons provided protection. With the reclaimed fortunes plundered from the dragons’ hoards, the First Barons built the Oasis Cities of Sallant and Lordsfist. Safeguarded by the very mountains that proved to be the people’s first salvation from the winged beasts that tormented them, the Shardsteeth and Iron Peaks would once again provide shelter to the shattered people of Kysaarun. With the First Barons at the helm, this land of strife and torment would finally begin to heal...”

Olle scoffed and shoved off from the wall he leaned heavily against, stomping out into the dusk covered streets of Lystpire. The bustling crowds of people parted easily before his hulking frame and stoney expression of pure rage. His grudge against the storytellers was long held. It had formed from a tiny, irritating grain back when he himself had to navigate the Cloudbreak Home for Troubled Youth. That grain, over the years, became a glorious pearl of utter contempt sitting solidly in his hardened heart. Olle rolled his shoulders, feeling the satisfaction of multiple meaty pops deep within his charcoal gray flesh as tension released from the joints.

If it were up to him, the storytellers would be met with one of his rock-solid fists straight to the mouth. If it were up to him, the orphanage wouldn’t take the money provided by the Oasis Cites; they wouldn’t be letting Sallant teachers or Lordsfist administrators monitor what the kids were learning. If it were up to him–! Well, if it were up to him, Lystpire would be as much a beacon of safety and protection as the Oases, and not just a place for the Seventh Barons to shove the people they found too inconvenient to deal with.

Olle ran a hand through his dark hair, letting his nearly pure onyx eyes slide closed. A tired breath left him as he reached the rusted iron sheet he called the door to his home. He promised Patia he wouldn’t be angry anymore. It was hard not to be. Anger had gotten him through a lot of the miserable shit in his life. But it wasn’t just him anymore. He had his family, and he kept his word to them.

As discreetly as he could manage, Olle unwound the wrapped, bloodstained bandages around his hands, his wrists, and–most importantly–his knuckles and tossed them into a leather pouch at his hip. He flexed his fingers almost testingly. The movement cast a dull green glow in the dim light of the twilight bathed town as the etched tattoos in his stoney skin gave off weak, emerald light. He rolled his shoulders again. For good measure.

The second he forced the door open, Olle could tell something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The room was wrecked, and not in the way he was familiar with, with five kids living in it. No. Already from the doorway he could see ruined furniture. His couch was overturned. The table was smashed. Wood splinters that used to be mismatched chairs littered the carpet. Olle rocketed forward into the chaotic mess, eyes wide and with cries for the kids on his lips. He reached the center of the ruins of what once was deemed their sitting room when a searing pain lanced through his torso. Olle snarled. The sensation withdrew and he whipped around to lay eyes on his attacker.

And staring back at him was the face of a dragon.