The Day The Sky Burned

There weren’t always Dragons in the valley. They used to stay high in The Sword-Fang Mountains, hiding away in great hollow caverns beneath rocky peaks. The people of the mountains had fled into the valleys to escape the Dragon’s wrath, but some had little choice but to brave the treacherous craggy paths.

The elves of the Red Fang valley were one of these communities trapped by the arrival of the dragons. To survive, their people sent runners. Elves of great stamina and speed would run across the treacherous paths and through the tunnels under the mountains to move supplies, wealth and information between the people. This is the story of one of these runners, Taeral Elaxidor of the Red Fang Valley.

The night was stormy, with sleet and the storm made travelling over the mountains a fatal prospect. The only way forward was to travel underneath the mountain along the dragonspine pass. The tunnel was quiet, and the only sounds were the distant and odd drips of moisture and the wind down the tunnel. It was dark save for the lantern in the young stone elf’s hands.

It illuminated just a few feet ahead, but that was enough. He breathed, and his breath misted in his vision. He pulled his warm fur coat about him and kept moving, as much to stave off frostbite than any actual progress made. Upon his back was a heavy load. Metals from the Gold Claw valley and their mines. These would make for good tools and weapons for his people. 

He had travelled over the mountain a few weeks prior, carrying exotic gems from his people. He had been sighted by a young drake during his travels and had to hide away for a day to avoid the draconic beast, no doubt hungry with greed for the gems he carried. The people of Gold Claw were kind and welcomed the young elf with open arms, more than likely because of the gems he carried more than any actual goodwill. But perhaps that was the cynicism setting in.

He was only one hundred and eight years of age. A blink in the life of an elf, but even by his people's standards, he showed a maturity and cynicism that well exceeded those his age. They called him an Old Soul. He just called himself more clever than the other elves his age.

He moved onwards through the cold dark tunnel, his thick boots leaving echoing footsteps that heralded his movement whilst the cold chill from the whistling wind numbed his dull grey skin. His legs protested against the continued march, but he was already running late. He needed to get home to his sisters before they ruined the house beyond repair. His grandmother could only do so much to keep up with four young and headstrong elven girls. Thoughts of the home did little to alleviate the feelings of fatigue and fear, for if the Drake had entered the tunnels to follow him, then he would not likely survive. All he could pray was that the Fatebinder had plotted a kind course for him.

He heard slithering and snarling from somewhere in the tunnel and froze. He paused and strained his ears to listen for any other sounds. It sounded like in one of the side passages that something was moving through quickly. The snarls warned that this was a drake. He heard its voice echoing through the tunnels. “Elfling. I can smell your fear. Where do you hide?” “I seek that which you carry. Give it to me and in turn, I will give you a quick death.”

Taeral paused for but a moment, that voice sounded as if it came from the eastern tunnel. He waited for just a moment to confirm his suspicions. He shuttered the lantern and breathed in deeply. His elven eyes picked out movement to his left. He sighed and began to run.

He heard a roaring laugh boom from behind him. “A chase is it? So be it. Run Little Elfling. Run!” And with a thundering roar, the Drake chased him.