Fabric Dragons

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Back then there was warm sun on young skin, rolling verdant fields and distant snow-peaked mountains. The simple farming town of his youth rose from these flickers of nostalgic memories.

Now there were dragons on every corner.

They crawled on banners of sanguine, their claws outstretched and wings upturned - a predator in wait. They were sewn onto fierce ensigns of occupation hanging on every wall.

There were other dragons too; metal dragons, in the shape of men. Scaled with chainmail,

they carried crimson blades and stared with burning eyes through the slits of a great helm. Farnis could tell they were suspicious of him; their hands were never far from their sheathes and their chests were puffed out to display their draconic insignia prominently. Young fools, thought Farnis. His anger grew as he watched them banter. His silent rage would lend strength to strike them both down. But his design was grander, and its sweetness would be spoiled by spilling petty blood.

He turned away from them and observed Syruse. The town was much as he remembered. Tucked within mountains, reeking of sheep shit. They had rebuilt the barns, storehouses and homesteads. To some unknowing traveller, it would seem the town had survived centuries untouched. There was one distinction, their Yuvic Chapel with its painted glass windows was gone - replaced by an intrusive Fire Temple, which spewed smoke from its eternal flame.

Farnis made his way into the town, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The watchers exchanged words and approached him. He turned with a smile that hid silent anger. Their image brought forward painful remembrances, of dragon shadows with the silhouettes of men - cast against burning horizons. Their swords were drawn and bloody, Pyromancers stood with them, blasting great lances of flame from their fire-staves.

“You! What’s your business here?” shouted one of the Guards, ripping Farnis from his memory. He found that in his daze, he had placed his hand in position to draw his blade. Startled, he almost forgot his words.

“I am a Mendicant Knight, seeking employment with your liege,” Farnis said with the tenor of a plucky squire. The guards seemed confused, indeed Mendicant Knights were known to seek employment from lower lords, but his appearance in the seat of some backwater mountain Margravate was curious.

“Work… here?” questioned the Dragon guard.

“Aye.”

“I, uh- mean no disrespectin’ Sir Road Knight, but why ‘ere? It’s a small town.”

“My fellows! I’m passing through, that is the way of Mendicant Knights after all! From one liege to another!” Farnis said. The Guards laughed awkwardly. There were flashes of violence in Farnis’ mind, again he saw himself cutting them down. “Could you take me to your Lord-Priest?”

“Aye. Aye, we can. This way Sir.”

The Guards led him triumphantly, likely set in the belief that they will be rewarded for their ‘initiative.’ Farnis smiled wryly. For a common mercenary, he had played the dashing Road Knight well and granted himself an audience with the Wyrm.

The guards led him over the town’s worn cobbles, past the parasitic Fire Temple and its red-robed priests. The folk of Syruse watched with curious suspicion, outsiders were rare, armed outsiders rarer. Not only was Farnis armed, but his snowy skin denoted him as not Southron. Farnis was sure some among the town thought that he looked native to the Margravate. They arrived on a hill where Farnis remembered a Martyr Shrine once stood, now a modest Keep watched over; erected on the sacred ground as an insult to the Almighty. It was no larger than a watchtower, built of simple indigenous rock. Its crenels were decorated with intricate draconic gargoyles, that perched above swaying dragon banners. One of the dragon men rushed forward and rapped on the Keep’s thick wooden doors. There was a shunting of locks, and the door creaked open. A man stood in the opened doorway, his sparse grey hair framed a sharp, frowning face. It was a face he saw often standing in the doorway of his mind - but younger, with twisted sadism. In the present, he seemed more like a rudely roused old man.

“What is it?” He snapped, he scanned the two Guards that accompanied Farnis, but his eyes went wide when he saw the stranger. “Who-?”

“A Mendicant Knight m’lord, here to serve.” answered one of the Guards

“A Mendicant?” replied the Lord-Priest.

“Aye.” Farnis said, stepping forward.

“Good sir, do come in.” the Lord-Priest stepped to the side and outstretched his hand to beckon him in. “You two, stay out there.”

The inside of the tower was decorated simply, warmed by a crackling hearth fire. A small Dragon idol watched from a dining table. “What brings you over these mountains, Road Knight? To my small Margravate,” said the Lord-Priest.

“Adventure, I suppose. I travel, and I fight. I’ve fought on the beaches of Aleria and the riverbanks of the Augurate. I swear myself to whichever lord I find.” The Lord-Priest took a seat beside the fire. It cast sharp and deadly shadows across his face. The light twisted the Lord-Priest’s face until Farnis saw in him that vicious young warrior.

“What is your name?”

“Sir Farnis”

“Sir Farnis. Are you a man of piety?” The Lord-Priest stared deeply, with intense serpentine eyes.

“My God is War.” Farnis tapped on his sheathe lightly, “my prayer is the sound of battle. I have pledged to a dozen Gods, but War is who I serve.” The Lord-Priest cast his eyes downwards and grumbled in thought.

“Only the faithful can be inducted to serve the Great Dragon.”

“I am faithful to battle.”

“The Great Dragon is Lord of the glorious battle.”

“Then it seems I am sworn to the Dragon.”

“Some would consider it unorthodox.”

“There aren’t many Inquisitors deep in the mountains,” replied Farnis. The Lord-Priest scanned Farnis in silence.

“But there are many brigands. Brigands who kill my sheep and take my provisions.”

“An extra sword would aid that problem.”

“I warn you, to be inducted is to be branded with the Dragon’s seal.”

“It is just another scar.” smiled Farnis, and the Lord-Priest eyes squinted, inspecting.

“Very well, I suppose I could elect you temporarily as a Knight in my service.”

“I am grateful, m'lord.”

“Submit to me - and we will discuss the terms of your contract.” The Lord-Priest took a branding iron from a rack and sank it in the glowing ashes of the fire. “Follow my words carefully Knight.” Farnis nodded and sank to one knee.

“I pledge to accept the Great Dragon as the fuel of my soul”, recited the Priest, Farnis repeated his words. “I accept his burning baptism, as a mark that binds me to him. I will strike down his enemies. I will never falter and never wane. I will burn bright like his Ever-soul.” The Lord-Priest grabbed the branding iron, its end now a vibrant orange. It hovered near Farnis’ shoulder. “Pull down your tunic.” he requested. Farnis followed the order, dragging down his tunic. Beneath there was a burned scar; a branded seal of a Dragon. The Lord-Priest's eyes shot wide, darting to the face of Farnis. The bold, and cheerful look had been replaced with a stare of cold anger. Words began to bubble from the Priest’s lips. The realisation flaring in his eyes.

Farnis’ hand shot forward, grabbing the handle of the brand and ripping it from the Priest’s control. Before he could react, Farnis’ other fist smashed him to the ground. He careened into his table, knocking down the Dragon idol, smashing it to pieces on the floor. The Priest cried out in pain. His Guards rushed in at the noise, “m’lord! Wha-“

Farnis was ready. His blade sliced clean through the hand of the first man, who reeled backwards screaming. His friend behind him froze, reaching for his weapon. Farnis shoved his sword into the Guard’s stomach.

“Knave! What are you doing!?” cried the Lord-Priest. Farnis did not answer him but withdrew his sword from the carcass. “Why?” Farnis moved silently towards the Priest. “Who are you? Pagan! Who!?” Farnis’ sword clattered as he threw it to the ground, with his now free hand he grasped the Priest’s collar.

“I am Farnis of Syruse”, he spat, slamming the Priest to the floor. “Do you remember me, lizard-worshipper?”

“I- No-” he whimpered.

“This was a nice valley before you Dragons came.” Farnis ignored him. “We were Shepherds, fucking Shepherds.” His now scorching anger overcame him, and he slammed his fist into the slobbering face of the Priest. “The fight was between our Lords - but we suffered. You. You burnt down our village. We did nothing. NOTHING!” Farnis grew increasingly manic, the Priest winced in pain and fear. “You stole, you raped, you killed us..” Farnis paused, eyes burning with vengeful madness. “You took your brand and seared my skin. And you know what you said to me?” The Priest was silent. “DO YOU?”

“W- What?” Said the Lord-Priest. Farnis grinned.

“It is just another scar.” Farnis readied the brand above the Priest’s face.

“They’ll find you! They’ll kill you!”

“I’m sure they will,” said Farnis. “I count on it, I don’t plan to stop with you. I will kill your Duke. I will kill your Patriarch, and I will kill your Dragon-King. I won’t stop until all your fires are ashes. Extinguished.”

Farnis pressed the brand against the Priest’s face. He screamed and writhed as his flesh bubbled, melting around the iron press. He tore it away, sending a scatter of steam drifting upwards. The Lord-Priest still breathed a painful raspy breath. Farnis stamped him again, then again - each thrust growing more brutal. Finally, he let the brand fall from his fingers. The Priest was a bloody, steaming mess. Farnis got up, retrieved his sword and left. His shoulder burned, but he shrugged it off. The road to the Flaming City was a long one.