Tricky Threads

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. More precisely, there weren't any yesterday or hundreds of years before. Not until Lakren dabbled in mayhem did the problem arise. This stumbling on chaos, to no one’s shock, was a common occurrence. The village even named her Lakren of Ludicrous. However, the repercussions were never as monstrous or sharp-toothed before. As she ran from the snapping, furious jaws of a real dragon, she blamed Saltik for the extra spoonful of bad luck today.

Never trust a nemesis, she bitterly thought and cursed his arrogant smile, cocked brow, and thick, brown locks which never sat out of place in their braids. More precisely, the blame should be targeted at the challenge in his stupidly blue eyes. The dare in them made her volatile. He didn’t believe a deity’s thread linked to her, a worthless maiden, and she wanted to prove him wrong. Badly. So, she set out on the less-than-glorious mission.

To be deity’s thread was a great honour. Centuries ago, they fled the mortal realm to their own, and only returned each lifespan to tether a soul to them. This ‘thread’ allowed their chosen one to handle threats to protect their followers and keep balance in the worlds. No one chose to be threaded; likeness attracted likeness and after bonded, the thread presented in different ways. Sometimes, it was magical powers, like the old chieftain, Thorus the Crusher, or for others it was personality quirks like when Elder Wundab hiccupped at broken things. For Lakren, it had to be the bad luck. Nothing else explained the predicaments she kept tumbling into since infancy.

At first, she thought the never-ending incidents tarnishing her name had been an elaborate part to become wise, meaning her attachment linked to the pepper-bearded deity of knowledge, Vincel. Then, she believed the constant events represented the sturdiness of time from the male earth deity Soutt. Or maybe the everchanging luck came from the beautiful Boncient. At least the floral goddess would please Lakren’s mother and explain why she was born with a chaotic head of white curls. Alas, one thing was for certain: she wasn’t tied to the goddess of passion, Salantrace. Saltik could keep all the bloodlust and ferocity of emotions to himself.

For the brute, the thread presented itself in an obvious form. He was chosen at fifteen – eight years ago – and faced off against a bear, with no axe or wooden, circular shield to fight. Yet, his untapped emotions harnessed his instincts until he won and returned with the bear’s fur coat, and permanent red markings across his body. The only sacrifice? His left hand. Lakren, although twelve at the time, made a vocal comment about the bear mistaking his hand for balls, since his must’ve been so deformed. Her parents gave a hard week of punishments for the jealous taunt, but it was worth seeing Saltik stare at her like a dead fish, triumph thwarted by a pipsqueak.

“You better not take my bloody hand!” Lakren shouted at the creature, overtop the flaps of giant, bronze wings. "Saltik will not get the better of me!"

As she stumbled through the dense forest, she heard the dragon roar in reply, not impressed by the request. Its breath passed over her, filled with dangerous heat. Lakren found no comfort in the warmth, preferring to freeze in the snow-covered forest than burn to death. The flapping grew louder, signalling how close the beast narrowed in. A million curses, far fouler than any young lady should know, fluttered around her. Why did she touch it?!

Originally, it was a simple plan: steal a plant from the Valley, the spiritual site of the deities, and return home to the Cliffs. A rare flower lasting the journey back, away from magic essence, would show Boncient tied Lakren’s blood. Once and for all, no one would deny her claims. And the look on Saltik’s face would be similar to when she bested him in the annual hunt a few years ago. Her cackle had echoed to the sea when his lips turned into a snarl. And the best part? She cheated and he couldn’t prove it.

A terrible realisation hit as her legs protested scaling up the path she came. What if this was Salantrace’s vengeance for toying with a threaded chosen one? How else did the dragon awaken? One moment, Lakren was wandering through the longboat shipwreck, overgrown temples, and statues of long-defeated beasts, whistling worries away. The next, she screamed as a nonchalant touch on the dragon stone carving turned the creature to life. It shed the rock like a dust coat, shaking it off with ease, before setting its beady, red eyes on her.

Another roar made her wince and almost tumble over. Still, despite the burning in her lungs and screams of pain in her legs, she continued to weave through barren trees and push through snow. Stopping meant letting it catch her which, consequentially, meant death. No one survived a dragon, not even the deities or chosen ones during quests. Yet, she wasn’t ready to lay down and serve herself like a humble feast. A warrior didn’t give up so easily.

Suddenly, the trees clawing arms and dying bodies scampered out as Lakren reached the path which cut between two steep hillsides. The openness bared her to the chilling wind, offering some relief to the sweat building underneath all the layers of clothing. Ahead, she saw the pointed roofs of wooden, triangular houses and tall torches along the coastline, tricking other clan ships to run into the cliffs below. Home. Lakren fought the urge to run to it. Instead, she accumulated stories of heroes and their sacrifices to strengthen resolve because she knew bee-lining there would be disastrous. Redirecting the dragon and hiding however, held merit. Besides, if Saltik fought and defeated a dragon who ascended to the village, she would never be able to crush his ego again.

Determination flaring, she met eyes with the dragon as it rose into the air. She diverted off the main path and called, “Come play, ya ugly beasty!”

Of course, the dragon didn’t follow her now. Who needed a tall, lean girl plumped by dark furs and armour, when it had an entire village to devour? Lakren cursed at her luck. She should’ve predicted this turn of events or at least, prepared for a dire consequence. Maybe, just maybe, it could have stopped the cursed white tattoo markings burn into her pale skin. Indeed, she had a thread, but it belonged to none other than Kashron, the deity of mischief and mayhem.