The Ruin of Fashi'ma

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. There weren’t always knights in polished plate intent on wealth and glory. Some say ‘twas men enticed the beasts, settling the fertile glen, flaunting spoils of wars waged upon their own kind—a just if terrible retribution. Others uphold Velomas and Daggertooth claimed it for dragons after laying fiery waste to Emory, the once-bright city of gold. Its remnant warriors sought brave recompense, hunting their scaled foes ‘cross rivers rushing and mountains old.

But as is oft the case with legends, neither and both are true. The weavers of history, the tellers of tales are wont to omit and obscure, to twist and sculpt in allegiance to their own ambitions. Yet the yearning hearts of men and the avarice of dragons are as wet clay, themselves soft and malleable in the right hands.

Ere man and dragon, the valley was of the fae. And so it remains.

For here in Brendal Vale– Fashi’ma in the fairer tongue– is shrouded a prize which construes golden cities as mounds of dust; the towering hoard of Velomas, a pauper’s penny. It is a treasure without compare, the balance for which cannot be found of Calohden; perhaps not even among the stars and spheres beyond.

For a thousand years we kept its secret, tended our magics with subtlety, shaped paths away and around rather than in and through. If steadfast explorers set to scale our jagged ridge, they would find themselves waylaid. Whether by trees and vines or swaths of smooth stone, they would be obliged to seek another way. Whence they sought, the magic of the fae would provide: always away and around, never in and through. Still there were some– certain airborne creatures of intelligence, or the most obstinate humans– who eluded our façade, and for whom a grim fortune did await. For a thousand years my bow was bent, a thousand years my mark was true. The fate of these few was mine, and for a thousand years I bestowed quartzite ends without fail.

But a thousand years is not forever, and now man and dragon vie for blood and trinkets on sacred ground. I am to blame. I, and no other. Though my transgressions be dire, my folly the violent impetus of the fae veiled in cave and grove, there too is hope– hope which I myself have wrought from men’s fear and dragon’s greed. Before I boast of this cunning and beseech you your role, I must first tell how I was outmatched, doomed to forsake my kind. Then you alone among the fair folk may understand me.

Mosifru rises sharply from the pebbled bank of the River Augeal at the southern border of Fashi’ma, a sheer rock-face smoothed by the winds of time and fae magic, a most treacherous bluff. In a millennium I had not borne witness to a test of its will. Yet, at dawn some ninety moons hence, not one but four gathered at its foot with lengths of rope and a ratchet bow. I took them for men of Postu-Farr by their sun-touched skin and close-cropped, flaxen hair. From my perch I settled in to observe, arrows quivered at my shoulder, Armenhurse on my lap, curiosity piqued.

A lank, sinewy man cranked the bow, and into it set a bolt of splayed iron hooks. On his third try it reached the precipice far overhead and caught upon a thick root. Being heaviest among them, he then dangled from the rope and tugged fiercely to test its assurance. All this he repeated until each member of his party gripped taught and began to climb. Whether by misfortune or fae conjury, the large man and another held to stems of the same bedrock. Midway their ropes loosed, and the men plummeted to the shore below. A third succumbed to harsh gusts and distressed limbs. He too was dashed upon the rocks. I was pleased then, as I prefer a man attain his own demise.

But the fourth among them conquered Mosifru and knelt upon its edge in mourning. Then, as though conscious of Armenhurse steered at his breast, he fell back in an arched spring and leapt for the refuge of clustered birch behind. My sting strayed from its mark, its fletch protruding between breast and collar. In my shame and frustration I swooped down to land level with my prey and fitted another arrow.

Alas, this was the moment of my undoing, for when our eyes met it in such proximity I hesitated. She did not. I bear a scar in my left wing as consequence, a narrow dagger she’d thrown true before succumbing to pain and darkness. My own wound was formidable, but I felt it not. In her cerulean gaze I had beheld the cosmos, the queries of generations revealed to me in that singular glance. I was stricken with emotion, and my infatuation knew no bounds.

I bore her to my e’trezzi, withdrew my cursed arrow, cleaned and pressed her wound, bound it against the damp air. Even at the threshold of death she was beautiful, immaculate, culminating. If failure at sentry was my first treason, apprehension over her survival fomented the next. From my own wrist I nursed her with violet blood, betraying the canons of our kin. When finally she awakened I conquered her trepidation with patient tenderness, teaching her our ways and our tongue.

At long last she came to love me as I did her, and in my obsession I sought to entrance her with the wonders of Fashi’ma if ever she showed signs of homesickness. Then she was with child, and amid restless anticipation she crept away as I slept, to Postu-Farr, the land of her father. For three days I paced and fretted, fearing only abandonment, oblivious to the jeopardy of the fae and our charge. When she returned I wept tears of joy and clutched her close.

But the damage was done. Her folk were delighted by tell of the marvels of the fae, the breathtaking valley ‘yond the Augeal, and even of her mythical lover, pale and handsome neath an angel’s wings. Though she hastened to return to him, her stories spread faster, farther, until armies of men and vociferous dragons outmatched subtle fae spells and descended upon our sacred vale.

For now men are convinced dragons come to plunder their own metal and jewels. Dragons in turn see knights hunting scales and fangs as proof of their valor. This is the artifice I have salvaged from the good fortune of their shared mistrust, but it cannot endure. One will slay the other, or some among them will recall the wondrous prize which drew them nigh.

I expect by now you have derived the favor of which I ask and why it must be you. At dusk on the first of spring I shall wait at Emei’sha between the clouds.

Yours in shame and vice,

Mattias