King of the Dragons

Deep in the overgrown swamps of the Shamo Tail, blackened woods so thick that the Nightmare War was never able to break through to the region's macabre natural beauty, a beast’s cry was heard that had previously never been heard in this world of toxic pools and withered trees. It is a common summation throughout the cosmos that there are few things more frightening than the cry of a baby when there is no reason for a baby to be present. This is true, of course, among humans of a certain age, as if some hazily remembered protestations of a young man’s bachelorhood provided by his grandchild-starved mother over a holiday dinner table universally turns young adults into infantophobic wretches. But while the unexpected tears of a child in the middle of the night can be quite a shock to the childless, the unexpected laughter of a child can be all the more terrifying. Sure enough, sitting in a pool of mud under the shade of a burnt-out old oak tree, giggling away as it slapped chubby hands onto the soft mud, was a baby. A baby that seemed to be oblivious to the fact that it was being closely watched.

Indeed, most of the local wildlife had fled from this terrifying mysterious monster. This particular bit of wilderness was so remote that most of the animals living here had never even seen a human in their short animal lives, but instinct rang off like a warning bell for most of the squirrels, rabbits, deer and even wolves and cougars. In the wake of this mysterious and no doubt terrifying new monster toddling in earnest around a tree in an empty grove, every nonsapient creature for miles around the Executioner’s Wood fled and abandoned their homes in favor of wilderness somehow even more remote than this natural cesspit. that had only been given its name by explorers who’d never come within fifty miles of it. To be fair to those early settlers, it was not the literal fear of capital punishment that inspired the name Executioner’s Wood. Curious..., came a thought that was almost loud enough to hear normally

Helorax had not moved a muscle since the child’s abrupt and rather tragic abandonment. It had been quite some time since the old wyrm had seen a human either, but a dragon does not frighten as easily as a wolf. Black, white and brown speckled scales kept Helorax perfectly hidden while a small contingent of human riders set about their ignoble task. Helorax had never had much interaction with humans even before the War drove the dragons from civilization, and this random occurrence filled him with questions that he dare not ask. While a full grown swamp dragon certainly had little to fear from even five heavily armed humans, as had appeared before him today, but the memories of dragons are long. Helorax had seen one human become five as reinforcments craweld out from whatever underworld spawned the wretched creatures. Five humans had a tendancy to turn into tweny-five, and twenty-five into a hundred and twenty-five. Combat between a dragon and an unknown number of humans bore a striking resemblance to combat between a mouse and a colony of ants, in Helorax’s opinion, the more unsure you are of their plan of action, the more likely you are to be going home in the bellies of a thousand insultingly lesser creatures. So Helorax kept his distance and bided his time.

The humans’ erratic behavior during their brief stay in the dragon’s grove did nothing to make their goals clearer. There were five male humans an one female, or possibly the other way around. The only indicator he had for their genders was the baby in the female’s arms, and the beards worn by the males. They came to a stop on a small dry patch of land less than twenty feet from Helorax and began survey their stop with expressions of the utmost discomfort. Helorax wondered what they were looking for when one of the smaller males made brief eye contact with him, and it became clear that the rumor of a dragon not seen in centuries might give humans the same kind of reservations he had about them. He knew why; of course he knew why, he was a dragon after all. He’d heard the Songs sang by ancient dragons who rode the primeval air currents far above the clouds, so far up that they could not be seen with the naked eye from the ground. He knew history, that his people could be walking cataclysms if they wanted to. But what the humans had, what they always had, were numbers.

Once the men, that was what humans called their males, had ensured the parties safety to lowest acceptable standard, the woman, for that’s what she was called, slid from her horses back like she was being dragged by the ankles. The woman had eyes that looked engorged and pink, as if they had been filled with water. She was thin and gaunt; however the humans were faring in the world that they’d inherited, it didn’t look to be any easier than when the elves were in charge. Wordlessly, almost carelessly, she lowered the baby onto the damp loam and turned back to her horse, almost without a second look. The men did not look at the baby at all, instead using their short respite to unceremoniously drop a few blankets around the child. Helorax was baffled. Do they plan to leave the child here? He thought. Have humans begun to reproduce so rapidly that they no longer love their children? That couldn’t have been it. The dragon could sense strong unending sorrow coming from the woman. She knew that she was leaving her baby to die, and she felt just as much sorrow and shame as any other mother in that position. So why is she doing it?

The humans had turned back from whence they’d come nearly two hours ago and the baby had yet to notice the house sized dragon resting in the water right next to him. Helorax was good at hiding, far better than anything so large has any right to be, owing to his stonelike patience, and a rippled hide that could make him look just like a tree. He had a lifetime of practice staying hidden for days, weeks even months at a time, but this time, he felt that a direct approach would be more appropriate. To keep the child from panicking at the sight of an enormous yew tree suddenly coming to life and transforming into a swamp dragon, Helorax covered the area with a simple glimmer that would show the same background swamp that the child would have gotten used to by now. Behind his cover, the reclusive dragon took only a few heaving breaths to attune himself with his magical presence, generating a hum of ethereal energy that crackled silently along his skin like static. He braced himself and began a transformation into his human form so that the baby would be more comfortable. As usual he was unable to do anything about the color mottling of his skin. He had patches of skin the color of tar, other patches the color of clouds, and others the color of almonds all sitting next to each other and refusing to mix the colors, as if this was some great sin.

“Hello, manling,” he said as he stepped out from behind the glimmer. WIth his skin splotched like a common salamander and clothing magically created from local foliage, Helorax wasn’t certain he’d actually done anything that would make the child more comfortable. Perhaps the wyrm form would have been better. It didn’t seem to matter to the child, who reacted as if Helorax was a long-lost friend. Helorax was surprised to see the uncertainty with which the child rose to its feet. For some time he thought the child was making a joke of him, pretending to be unable to stand up, but after some time of struggle, the child decided it would be quicker just to crawl. The dragon was amazed, he’d never seen a human so... powerless. Had he been a younger dragon, and had he still been wrapped in the throes of indignant rage that plagued his adolescence, he might’ve taken the opportunity to do something heinous, enacted some unearned retribution on this innocent child for... what? Vengence? No, Helorax thought as he bent to lift the child, an act of vengeance is no different than any other act of violence. And like any other act of violence, engaging with revenge over ancient history would be more likely to end in Helorax’s death than any other.

Suddenly, the grove was being drowned in the sound of hoofbeats from all directions. Helorax did not want to waste this form, so he prepared to lash out with magic while he held the boy in one arm. This proved a wise move, as there seemed to be three small armies, gangs at the very least, bristling with barbed weaponry, being filled with promises by some strangers in stupid outfits. Helorax tried to speak, but, living a life of isolation it had been so long since he’d spoken using his throat that he first had to spend around fifteen seconds hacking out the cobwebs before he could actually speak. He was also very out of practice with the human language, so after his apologies for the sin of coughing, he then had to ask “I’m sorry, what did you say?” to every person he interacted with for weeks. People were itching for a fight, just not with him.

“We said we demand you release the child!” came the shrill cry of a man who looked like he’d been born from a beanpole. “It does not belong to you and if you do not return it to us this instant we shall be forced to take action!” Helorax looked at the man. He looked like poorly blown glass, stiff and would shatter at the slightest provocation.

“Return it to you?” Helorax said after boring into the man’s eyes for no less than 30 seconds. This had been the right thing to say, Deko could see the cracks appearing. “I was here when the child was abandoned.” he said “You don’t look like his parents.” The man didn’t want to give up so soon.

“We are his legal guardians!” he snapped back, almost sounding as if he meant it.” So you just let the child that was in your custody, we will take him and cause you no more trouble.” it was amazing. All Helorax has to do is stare at people he thinks are acting out and they start acting better. The man had started his sentence as a lion, and ended it as a mouse.

“Why this child?” Helorax asked suddenly. “There must be thousands of orphans throughout Ikar, why do you want this one?” And why did those people who left him look so panicked? Why do THESE humans look just ask frightened? If the first group wasn’t frightened of this group, and Helorax was confident that they weren’t, then what were they frightened of? As if being led by the chin by the god of revelations, Helorax’s gaze came upon the loose blankets the child had been sitting next too. One of them looked a little... sharp. Oh God’s Above... Helorax moaned. He pulled up the blanket to reveal... a solid gold crown, one small enough that it might not have been able to fit on an apple. It’s their king, Helorax thought suddenly understanding. The heralds were shouting again, having taken his deep silence for a slowness of thought.

“Have you gone deaf as well as dumb!?” one of them was shouting. “You listen to me, you simpleton. If you don’t hand that baby over right this bloody instant, we are going to-” The man’s sentence ended in a choke. His eyes rolled to the very back of his skull, seeking relief from the noxious gas that had taken their life. The man’s skin sunk with a quickness that implied life was being sucked out of him, whereas the truth was that death was being pumped in. One of Helorax’s arms remained cradling the baby as it shifted back into thick forelimb. Great membranous wings sprouted from his peat robes, a long barbed tail coiled from beneath his skirt, dripping with naturally produced poisons. Black and white mottled skin stretched over a face that elongated to the shape of an aligator with several more teeth.

“As you can see,” Helorax said aloud with his magnificent dragon voice, like a speaking volcano, “I have kidnapped your king. He will be staying with me in the swamps for the forseeable future.” He looked at each of the men present for meaningful moments. “Now. Who wants to be the survivor?”