The End of a Relic

It was a frigid winter morning. The mountain wind cut right through the pillar-like trunks of the coniferous forest. It was a morning where things died. No human, elf, nor orc would dare find themselves out and about. Or so Kysinth would have thought, yet even though he had seen civilizations rise and fall, the moronity of mortals never failed to surprise him.

He lay, his massive dead-white scales camouflaging him, in an icy glade. To call it a glade would imply its a natural occurrence, a clearing would be more apt. When he decided to lay down, he simply did so, and trees got crushed beneath him or snapped and pushed aside.

As he was enjoying his morning dozing, a sound caught his attention. The crunching of footsteps through the silent morning. He cracked a single eye, like a giant crescent moon, staring at the tall, slender elf with a covered, squirming bundle, strapped to its back. It looked around, seeing nothing but a wall of white, presumably snow, shrugged the bundle from its back and laid it down in the snow, where Kysinth’s bulk blocked the bitter wind. The elf then, quick as a rabbit, turned and ran, never looking over its shoulder once.

The ground shook as the massive dragon lifted its head, both eyes fully open, as large as mountain ponds, and gently sniffed the squirming bundle. Kysinth was careful not to snort or breathe too deeply, as the bundle was easily small enough to shoot up his nostril and he did not want to experience that.

He detected an interesting amalgamation of scents coming from the bundle. It smelled of the elf that had just departed, as well as other elves, but it also smelled like orcs. Which was curious, generally the two races only met in combat.

He watched as two tiny arms finally breached the wrappings of the bundle. Tiny fingers gripped the cloth and created a bigger opening, showing a pale white face with 2 tusks beginning to show up between the blue lips, bright yellow eyes piercing Kysinth’s own. They held a startling amount of intelligence for such a whelp.

Kysinth decided to adopt the child, partially because he had seen enough death in his centuries of life, and partly due to the fact that he had always had a fascination for curiosities, and a half-elf-half-orc falls under that category.

“Pymgos, that shall be your name” he rumbled, causing the little thing to jump and start to scream.

As he picked up the bundle with a single claw, he set it in a notch in his scales where Pymgos wouldn’t be disturbed by the cold, nor could it climb out. As he marched towards his lair on the core of the mountain, he wondered what in the mountain Pymgos could eat. Then he shrugged. He could just take some food from the elves that abandoned him. He could still smell the stink of cowardice and shame on the abandoner.

—

That night, after terrorizing and plundering the town of the abandoner, he watches, curled up, one eye cracked lazily open, as Pymgos ate from the tarpaulin that he had placed the food in to fly to his lair. The little one tended to focus more on the meat than the greenery mortals often enjoyed, particularly elves, which made sense to him. He intended on raising this hybrid mortal to be a predator, not prey.

Once Pymgos seemed to be finished, Kysinth folded up the canvas and, internally cycling through options, froze it solid in ice with his breath to keep it from spoiling. He returned to his rest, this time closing both of his eyes fully. Before he was able to rest, he could smell Pymgos standing in front of him. He could feel its gaze on him. He sighed and opened his eyes.

There it stood. Still wrapped in furs, staring at him with those intense yellow eyes. Now that its head was uncovered, he noticed long, pointed ears and the pale blonde hair that often grew from atop elven heads. Its face wasn’t as graceful as an average elf, thanks to the mix of orc blood, but it had a sort of brutish beauty to it.

He was about to speak aloud, then remembered what had happened previously. What do you want, little one. Kysinth spoke telepathically. He had had enough experience with mortals to know the ones did not speak comprehensively at such a young age.

Cold. Curious. Sleepy. Curious. Family?

Each of the words came to the dragon with startling clarity, almost as if it spoke aloud. He was used to even grown mortals' mental thoughts being cloudy. It was cold, which he should have expected. He figured he’d deal with that first. Standing, he left the lair for a moment before returning with a full grown pine, dirt still falling from its roots. He crushed and snapped it like a twig and snorted some fire onto it, causing it to burst alight in white flames.

The cross-breed clapped its chubby hands and laughed in an incredible sound. Kysinth froze upon hearing that, slowly turning his head towards it, lowering his snout to stare down at Pymgos. His ancient ears had heard innumerable sounds, the crump of a doe and her foal on old snow, the snap, crackle and pop of a burning village, even the near soundless glide of an owl’s wings in the night, however he had never heard a sound like that. It was so clear and pure.

He snuffed the fire, sucking out all the air, then, with one eye trained on Pymgos, snorted the wood alight again. Sure enough, that exultant laugh bubbled up from it and split the air in the most beautiful sound his timeworn ears had ever heard.

Kysinth laid down where he was and used his tail, which was lined on the top with spines that were many times longer than Pymgos, to wrap and pick up the mortal child, placing it between his massive front paws. Its eyes quickly locked onto his and he heard the clear thoughts of the hybrid again.

Happy. Family. Curious. Warm.

The pupils of the dragon grew from a vertical slit of black to a circle that filled two-thirds of the eyes. He hadn’t initiated that mental conversation.

Quite the curiosity you are indeed. He replied.

—

Time passed. Kysinth continued to feed and nurture the young mortal. Pymgos continued to surprise him in many ways. It was able to speak in near perfect mental sentences within two seasons. It was incredibly nimble and quite strong. He began to teach it to hunt, he figured the sooner it learned, the sooner he wouldn’t have to feed it. He brought in small game, squirrels and the like, and watched as it tried to catch it simply by running the rodent down.

Stop. He commanded, and Pymgos complied, watching as the squirrel leapt up and chittered from ledge well above the toddler's reach.

Think. As a predator, you must be faster and stronger than your prey, yes, but you must also be smarter.

And so he taught the art of stalking, of ambush, of tracking. He taught Pymgos how to rely and improve its senses. He taught it the same thing his mother had taught him, centuries ago. It didn’t take long.

By the time four seasons had passed from their initial meeting out in the forest, Pymgos was an accomplished hunter, able to fend for itself, as long as Kysinth kept his lair stocked with small prey. Their days fell into a pattern.

Kysinth didn’t sleep as a mortal did, and so neither did Pymgos. Kysinth didn’t think like a mortal did, so neither did Pymgos. The mix of elven and orcish blood aided the young one in these cases. The two races were so radically different, it allowed for a mutability that would spell death for any other single race. Elves didn’t sleep as other mortals, and orcs sleep less than other mortals, so that combination led to a waking sleep that Pymgos entered most nights, allowing for movement and simple evasive actions, but not much mental capacity. It learned to live like a dragon, to think like a dragon, and to act like a dragon.

Pymgos would exit its waking sleep when the sky began to lighten, and would hunt for its first meal of the day. It was child’s play at this point. It gutted and skinned it, this morning it was a rabbit, and spiked it on a sharpened stick, and placed it at the edge of the now everburning flame that Kysinth kept going. Then it went to the stream of snowmelt that ran through the cave, cleaning off the blood and bacteria, paying special attention to its nails, now slightly pointed and quite sharp, close to claws.

After finishing its morning meal, it would spend time listening to Kysinth, sometimes learning words and their meanings, sometimes it would learn different skills helpful to survival. Then it would hunt and eat again, which would be followed by whatever caught Pymgos’s fancy, whether it be pestering Kysinth, causing general racket, or some other mindless task, which allowed for some more waking sleep.

Finally, it ate the last time just after the ball of fire that Kysinth called the sun, fell from the sky. Then it listened to the stories from the innumerable experiences of Kysinth for some

time.

The pattern changed about nine seasons in. As best as Kysinth could figure, the child had only lived through about seven to ten seasons before being abandoned. It now had at least sixteen seasons, so he allowed it to trek outside the lair. Winter has come and passed, leaving the sun warming the mountain-side.

Pymgos would track and hunt its food in the forest around the lair, now not only focusing on stalking, but also at hiding. Despite the proximity to Kysinth’s lair, other predators were abundant, largely due to the fact that Kysinth rarely ate, and when he did, he preferred the taste of elk and moose. Kysinth also taught the hybrid to hunt by smell, sometimes sending it out of the lair with its eyes covered by some scrap of cloth, or to hunt without the aid of any sound, filling its ears with wool, honing each sense to perfection.

There were a few things Kysinth didn’t teach Pymgos. Speaking aloud was a good example. Every now and then it would make noises, which was natural and fine, but he detested speaking aloud when he was able to communicate telepathically. What was the purpose of communicating verbally when mentally was just as usefully, if not more so, and since Pymgos was more than capable of that, he didn’t learn how to verbalize words.

Pymgos also couldn’t use any elemental breaths, as it was mortal. Magic ran in the blood of elves, but most didn’t manifest anything close to magic before their 49th season. The physicality of orcs were more prevalent at this age, which is part of what makes it such an effective hunter. It could now easily outrun most small prey, it was strong enough to uproot small trees to burn, and it rarely ran out of stamina, even in a drawn out chase.

—

It had now been twenty seasons, Pymgos had around twenty-eight seasons, and was extraordinarily capable. It hunted completely on its own, bringing down deer and elk with little effort. Even Kysinth’s magically enhanced hearing had difficulty detecting its footsteps. Its waking dreams lasted barely any time in comparison to the many seasons past, and it had even begun to show signs it would be able to use magic, despite still having over twenty seasons before its powers should awaken. Kysinth had taught Pymgos how to treat and cure pelts so they kept it warm, as most mortals are taught. It was lean and muscular.

A new interest of the hybrid brought about a massive change to their relationship in the lair around this time.

Kysinth’s lair was that of an ancient dragon. This meant there were a great many different objects within, all of immense value, not just gold and jewels. There were tapestries and paintings, books and spell scrolls, and instruments. One afternoon, during the period of time where Pymgos often spent doing whatever it wanted, he happened upon a lute and began strumming tunelessly. Before long, the sound grated on Kysinth’s nerves and he removed the lute from the mixed-breed’s possession. Not but minutes later, Pymgos had re-aquired the lute and began strumming again, this time in a different pattern, a little less tuneless. Again, Kysinth removed the lute, causing Pymgos to laugh its clear, lilting laugh, which had only entranced the dragon more throughout the time they had spent together. This caused Kysinth to pause, the lute gripped between to claw tips. He placed it in front of the child. From then on, Kysinth also taught the art of music.

—

The smell of fire and elves, along with the sound of marching armor roused the two cave-dwellers from their mental discussion.

What do those fools think they are doing? Kysinth grumbled.

Who knows! Let’s go! Pymgos thought, springing to their feet and bolting.

NO! He shouted after the young form bounding out the entrance like a deer through a glade, but it was too late. Soon there was a yell and sounds of scuffling. It took moments for Kysinth to rise and turn, cursing his large form, heading towards the opening.

NO! STAY AWAY, Pymgos mentally screamed.

Thinking they were talking about the mob of elves, Kysinth roared and charged faster, passing through the opening right as a bolt of lightning struck the opening to the lair, collapsing it.

The last thing Kysinth saw was Pymgos struggling against six broad shouldered elves, holding them down.

Their eyes met and for the first time in their twenty seasons, they saw fear in each other's eyes.

Then the mountain itself collapses on top of the ancient dragon, a being who had seen days go black when the sun disappeared, who had seen fires decimate entire forests, who had watched as the ocean swallowed villages, who would see the sky no more, who would see nothing ever again.

Pymgos roared, throwing off all six elves and raced towards the pile of rubble, pulling at rocks and boulders, trying to move them. It took eight elves to pull them off the pile and restrain Pymgos, finally succeeding in knocking them unconscious.

—

When they next woke, they were in a metal cage. They attempted to break out, but had no luck. It was hours before a loaf of stale bread and a pitcher of water was placed in the cell. Pymgos snorted as they sniffed the two, the scent of dreamroot almost overpowering. The next time their captors came around, they frowned and made noises that made no sense to Pymgos, and they refused to speak mentally to their jailers.

Once they left again, clearly annoyed and frustrated they couldn’t seem to communicate with their captor, Pymgos made another effort to escape, which involved less physical jarring of the cage and more dexterous attempts to rattle the lock or slip through the bars, neither of which were successful. So they sat down, and meditated, focusing their mind, reliving the past events in hopes it might reveal some hint or clue into how to escape.

Some mortals can use magic, Kysinth thought to them, all elves are able to, some humans, and few orcs. You will most likely be able to, given time…

A hunter must be smarter than its prey…

You are more than a hunter now, you are dragonkin. You are of the hunter of hunters…

Magic is more innate than anything, when you need it, it will be there…

Pymgos opened their eyes, surprised to see the sun had set, and there were now many elves standing in front of his cell, all staring, their eyes glittering in the darkness. They saw chains and manacles. Letting a feral grin form, they rose smoothly, halfway, staying in a crouch, preparing to pounce. A slight scuffing sound from behind them caught their attention, and they began to move, but not before darkness filled with vision, as something reeking of rotting meat was unceremoniously placed over their head, eliminating not just their sight, but scent as well. Luckily they knew how to fight by sound alone. They went to work, fighting like a demon. It took mere moments before everyone around them were incapacitated. Calmly walking out of the open door to the cage, they pulled the sac from their head, locked everyone in the cage and began to leave. Suddenly, they couldn’t move. They were frozen, mid step.

Walking out from the corner of a building, a cloaked figure of whom Pymgos recognized strode towards them. This was the figure that blasted the mountainside with lightning. This was the one that killed Kysinth. Rage exploded within Pymgos, destroying the spell that was holding them in place. Screaming, they charged towards the cloaked figure, clearly taking them by surprise and they backpelladed, almost tripping. Pymgos threw out their hands in a pushing motion and a cold feeling spread through them, blasting out a wall of force that threw the retreating caster away, smashing into a building behind them. After ensuring the end of Kysinth’s murderer, Pymgos ran into the forest, searching for the remains of the mountain where they grew up.

Upon rediscovering their old home, they paid homage to their father, the only family Pymgos had ever known. Finding a single, colourless scale, they pocketed it, and continued to trek throughout the forest, surviving, thriving, and discovering everything they could about the wretched mortals and their own, new, magical abilities.