Dragons of Putilov

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. But one day they simply appeared. Surveyors from the Imperial government stationed in Putilov City above were conducting a routine expedition of the sparsely populated Putilov Valley below, and were the first to notice the beasts.

Fearing for their safety, the surveyors beat a hasty retreat. When they returned to the city, they were greeted with skepticism and accusations of excessive mead consumption. But after several days of refusing to alter their story, and several more rumors of large scaled monsters flying about the valley from local peasants and travelers, the Emperor was contacted.

Not to be bothered with trivial superstitions and wild tales, Emperor Elagabalus II laughed and returned to his chariot races. Knowing the temperament of Elagabalus, his advisors that had kept the Putilov Empire lurching along throughout his now twenty six year reign, turned to the Emperor’s son Caracalla.

Caracalla listened carefully to the tales. After brief consultation with his advisors, Caracalla ordered a contingent of Imperial hussars to ride down into the valley and investigate under the command of his cousin and chief of the Imperial Cavalry, Marshal Murat.

Keeping their distance, the hussars watched the three dragons they had located as they lazily flew above them in the blue sky, sat on the nearby grey and white boulders and sipped at the flowing blue waters of the Putilov River.

The existence of the dragons now confirmed, Caracalla found the oldest and wisest mage that he could and sent him to Murat’s camp in the valley below. Along with the old mystic, he sent his friend Arthur Morgan, the young and brilliant son of a middle class merchant family who had expressed interest in the dragons.

By this time, more dragons had been spotted flying about other parts of the valley and lounging along the banks of the river. Though it was impossible at this time to get an accurate count of how many there were, it appeared that they numbered in the dozens.

All dragons had a pair of bat-like wings and scaly armor that appeared sharp and thick. Even the smallest of them were twice as large as the horses of the Imperial Cavalry and some were as large as the two story buildings of Putilov City. They all sported plumes of fur atop their lizard-like heads, differing in color, from deep reds to the blues as bright as the seas. When on land, they walked on four large and scaly legs, their footsteps slow and careful, their eyes a deep glowing yellow that seemed to betray a keen intelligence to all that took the time to stare.

Despite their best efforts, no one could determine the origin of the dragons or the reason for their sudden appearance. Polus Imo, Caracalla’s mystic, a man of seven decades who had spent his many years reading, studying and meditating on all that was unexplainable stared deeply at the creatures. Nearby, Marshal Murat sat on horseback, his scarlet uniform shimmering elegantly in the afternoon sun, his gold engraved sabre sheathed faithfully at his side.

“They don’t do much.” Polus said after a moment.

“No. Slow and lazy beasts, it appears.” Murat replied.

“Hmmm.” Polus stroked his long white beard with his frail right hand while leaning on his staff, drops of sweat brought on by the afternoon sun dotting the dark skin of his forehead. “I recall tales of beasts such as these from ancient times, dwelling in the caverns of the Kailash Mountains, beyond the Elven Woodlands.” Polus Imo muttered to himself, ignoring the brash young Marshal nearby, whose blonde hair waved in the breeze.

Polus looked up, catching the eyes of Murat and seemingly noticing him for the first time. “But, only tales they are. Or so I always suspected.” He allowed his dark brown eyes to gaze across the nearby dragon again, as the purple plumed animal bent its long neck and drank lazily from the river. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

Polus wiped the sweat from his forehead on the grey sleeve of his robe and shifted his weight. “Send a message to Emperor Elagabalus and Caracalla. Tell them to summon the Elven ambassador. Perhaps she can shed some light on this matter.”

Polus Imo stayed behind observing the dragons for as long as possible. However, when word came that Caracalla would be meeting with the Elven Ambassador Saraswati, he shut his old eyes and chanted a quick teleportation spell, whisking himself to the Imperial Palace.

That evening he met with Saraswati and Caracalla, Elagabalus II having determined his impromptu dinner party to be of greater importance. “Surely, you’ve heard of the monsters that dwell in the valley?” Caracalla opened the meeting, his dark brown eyes moving suspiciously up and down Saraswati’s thin frame.

“I’ve heard the stories, my liege.” Saraswati’s purple eyes meeting Caracalla’s. “But I have yet to see them for myself.”

Caracalla nodded, his long curly hair falling about his sharp features as he moved, taking a sip of wine. He glanced at Polus Imo. “I recall tales…” The old mystic began, speaking softly, as if recalling a dream. “Of beasts such as these that dwelt in the caves of the Kailash Mountains.”

Saraswati chuckled. “Master Polus, are you asking me to reveal my people’s secrets? You know that our knowledge is forbidden to humans and that the Kailash Mountains are sacred to my people.”

Caracalla shut his eyes and sighed, frustrated. After a moment he finished wine and stood to refill his crystal glass. Undeterred, Polus Imo continued. “By no means, Lady Saraswati. I would never dream of being so disrespectful. I am only trying to ascertain the nature of these strange monsters.”

“I understand, Master Polus. But I’m afraid there is little that I can offer in that regard.”

Polus Imo smiled kindly at the Elven ambassador and stood with a light groan. “Then I believe this meeting has ended. My humblest apologies for having wasted your time.”

Saraswati returned Polus’s kind smile and also stood. “No bother at all, Master Polus, I hope that-”

“Enough of this nonsense!” Caracalla shouted, interrupting the ambassador and flinging his crystal glass to the floor where it shattered. “Just tell us where these things came from and why they’re here!”

Saraswati stood still and met Caracalla’s red hot gaze. “My Liege, I am sorry, but I can not reveal the secrets of my people.”

“Bullshit! We’re not asking about the secrets of your people, we’re asking if those damned monsters are going to burn us all alive.”

Saraswati paused, shutting her eyes for a moment and took several deep breaths. “My Liege, I do not believe that the dragons mean you any harm. I am truly sorry, but I can not say any more than that.”

With that, Saraswati left the room, moving silently. “Well, there you have it.” Polus said. “I concur with the good ambassador. I do not think the beasts pose any significant threat. I do believe Marshal Murat would agree as well.”

Caracalla said nothing. “On that note, I shall return to my study, My Liege. No threat, these creatures may be, but learn more, I must.” With that, Caracalla was left alone to contemplate his next steps.

And so, as the weeks bled into months, the dragons lost much of their initial appeal to the people of The Putilov Empire. Certainly, they were still marvels and wonders to be seen, but more akin to a beautiful sunset or a magnificent waterfall. A natural wonder to be admired, but not altogether amazing or noteworthy. After three weeks Marshall Murat and his hussars were recalled from the valley, beckoned by a potential war with the Kingdom of Wilhelmshaven.

But Arthur Morgan, the young scholar and merchant lingered. Numerous times, he was beckoned to return by his father. But every time he rebuked, stating that he wished to continue observing the dragons. Eventually, his father’s requests turned to demands. It was thus that Arthur found himself disinherited from his inheritance.

When notice of this disinheritance reached Arthur, he simply held the letter in his hand and sighed. Turning to his faithful servant and advisor Michael, he muttered: “Seems the old man has gone and done it.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Michael replied.

“No matter.” Arthur dropped the letter and allowed the cool breeze of the valley to catch it, lifting it off the soft green grass and into the blue skies beyond.

Arthur continued to observe, particularly interested in the white and blue flames the dragons exhaled with nearly every breath. Finally, after nearly a year had passed, Arthur spoke to Michael: “I need you to fetch me a team of mercenaries. Ex-military. The strongest you can. And bring a mage that is proficient with sleeping spells.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning, sir?”

“Something big, my friend, something big.”

Arthur continued to stare at the nearby dragon. Its yellow eyes were nearly shut as it dozed in the afternoon sun, its purple plumes rustling in the wind and small flames shooting out of its nostrils. In his eye, a look of covetous, ravenous hunger seemed to have consumed Arthur.

Arthur continued. “I will also need you to procure the following supplies. And three hundred expendable workmen. ”Arthur handed Michael a scrap of paper with a hastily written list scrawled on it.

Shovels, nails and lumber equipment. Metal pots and cauldrons. Pickaxes, chains and drills. It seemed as if Arthur were planning on building a large structure and deep mine.

“Sir Arthur…” Michael cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“How will we pay for all of this? Even if your father had not disinherited you from the family wealth, it would not be enough to gather so many men and supplies.”

Arthur sighed and handed Michael another letter and returned his mad gaze to the sleeping dragon. “Bring this Elagabalus and Caracalla. If he refuses then continue showing it to all of the noble families of the Empire. Someone has coin to spare and is eager to make a fortune.

The next morning, having been briefed on Arthur’s plan, Michael returned to Putilov City. Finding mercenaries was easy. The bars and taverns of the city’s Red District were full of them and the ending of the short war with Wilhelmshaven had left a large number of soldiers with no pay and little to do.

“Fancy a job?” Michael cut straight to the point as he sat down next to the commander of a group of twelve soldiers.

The large, bald soldier stood at least a foot and a half taller than the squirrelly messenger. The man scratched his beard and belched loudly, the stench of cheap beer and gin hanging on his breath. “Always, little man!” He slammed his mug down onto the rickety wooden table causing it to tremble and slapped a large arm around Michael’s thin shoulder. “What’d you have in mind?”

Michael sighed and adjusted his thin glasses. “A dragon.”

The man laughed a deep belly laugh. “Kill a dragon?”

“Not kill, no.”

The man leaned in carefully, the smile disappearing from his face as his deep blue eyes moved up and down the smaller man. His interest piqued, the gregarious man had become an astute observer. “What’s this about?”

“Something that will make us all very rich.”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Well I like the sound of that.” He took a sip of his drink. “Name’s Pinkerton.”

The next day Michael dispatched Pinkerton and his eleven men to Arthur’s camp. With them, he sent a shrewd mage clad in grey and black named Marcus Mammon. Marcus Mammon had spoken little when Michael approached him, only nodding when asked if he could perform a sleeping spell on a large animal.

Next, Michael visited the imperial palace and due to Arthur’s friendship with Caracalla was granted an audience with the imperial family.

He quickly found that Elagabalus II would not be accommodating. The emperor sat on his throne, glass of wine in his right hand, his feet resting on the back of one of his servants, made to crouch on hand and knee. His thin left hand snaked around the waste of the daughter of one of his generals.

Elagabalus giggled as Michael spoke, peppering the young woman with soft kisses around her neck and ear, the sight of which caused Michael’s skin to crawl. The young woman’s dark eyes sank as she motionlessly shuddered.

Nearby, Caracalla listened carefully. As expected, the Emperor’s son continued to speak with Michael in the antechamber after he had been wordlessly waved away by Elagabalus.

“I respect Arthur Morgan.” Caracalla began, his brown eyes moving up and down Michael. He ran a large hand through his dark, curly hair. “And he is an intelligent man. I’m happy to give you some of the money and materials, but you must understand.” He lowered his voice and his eyes darted towards the large door to the throne room. “I just don’t have access to the royal treasury in the way I’d like.”

Michael nodded. “Whatever can be spared would be most appreciated by Sir Morgan. You will not be disappointed.”

With the aid of Caracalla, Michael was able to meet with the heads of all the noble families of the city. Many greeted him with stoic indifference. Others, angered by having to speak to a commoner that was the mere mouthpiece of a lowly merchant of non-noble birth, did little to hide their contempt. But a precious few nodded their heads and agreed to the loans. And in such a way, Michael was able to collect the money and began sending the requested supplies and laborers down to Arthur’s camp in the valley.

When Michael's tasks were completed several weeks later, he returned to the valley on horseback. Arriving late in the evening, he was shocked by what he found. Where once only the tenets of Arthur and Michael stood was now an organized camp.

The tents of laborers ringed a wood and metal skeleton of a building whose sheer size rivaled that of the Imperial palace. Nearby, holes had been dug into the mountainside and buckets of precious metals were being excavated.

Most shocking was the site in the center of the half built structure. Chained to the ground and unmoving, the purple plumed dragon lay. A metal cage had been built around it and chains clamped its magnificent wings to its body. Likewise large chains shackled the beast's legs to the ground and ran along its long neck so its head could not move off the ground. In front of the beast, a series of cauldrons into which the metals were poured. When the dragon flames touched the metals, they melted and the liquid was carted away to be cast into various items.

Laughing loudly, Arthur approached Michael on horseback. “What do you think, my friend?”

Michael looked about again, the shouts of the men around him continuing to work despite the sun vanishing. Large torches kept the entire site illuminated despite the coming darkness.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Arthur continued. “We have the miners and builders working around the clock. The structure should be complete in just another week. That’s when we’ll really be able to get started.”

“What is this?” Michael finally spoke.

Arthur smiled. “Progress, Michael, progress.”

So it was that the first Dragon Fire Factory of Putilov was built. The magical white hot flames of the dragon’s breath was used to melt the metal mined nearby and it was then shaped into all sorts of items, from silverware to swords.

A steady train of wagons and horses continuously to ferry the goods back across the Empire. The Imperial military found quick use for dragon fire weapons. Imbued with the magical flames of the beast, they were more lightweight and sharper than any other weapons.

The rich and middle class families craved the elegant luxury metals of the dragon fire items and snatched them up. The speed with which Arthur was able to have them produced allowed the market to be flooded and commoner and noble alike dutifully handed their money over to Arthur’s merchants in exchange for the trinkets.

As time continued, more and more uses for the dragon were found. Its purple plumes grew slowly, but could be plucked and fashioned into the most elegant and expensive of clothing. The sharp scales of the dragon were also picked from the body of the beast and fashioned into the most lightweight arrowheads that the land had ever seen. These became popular with both the military and with local hunters.

Within only a year, Arthur had repaid all of his investors ten fold and become so wealthy that only the Imperial family could claim to be richer. A new age had dawned.

Pinkerton’s ragged band ballooned into Arthur’s personal army. They rode the valley and became experts at capturing dragons. A mere 5 years after the first Dragon Fire Factory was constructed, three more facilities dotted the landscape, all dolling out specialty products and now employing thousands of laborers.

And so it was that the very face of the Empire became unrecognizable. The dragons that had previously circled the sky gracefully and brought such wonder to the eyes of children were in chains. The Dragon Fire Factories brought massive tenements and small scale merchants, pubs and brothels around them to the once pristine valley. The rushing blue waters of the Putilov River became bogged down with waste and metal run off from the casting facilities.

Consumed by the cities around the Factories, downstream farmers could no longer depend on the waters of the river for irrigation. And what water did still reach them was often brown and toxic. Crops began to fail and die.

Seeing no future on farms that were in some cases farmed by generations, young men and women began seeking employment in the Dragon Fire Factories. The hours were long, the heat unbearable and injuries and death commonplace.

When Brennus told his parents he was leaving for a Dragon Fire Factory his father sat stoically at their large kitchen table. His mother cried as she continued to stir the meager potato stew which had become the family’s most common meal.

“Next harvest…” Brennus’ father started.

“Will be even worse than this one.” Brennus finished, wincing as he saw pain wash over the older man’s face.

A long silence came over the household, broken only by the crackling of the stove fire and a single sob from his mother. Beside her, Brennus’ younger brother Benedict sat on the floor playing with wooden toy soldiers. Clutched to her right leg was the youngest of the family, his sister Boudica.

Brennus cleared his throat. “I’ll be able to afford a room and I’ll send home whatever else I make. You can put it aside for Benedict and Boudica.”

“Yes..” His father hung his head, staring at his large hands, cracked and broken from years of tilling the fields.

Two bad harvests brought on by the poor water had ruined the family and they had barely enough to feed themselves, let alone sell. Other farms had already been abandoned, left to the wolves and weeds.

A sleepless night later, in the dim light of dawn, Brennus set out on foot towards Dragon Fire Factory. His father and mother did not rise to meet him. Benedict stared icily at him for just a moment before wishing him well and returning to bed.

Boudica lingered for a moment longer. “Don’t go.” She finally cracked.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

Brennus sighed. “It’s just the way that it has to be.”

Not able to face her anymore, Brennus began his trek along the Putilov River, his meager belongings packed into a single knapsack strung across his shoulder.

His arrival to what had been dubbed Dragon Fire City was shocking. Rather than the organized cobblestone roads that characterized the established towns and cities of the Empire, the roads of Dragon Fire City were dirt, mud and dust. Piles of trash and waste had been pushed to corners of the roads to make room for the walkers, wagons and horses and the stench of manure, alcohol and smoke was nearly overpowering.

The buildings were hastily constructed wooden structures of one or two stories, usually a shop or pub on the first floor and apartments on the second. Canvas tents dotted any free space between the buildings, occupied by beggars, recent arrivals and those that had surrendered to whiskey and opium.

Shouts from drunkards mixed with those of merchants hawking their wares. A constant, thunderous, metallic clang could be heard from the massive Factory at the center of the town, the sound of the liquid metal being formed into the precious goods that had made Arthur Morgan rich.

When he arrived at the massive metal gate to the Factory, he found a sign pointing new applicants toward a smaller structure nearby. Inside, a single desk at the front of the room was occupied by a stout, bespectacled man shuffling through papers.

“Name?” The man asked without looking up as Brennus approached him.

“Brennus.”

“Family name?” The man sighed, frustrated.

“Laochra.”

“Age?”

“17, sir.”

“Any skills?” The man looked up, his beady blue eyes quickly running up and down Brennus’ tall frame.

“I..” Brennus stammered. “I mean, I worked on the family farm. I can ride horses and am decent with a bow and arrow.”

The man sighed, returning his eyes to his paperwork below and scribbled something. “So that would be a no then. At least you’re young and strong.” He looked up again. “You can move heavy things, right?” He said sarcastically.

“Yes sir.”

The man nodded and tore a slip of paper, handing it to Brennus. “Be at the front gate at dawn tomorrow.”

Brennus stood for a moment, his trembling hand holding the slip of paper, a series of numbers scribbled on it after his name.

The man sighed again and looked up. “What is it, Laochra?”

“Sir, do you know where I could stay?”

The man nodded. “Company barracks are just across the street. You can stay there and they’ll take the costs of the accommodation directly out of your pay.”

For the second night in a row, a sleepless night passed for Brennus. The bed was small and lumpy, the room hot and stank of sweat and vomit. Outside the shouts and din of the city continued into the night. Many occupants of the crowded room snored loudly in the rows of identical bunk-beds.

The next morning, a meager breakfast of stale bread and flavorless porridge was provided, eaten quickly in near silence at a long wooden table. As their meals were devoured, the men and women stood and began to make their way to the factory. Despite being revolted by the meal and wishing for his mother’s home made chicken and vegetable platter (or even her potato stew), he gobbled down the meal and followed the rest of the poor denizens to the factory.

So began Brennus’ first day in the hell that was the employ of Arthur Morgan.