Roana’s Song

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Kolt village wasn’t always at war with the Shad’il’Ar. And Dyie’s father once had been human. Dyie paused on the overgrown path to “the valley” as he recounted these events. Thirteen years had passed since that day. He pressed his hand to his chest, the old familiar scar that continued to burn despite the layers of charmed leather and etched sigils beneath his breastplate. Newt, a tutelary spirit that looked like a confused crossbreed between an axolotl and a barn cat, popped his head out of Dyie’s shoulder pack and let out a soft, yet concerned squeaking meow of sorts.

“I’m quite alright Newt,” Dyie said, “it just burns more the closer we get to the valley.”

Newt head-bonked Dyie in the back of the head before returning to his cozy compartment within the pack that showed countless years of traveling. Dyie set the pack down by a scorched remnant of a tree stump, and sat with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back, haunting the inner sanctum of his mind like frenzied banshees in a shouting match. He felt possessed by these visons, taking siege of his consciousness and taking him back to his thirteenth birthday.

***

Kolt village was celebrating. It was the first time a male son had lived long enough for his passage into “Ard’ivant”, the transition into his training of becoming a Preserver of Faith. And this wasn’t just any son, but the progeny of Varm, the chief to Kolt village. The village was convinced that this was a sign that their curse had ended, and the celebration was more than a birthday, but an ecstatic release of the pain they carried for their lost sons.

A forbidding example of a man, towering well over 6 feet with long silver hair that flowed over a hardened face, but with kind eyes, stepped out of the central most cabin. Varm happily welcomed the lively sights in the central plaza, overrun with food, laughter, and praises to the Goddess. It had been too long since Varm had seen the village in such high spirits, and he couldn’t stop the smile that added yet another crow’s foot to his growing collection. “Today sorrow ends,” he spoke softly to himself.

“I beg to differ,” an intrusive voice sounded within his mind. Varm’s face quickly snapped back into hardened scowl, and he surveyed the area. To the left of the Roin’s sweet cart, in an alley between the tavern and blacksmith, hunched a cloaked figure emanating deceit. Varm caught a glimpse of the figure's face, or what he thought was a face, but appeared almost amphibian. The figure gestured with a pale blue hand, and Varm followed the stranger deeper down the alley. No one else seemed to notice at all.

"What business do you have here,” yelled Varm at the slinking figure, who almost seemed to merge with the shadows.

“Have you ever wondered why all the sons of this village die before their thirteenth birthday?” asked the stranger.

"What are you getting on about,” Varm asked, poised to tackle this… thing at the first sign of danger. The stranger kept his face hidden, and when he spoke, Varm could swear that it sounded like it was coming from inside his head.

“Your village isn’t cursed by the goddess, and its not yet free either. There will be more deaths, more pain, more sorrow. Unless…”

“Unless what,” Varm demanded

“Go to the Valley and bring your son, I will meet you there.”

And as mysteriously as he appeared, he vanished through some sort of trickery or Magick, and Varm wondered if he had even been there at all. With a trepid resolution, Varm made his choice and wearily headed back towards the festivities.