Infernal Maw

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Something forced them here. What unimaginable force compelled these destructive beasts to flee their home is beyond my average intelligence. I am no scholar. I do not seek to study their origin, I strive to understand their nature, to survive their decimation, for dragons leave nothing in their wake save for ruin and death.

Before the dragons arrived, I was a ranger in the king’s army, but once I married and started a family I turned to the trade of my father – a hunter, but I also served as a guide and a scout. But all that came to an end when these beasts appeared in the Valley. I can still relive that day as if it was yesterday… The fiend was perched on the cliff-side watching as if the monster awaited my return to the homestead. I remember looking to the treetops upon seeing a shadow of spread wings plummeting towards me. I drew my bow and notched an arrow, but it was already too late. A spray of fire ignited everything in sight. Then with a great quake, the winged demon landed, splintering the scorched logs of my cabin. It gnashed and shredded my livestock, its tail thrashing about shattering any remaining structures, and in that action, it trampled my wife and little boy. Their screams of agony through the roaring fire are forever burned into my ears. I begged my former captain for the king’s troops to mobilize. I requested aid from my fellow rangers to hunt down this wretched beast. They all denied me revenge, thus, marking the beginning of my vendetta

After that day I turned my sights from game meat and pelts to clipping wings and ripping scales. I made it clear to all that I no longer hunted that which walks amongst the trees or prances upon the rocky slopes. Instead, my prey stalks the skies, shrouds the sun, and burns all that lives and grows in the Valley to ash. Death follows wherever they take flight and forever lingers like a disease upon the Valley. They are a plague that must be stopped before they bring ruin to all who call Kkrílöch Valley home.

At the beginning of my newfound profession, the noble houses sang odes of glory and heroism for me. They granted titles, bestowed land, and offered up their children for marriage. I denied it all save for the coin they threw at me – the fortune one can make from dragon scales! However, as my skills at hunting dragons grew, my revenge lusted for more, and soon life’s luxuries became frivolous gestures. Now I crave only the hunt, the kill, the annihilation of their numbers.

In the years since undertaking my vendetta, many more dragon hunters have emerged. All seem like children wielding sticks and playing soldiers to me. They undertake the soulless missions of scholars and nobles with the promise of wealth and glory. The fools seek to bring corpses, eggs, and once even a live dragon. Most end up dead, but the few that survive squander their fortune and think themselves immortal like the common folk believes dragons to be. These hunters often seek my aid, they do not understand that the tribulations of life no longer hinder my thoughts. They cannot comprehend that I only seek to quell the horde that continues to grow. The extermination of their kind is my end goal.

Over time my bloodlust against dragons brought me fame, and easily established me as the greatest dragon hunter in the Valley. But I also lost respect for the hunt due to my hatred for these devils. I forgot to value all life in the Valley and the meaning of the cycle of life. My father’s lessons of the wilderness were lost in my fury, and in that fury, I became blind to the wounds I left upon the land. It took the destruction of a copse of trees surrounding a small pond for me to finally see what I had become. The pond had been vaporized in the dragon’s fire breath, the trees burnt to stumps of white ash, and a plethora of amphibians, fish, snakes, birds, and a mother bear and her two cubs, lay charred and broken. I remembered the mother bear, for she once lived in a cave near my homestead. She raided my chicken coop one night, and I chased her off by blinding her right eye with my torch. She had raised herself onto her hind legs in defense of her cubs against the dragon before I arrived. The dragon had lashed out with its tail and cut her belly open with the tail spikes. The cubs were crushed under a toppled tree in the fight against me as they fled the scene. Once I returned to my cottage two nights later, I vowed that I would change and return to the man I once was.

The vendetta I began years prior remains. But I would pursue it with caution and contemplation for the life around me. My father’s first lesson comes to mind: Pluck too many currants for your pies and jams, and you'll soon notice diminished thrush populations, followed by fewer snakes, and then fewer mongooses – do you see the pattern? The reverse should be obvious as well. Bluebirds move in to nest with fewer thrushes about. Now you have a problem with raccoons and bears raiding your larders at night for they followed their prey. The balance of life is precious to every living thing. A farmer cannot control the growth of vegetables and berries if he and his fellows cannot control the deer and wild ram populations. But nothing controls the dragons. They have no natural predators; all are prey to these vile demons. The mountainsides have been laid to waste, exposing the scorched rock and making the land infertile. Their nests blot the cliff faces like boils upon the skin. They devour near whole herds of goats and sheep. Their kind has nearly destroyed the wildlife or chased many of their numbers out of the Valley. So, I continue my retaliation and seek to vanquish their presence from the Valley, but in doing so, preserve what life remains.

Thus, I began this journal, this bestiary on dragons. I dedicated the past fifteen years of my life to the intricate study of these massive and powerful creatures. I wish to show all those that live within the Valley of the chaos that is wrought upon the land as long as these creatures keep a presence here. Many dangers were risked for the research that follows, but the knowledge within these pages proves that dragons must be eradicated from the Valley if mankind desires to flourish here.

I do not claim to be a scholar, but these accounts will take an in-depth look at many of the educated theories on dragons. The fame I have earned and the experience I gained from hunting these monstrosities should help to calm unjustified fear. Rumors of immortality and unnatural strength and speed run rampant through the citizenry. The scholars whisper of magic coursing through dragon blood. The doomsayers claim Hellish origins, and that their presence in the Valley is a punishment for our transgressions. Other hunters claim dragons have intelligence beyond our own, and even proclaim telepathy. All such exaggerations will come to light in the accounts further in, but I listed a few major points I’d like to mention to ease into the journal.

First, they are not immortal beings that cannot be wounded or slain. They seem to have long life spans as some dragons yet live today from the time of their arrival in the Valley thirty years ago. Stand before them to witness their scars and you will find they are but flesh and blood and can be slain like any beast. Their strength is not legendary or a thing unmatched. Their power and speed are not to be underestimated but needs not be feared. A study of their anatomy will show you where to strike to prove mortality, and it will reveal their blind spots and teach you how to counter and use their strength against them.

Second, they are not fantastical or magical despite what the scholars proclaim, and even their fire-breath can be explained once they are opened from throat to rectum. They have a heart, lungs, two stomachs, a brain - primal at best; a chemical imbalance, and glands that produce the flames expelled from their throats. Yes, they can fly. A male’s roar is deafening and a female’s screech is ear-shattering. Their scales are stronger than steel but have no comparison to the mithril the dwarves weave into their armaments. Dragons are mighty foes indeed but are merely beasts and nothing greater.

Thirdly, they are not intelligent, and should not be worshipped or feared. Instead, their cunning instincts and superior predatory nature allude to intelligence. Despite rumor, I have yet to cross one that harnesses telepathy as some hunters proclaim. Would such a hunter even be alive if the monsters had such power? Dragons do not hunt in packs like wolves; thus, they can easily be outwitted. Be mindful of foraging or nesting females as they will call upon the aid of their mate. But this is not unnatural for many other animals. Intelligence is not limited to mental prowess, rather it can encompass a wide array of skill sets or talents. Dragons are simply the apex predator and common folk fears them through misunderstanding and exaggerating storytellers.

The preface stops at this point. Something about the abrupt halt in thought felt concerning. It was almost as though the writer was pulled away, distracted for a moment, but never returned to finish what remained to be said. The feeling faded just as quickly as it rose, and a sigh of longing replaced it.

A slender hand, worn and hardened by physical labor, slid the loose papyrus pages from their resting place within a rough leather-bound journal. A second hand, scarred all across the fingers and knuckles with tiny cuts; and second and third-degree burns splotched and patterned in no order all over the veiny back, began leafing through additional pages. These pages consisted of several notes jotted here and there over each page as if the note-taker was in the moment. Several sketches of organs, bones, limbs, eggs, gaping jaws, and whole dragons were scattered amongst the notations. Some notes and sketches were caressed as if fond memories existed for them.

The page-turning stopped on a blank page. Only a few pages remained in the book, each blank. Whether the journal was meant to end here, no one but the owner knew for sure. A single teardrop splashed on the papyrus during a moment of hesitation. The burned hand wiped it clear and then pinched together a few page corners and turned to the last page. On this page, blood droplets and one large smear had dried brown. The page was ripped from the binding in the bottom left corner, and crinkles ran through the page like a river branching out into streams and creeks. Amongst the damage was a note written hastily with ink blotches and droplets littering the page expressing the writer’s exhausted state. The hand used to write was laboring under tremors as the words were scrawled with long letters at parts and short in others. By a glance, one can assume this was a desperate attempt to relay one final message.

My daughter,

When you find this, know that I am dead. I know not if my body will remain, for I escaped my pursuers by entering the Infernal Maw. Yes, I said as much... All I have strength left to write is this - do not trust the dwarves. They are behind it all. The prince's death, the border skirmishes, and even the dragons... War and far worse is - the note ends there. The hands fall free from the journal, and the weight of the pages closes the back cover.

Shaking inhales and distressed exhales resonated in the silence. It was not sadness though that came next, instead, rage fumed. The burned hand reached for a worn but intricately carved bow. The other hand tightened a thick leather strap holding a quiver slung over the shoulder. A sword and a hatchet were grabbed and secured in a sheath and belt loop. A cured wolf pelt sewn into a weatherworn hooded cloak was swept across the figure's back, and the hood was pulled over dark, naturally curly hair. In the candlelight, the wolf’s eyes gleamed as if still alive. The figure stalked towards the door but stopped in front of a wall mounting a bear pelt crafted into a cloak in the same manner as the wolf. The burned hand reached out and stroked the coarse hair, stopping on a section where the fingers curled through a hole made by blade thrust. The wolf head, mounted on the hood of the cloak, lowered in mourning. Quickly the door swung open, and the wolf sprinted out the threshold with bloodthirst.

The hunt called.