Hound Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. The humans that lived there were simple beings, who grew food from the dust and used the hides of various beasts to cover their own skins. My dragon ancestors often watched the creatures silently from their place upon the mountain peaks, finding some slight amusement in doing so, as one mind find in a hare darting from shrub to shrub. No larger than hounds, with scales of crimson, green and brown—and a wing scale hardly suitable for gliding—they would pause from scampering about in the snow to gaze down at those curious beings in the valley. Then, a sudden warm gust of air would cause them to turn their gaze upwards to the great majesties of the sky, the seven colossal dragons who ruled over the so-called “hound dragons” in a manner that the humans would very well describe as divine. These gusts of air served as gentle reminders to my ancestors that the human realm was and would forever be, set apart from our own.

Although the human existence was a simple one, it was hardly a thriving one. Crops were scarce and the wild beasts that once dominated the valley were quickly vanishing from it altogether. Our great majesties, or the Seven Beasts, as the humans called them, were growing more and more restless with each passing century. Disease, famine, and untimely death amongst the humans became so rampant that they began shedding the blood of their brethren just to survive. The Seven Beasts feared that the humans would soon desperately venture into the highest peaks of the mountains, only to discover and slaughter our own brethren. Still, they watched in painful silence, thinly believing that the humans would ultimately cause their own extinction. Surely, nature was capable of running its own course; however, nature proved secondary to the humans’ cruelty when the sun rose on the day of the Great Tragedy, when the Cursed Widowed Mother mercilessly slaughtered her offspring in their sleep and stood outside her tiny shelter, laughing maniacally. Bedlam and outright war erupted amongst the humans that day, some millennia ago, and The Seven Beasts ultimately made their descent. They formed a circle at the center of the valley. Athair, the largest of the colossal beasts, stood at the front and without words, called their astonished, tiny brethren down from the mountain. Athair decreed that the tiny brethren would rule over the humans hence forth, acting both as their masters and their protectors.

Hearing their own master’s unspoken commands, the tiny brethren promptly tended to the corpses of the slaughtered human children, cleaning them with their own tongues and carrying them with their own mouths to the human place of burial. The humans, somehow hearing the commands themselves, dug shallow graves for the tiny brethren to place the tiny bodies. Crowds appeared at the burial site to dig deeper graves for the larger bodies, which were then covered with the dust and tears of the very men who had left them lifeless. Others tended to the rubble, fires, and invited sworn enemies into the few human shelters that remained.

The Seven Beasts were satisfied with what they saw and thus returned to the reign above the clouds. It is said that the skies opened up that day so that the tiny brethren could pause scampering about in the dust to gaze above at the great majesties; however, bitter gusts of wind served as harsh reminders that we tiny brethren would forever be separated from the realm of out gods.

“Scales, what are you doing, you silly hound dragon? Bring that milk bucket over here! Come on now…” I heard the sweet of voice of Miss Maggie, my frail, freckled human lass of 13, and I promptly turned my gaze toward her and my elder human, the one we called Grandpapa.