Dragoncaller

"There weren't always dragons in the valley. In ages past, human and dragon populations once spanned the breadth of Eris. The land was fertile and the human clans lived in relative peace. Everything changed when the stars fell. The foul tears, wept from the heavens themselves, crashed into Eris' surface. Five in all, they left deep scars in their wake. When they finally came to rest, tangles of vines burst forth from the impact sites. The vines were covered in wicked thorns, from their roots all the way up to their five-pointed leaves. Anything that got so much as a scratch from the vines was afflicted with a toxin that caused an unbearable, itchy rash. This itching would drive the victim mad as they relentlessly scratched at the wound, succeeding only in spreading the rash further.

As the rash spreads over a significant portion of the host's body, it sends signals to the host's brain making them drawn to sunlight. Once exposed to the sunlight, the rash "blooms" as vines crawl from the victim's skin and entomb them in a living cocoon of thorns. It is not known how long the host survives in this state before being completely digested, but it is thought to be several days or up to a week. There is no hope for a person once they are infested by the creeping death -as it would become known - no treatment has worked to reverse or slow the process. It wasn't long before much of the land gasped its final breath under a thick mat of choking vines.

Reading that passage made Halia itch all over. She pulled her shawl tighter and considered what the Fallen Lands must have looked like shortly after the starfall; villages reduced to hundreds and hundreds of writhing cocoons. The candle beside her was burned down to a nub. It was still dark outside her window. There was a little time before her morning duties, so she pulled a new candle from her desk drawer and lit it from the old. She continued reading.

Whether by dumb luck or a forgotten god's graces, the Broken Reach was home to a network of subterranean thermal vents that drew heat from Mount Nouros. The clans of refugees and surviving members of mighty dragon broods made their new home together in the shadow of the dormant volcano. Sheltered in the frozen valley, they clung to survival in the only region where the creeping death could not thrive.

The clans built their encampments on top of the warmest stretches of the vents and slowly expanded them into tunnels to nearby villages. Farming was possible once more since the vents provided a place to grow root vegetables. With the aid of the humans, the dragons dug hatcheries deep in the vents to use as a place to incubate their eggs. The dragons - reds especially - perked up considerably when allowed to lay among the lava floes, where the stench of sulfur was overpowering to their human caretakers.

Others were enjoying the frozen climate above. The white dragons - and some of the heartier blues - loved the crisp, dry air. Their once dull scales took on a healthy sheen that shimmered in the sunlight as they played among the clouds and mountaintops.

Halia traced her finger over the illustrations of the various species of dragons; the territorial reds, exuberant whites, and the calm, enduring blues. There were four species, but only three were given proper illustrations of their unique skull structures, breath types, and wing shapes. The last was simply labeled 'green' with a generic silhouette of a dragon. It was nearly time to go, but Halia was almost done with this chapter. She carried the book and candle around her room while she got dressed for the cold.

Despite their bestial nature, the dragons were still intelligent enough to realize the humans were trying to help them. The clans learned that dragonbreath could slow the advance of the creeping death. A direct blast could kill any of the vines caught in its path, especially the frost breath of a white dragon. For the first time, it seemed like there might be a way to reclaim the Fallen Lands.

However, after several years of setback, failure, and tragedy, the survivors learned that taking back the overworld was much easier dreamed than done. The united clans and their dragon riders put forth a valiant effort, but each foothold they secured in the wilds was at great cost and regrew overnight. Hope of a return to the old ways was abandoned and the people moved on.

Life carried on and the newer generations adapted better to the extreme cold of the North. The united clans fractured and raced north, east, and west to claim more territory. With no realistic means of beating back the creeping death, breeding and training strong dragons was no longer a necessity. Only Clan Ironhilt, whose encampment was nearest to the southern frontier, continued the tradition."

Halia scoffed at the page and slammed the book shut, sending motes of dust dancing in the candlelight. Although she'd read History of the Clans before, she was still baffled by the clans' abandonment of dragon riding. If she had her own dragon and knew how to ride it, she would never give it up.

Unfortunately for Halia, she was born into Clan Icefin - camped on the eastern shores of the Reach - which was about as far as one could be from Clan Ironhilt and their magnificent dragons. She blew out the candle and set it and the old tome her desk. The first rays of morning streamed in through her window as she put on her heavy boots and grabbed her fur hat. Halia stepped out onto the cobblestone path and walked toward the sea.

Clan Icefin's encampment, Seawatch, was well-populated compared to some of the newer clans. The neat rows of earthen homes looked like gentle hills if not for the smoking chimneys betraying their true identity. Her people were fishermen - noble fishermen, father would say - who supplied the other clans with fresh fish and crab. She didn't see the nobility in it. The "fish" they caught were often only a few inches long and full of bones, and the crab meat stunk of the sea and tasted like mud. All there was to eat besides fish or crab was seaweed, winterberries, and the cave mushrooms grown down in the thermal vents.

Halia's assigned duty was to tend the rows of winterberries planted on the seaside cliff terraces. Winterberries were one of the few crops that grew this far north. They had soft pink skin and were fine to eat, but were even better for winemaking. The salt from the sea spray kept the plants from freezing overnight, but every morning it needed to be wiped off so as to not sour the berries. Her job was simple, bend down and wipe the salt, take a few steps, wipe the salt again, stand up, (check for dragons on the horizon) repeat.

Walking the terraces in the early morning was Halia's favorite thing to do. The icy wind stole the breath from her lungs and the sunrise created brilliant colors as it filtered through the rolling fog. Then she saw them, three blues and a white. The dragons played over the sea as they darted in and out of the waves. She stood there and imagined having her own dragon - a green one - and riding it over the Fallen Lands while spraying its acid breath on the cursed plants below.

She disliked how green dragons were misunderstood; demonized. It's a bad omen, they say. Green is the color of the enemy, they say. So deep was their superstition that mating combinations which had a chance to produce green offspring were avoided and no green whelps were ever trained, even in Clan Ironhilt.

"Halia! Halia!" Her friend Bowden stumbled up to her, looking even more pale and sickly than normal. "Quick, you have to look at this. I don't know what to do!"

"If you're having boy troubles again," she didn't take her eyes from the dragons, "take them to --"

"Its not that!" He yanked her arm and started running towards the entrance to the vents. Halia stumbled. Bowden didn't slow down for her. Seawatch was waking up now. The narrow footpath was crowded with fishermen heading toward the docks. Her normally unobtrusive and shy friend was shoving people aside as he barreled through.

Bowden half-fell-half-ran down the steps into the upper vents and shoved her toward the alcove where he and his brother tended cave mushrooms. Wordlessly, he pointed to a small, thorny, five-leafed sprout growing through a crack in the wall.

She felt her throat tighten as she tried to speak but no words would come.

The creeping death had come to the Reach.