The Cycle

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. In fact, if you had just a bit o’ patience, you could simply walk right in and have the whole place to yourself. They’d be none the wiser. Unless you took something, of course.”

A mischievous grin snaked across Raman Igado’s wrinkled, leathery face as he sat atop the edge of the tavern table. The curious crowd gathered closer, and the cloaked old man’s eyes darted from patron to patron beneath the shadow of his grey hood. They reminded him of wide-eyed children eager for a bedtime story. He had them.

“It’s their curse, you see. Always needing more, more, more. It never lets ‘em sit still for long. So they often leave in droves, the elders wanting to pile up their hoards higher and higher, and the young’uns looking for just the right remedy to their newfound greed. You just had to wait ‘til they all left together. And, of course, make your exit before they returned. Simple, really. Or at least it was in my younger days.”

He chuckled and swallowed a bit of spiced cider before continuing, some of it spilling into his ashen beard.

“The Valley is gorgeous. It’s a true shame so few will ever glimpse it. Or maybe more accurately, live after glimpsing it. The river at the floor sparkles with the purest water, the surrounding plains shine green as emeralds, the pines that climb the hills stand like sentinels, and all of it is cradled between mountains that reach high enough to challenge the gods themselves. I tell you, friends, it’s no shame to weep at the spectacle of it all.”

Raman let forth a deep, wistful sigh.

“And the dragons. What beasts. With luck, you only saw them from the safety of cover as they flew out into the world, but even that fleeting glance could humble you.”

“But what about their treasures? Tell us!”

Impatient, inquisitive voices filled the room. Adults with child-like wonder.

“Yeah! Tell us!”

The old man laughed. People were always more interested in the spoils.

“Ah. Well. What most folks don’t know is that dragons don’t hoard only gold and jewels like the tales tell. Their curse of avarice is more about the act of acquiring itself, whatever the object. I’ve seen mountains of books that would shame the biggest libraries, caves of ancient artifacts that would be the envy of the wealthiest collectors, and also the biggest pile of slightly red leaves anyone has ever seen. Some just focus on accumulating knowledge. It’s fascinating, really, if perhaps a bit sad. Awe-inspiring majesty tempered by cruel fate.”

Raman stared down into his tankard and sloshed around the remaining contents. The low evening lamplight of the tavern made him appear all the more pensive.

“So what proof have you of all this, old man? Or are you merely a wandering storyteller?”

A deep voice boomed from the back of the tavern. The room turned to see a dark-haired mustachioed man leaning against the far wall, his thick arms folded across his burly chest. A sword hung at his side. He began to approach Raman, one hand resting on the blade’s hilt as he moved.

“The Valley’s at least three months’ journey from here. Surely you didn’t come all this way to regale us with grand tales of beasts and adventure and treasure without so much as a single bauble to show for it.”

He stopped in front of the table, towering over the seated elder.

“Does your dragon story have any teeth, old man?” His voice was somewhere between curiosity and threatening.

The crowd began to murmur. They wanted an answer, too.

“Ol’ Domm’s got a point! Show us something!”

“Yeah! Prove it! Show us!”

Raman smirked ever so subtly beneath his beard. He glanced up at the large man before him and then toward the throng surrounding him. He had been waiting for this.

He let out a sigh and gestured for the brute known as Domm to give him space to stand. The brawny man grunted but obliged. Then, with a flourish of speed and dexterity that betrayed his age, Raman sprang off the table onto his feet and flung open his cloak so they might all see what he wore beneath it.

The crowd gasped and fell silent.

A resplendent gilded breastplate set with innumerable flawless gemstones of dazzling colors wrapped around his chest. A golden-hilted dagger with an equally extravagant red-jeweled pommel gleamed from its fine leather sheath on his waist. The illustrious items practically lit the room with their splendor.

Raman Igado flashed a wide grin and bowed.

“Like I said, my friends, there aren’t always dragons in the Valley. And that’s the best time to rob them. Now, would anyone like to join me?”