Verkis and the Foundling

Verkis flew with confidence through the skies. Sunlight glinted off polished, emerald scales. Claws of ivory scythed through the air and the lighter membranous skin of their wings cast an impressive shadow across the ground. Verkis loosed a bugling roar, and jets of emerald flame lanced through the sky. They had just earned their second naming, and felt great pride in their growing splendor. Verkis, they thought, much better than mere Ver.

The land below passed at impressive speed. They soared past River-That-Shines, Field-of-Itching-Vine (now more accurately Field-of-Ash-and-Ruin), and began to spiral down as they reached Bald-Top-Hill. Their favorite sunning rock lay here, an enormous piece of basalt that held the heat of the sun long after it disappeared round the horizon. How it got here was anyone’s guess, but Verkis secretly believed it had flown from the distant Mountain-That-Burns, smiting the nearby trees and leaving the meadow here for their enjoyment. The distant mountain housed many of their cousins, larger, older creatures with hordes of precious stones and metals. The worth of their treasure made Verkis’ rock seem small, but they felt pride nonetheless. Settling in after their long flight, belly full of many of those hooved, bounding things, Verkis prepared for a well-deserved nap. Verkis hissed contentedly, flexing their claws as they settled in. Sleep wasn’t far off, their brow sinking lower and lower, when they heard a noise in the nearby wood.

Rising, stretching, a serpentine neck glanced about the vicinity, as the sound came again. Some sort of animal, they mused, here to challenge my claim! Verkis took off, small stones buffeted away with the strength of their passage, and they soared toward the sound, claws tickling tree tops that started not far from the hilltop. The sound came again, a feeble roar indeed if that is what it was; more a pained screech. Perhaps another meal, Verkis mused, always ready for more. It sounds nearly dead already.

As the grating cry rose again, Verkis tracked it down. Roaring a challenge, bathing the treetops with emerald flame, they crashed through the smaller boughs, looped through those big enough to still hurt, and landed on the forest floor. Verkis moved nimbly through the trees, coiling and weaving their way like their legless cousins, before arriving at a small glade.

Nestled there amongst the mossy forest floor was the ugliest thing Verkis had ever seen. Absent claw or scale, sporting strange, limp fur that failed to even cover it entirely, was a pink, flailing thing scarcely the size of Verkis’ foot. Upon seeing them, the pink (slug?) began its cry anew, and up close it was truly bothersome. Verkis began to recoil instinctively as the thing’s pink skin began to change to an alarming red as well, its flailing becoming more pronounced and deadly. They darted behind a nearby tree, out of line of sight for the miserable thing, whose cries dropped back to a more manageable level.

Truly pitiable, Verkis thought, pity mixed with revulsion. The small creature crawled along on all fours, seeming in search of something, its motives unknown. The situation needed handling, this was part of Verkis’ domain, but they knew not how to proceed.

It was unsurprising that the creature’s caterwauling had drawn other interested parties. As Verkis watched it, a crashing sound drew near, and one of the larger furred creatures, brown of hair and dull of eye roared and charged toward the pink slug, which resigned to its approaching doom.

Verkis took pride in their intellect, but their reaction to the creature’s imminent demise shocked them. With a roar of their own, Verkis sprung from hiding, a streak of flame drawing the furred predator’s attention. They crashed into each other, Verkis’ opponent’s claws making little progress against their scales, while Verkis had much more success with their own. With a roar of victory, Verkis bit down upon the creature’s neck, their own head twisting powerfully, and with an echoing snap, they rose victorious over the vanquished creature. Verkis, not wanting to let the meal go to waste, began carefully removing the majority of the creature’s hair with a razor-sharp claw, not wanting it to smell when they began to cook it. Once done they breathed flame once more and the glade was filled with the smell of deliciously cooked meat. Verkis feasted, their voracious appetite never fully sated.

The pink skinned…thing began to slowly approach, and while at first Verkis growled threateningly, they mused that something so small could hardly make an impact on the meal and sliced off small pieces for it with their claw, tossing it over as the new creature settled on the ground nearby to watch. After brief hesitation it ate, opening a small mouth (what pitiable fangs!) and tearing off smaller bites. Finished, temporarily sated, Verkis turned attention toward its bizarre find.

The fur was odd, seeming entirely unattached to the pink flesh beneath. It also didn’t match the darker fur around the creature’s crown. While it was absent claw, it did have small fleshy, pink, wriggly bits at the end of its limbs, which it used to pick and pull. Verkis picked it up with one clawed foot, turning it this way and that, ignoring its surprised cries. Their nose wrinkled in distaste as they closely examined it.

“Truly a smelly thing, you are,” Verkis hissed. “And young for whatever you are supposed to be. What use are you?”

Green eyes peered back, a near match for Verkis’ own, although the pupils were odd, round instead of properly slitted. The color pleased the vain dragon, though, and it decided to keep the creature—after a bath of course.

Grip tightening securely, Verkis once more gave a bounding leap then flew out of the trees, careful to keep from scratching the fragile thing on passing limbs. It shrieked, first in fear but then in what seemed delight when they reached the noon-day sky. Verkis backtracked to River-That-Shines, staying close to the shallow shore, and unceremoniously dunked the thing in the water. While it failed to reach the middle leg joint on Verkis it was well over the creature’s head, and Verkis had to scoop it from the water when it failed to surface. After a few more liberal dunks the smell improved, and they made their way, foundling in tow, to the soft grass along the river’s edge. The thing had turned red once more, again letting out its grating cry, and shivered violently. The color indicates unhappiness, Verkis mused, gathering it closer to their core, where their spark of flame always glowed. Its shivering and crying quickly subsided, and it seemed content to rest, returning to its normal shade. Red, that’s it! Verkis jetted a small, brief flame in satisfaction at their cleverness. If they were uncertain of their foundling’s nature, there was one who was. With a brief glance around to assure they were alone, Verkis folded a wing around their side to shelter the thing, and together they enjoyed a brief nap.

When the gentle splashing of the stream woke Verkis, they picked up their foundling and together they began to fly towards the distant Mountain-that-Burns. There, one would know what to do.

The Elder was the oldest thing that roamed this world. Its scales matched the color of the fires that ever surrounded its domain, its individual scales as large as Verkis’ entire form. Its name was a glorious thing, long and proud, its syllables rolling and hissing from the mouth, too long for any but they to remember in its entirety. Verkis’ had heard that the last time the name was spoken aloud several springs ago, they spoke it in song, and their song lasted straight through summer, fall, winter, and back to spring again.

In truth, the Elder did little roaming these days. Verkis hadn’t even seen it eat in a long time, though in truth nothing could satisfy the Elder’s bulk should it have desire food. The Elder taught their ways to the hatchlings each season, had done so for Verkis not overly long ago.

They flew through the day and most the night, Verkis’ sight unaffected by darkness. They flew high as well, over territories of Verkis’ neighboring cousins and beyond, avoiding attention and presenting no threat to their neighbors. While Verkis would never admit their anxiousness, they cared not to fly so far from their own lands, but nestled in a careful sling between its front paws their foundling stirred, and Verkis’ determination grew.

As the moon reached its zenith, and their passenger seemed lulled to slumber by the steady passage of wind, now warm due to their proximity to the Mountain-that-Burns, Verkis saw their destination. Lying on the lower slopes of that mountain, nearly the same size, the Elder slumbered as well, huge plumes of smoke jetting from its nostrils with each breath.

Verkis landed with some difficulty, their front legs being occupied after all, before laying their foundling down and turning toward their former instructor.

“Elder,” they hissed, neck pointed down in deference, eyes rolled painfully up to watch for reaction. “We have need for your guiding wisdom, oldest of dragons. A matter of my kingdom has arose that requires console.”

Slowly, ponderously, the great head rose, eyes the width of Verkis’ wingspan turning to ponder this intrusion. Amber orbs blinked and slowly focused, and Verkis forced their limbs be still and not show the tremble that grew there.

“Verkis.” The voice was of thunder in distant hills, a bass rumble that shook the ground. “I dreamed of times past, times before your hatching, and found the dreams unpleasant. What brings your timely interruption?”

Verkis inhaled shakily, dipping their head in deference, and slowly scooping the still limp, slumbering bundle forward. Better asleep than not crying, but the disrespect! “This, Elder. I have found it at Bald-Top-Hill, and must admit I know not what it is. It’s not one of scales or feathers, not one of furs although it wears furs of others. I know not its true nature but knew you would, wisest of Scaled Things.”

The great head drew closer, a long neck turning and twisting so one great orb may eye it sidelong. Anger grew in that eye, and an echoing hiss escaped.

“Ill met is this thing, Verkis. This is a hoo-man. They were exterminated by our kind, for their greed is great. They take what they can, but unlike dragons who have the strength of right, they must borrow the strength of others. They take furs to keep warm, trees and stone to fashion claws, and once upon a time would even take dragons to turn into slaves, to ride through the skies, a domain not theirs to see. War took place between dragons tamed and free.”

Verkis was shocked. A hoo-man! Like all hatchlings they knew of their legends, the myth of the small terrors who once threatened the mighty dragons. Horrors taught by the Elder. It can’t be one…can it?

As they contemplated, a great paw emerged from underneath the Elder’s bulk, bracing and slowly lifting the body which had partly sunk into the surrounding earth and rock from its sheer weight.

“Best to leave it with me, Verkis. This thing is only trouble, and I find ending it pleasurable. After that you may search your kingdom and exterminate any others you find.”

The cracking sound of long still joints echoed off the mountain's walls as the Elder rose ever higher. Bits of debris tumbled around the pair as Verkis looked down at their foundling, confused, alarmed, and…angry. While they couldn’t identify the exact origin of the emotion, they felt responsibility for this thing, this hoo-man. Besides, they found it in their kingdom. As the Elder rose, Verkis made their decision. They scooped up their foundling, wings snapping outward, prepared to bargain for the hoo-man’s life, but bargaining it seemed was not in the winds.

“Verkis, STOP.”

A clawed foot larger than Verkis began to descend, to crush or trap they were unsure, but here Verkis’ one advantage took form. They launched away, speed and agility avoiding the threat that crushed the hill with ease.

“STOP!”

The voice was no longer distant thunder. The tempest was here, the very sound buffeting Verkis’ desperate flight. They looked back once to see dark wings unfurl, dimly lit by the red glow of the mountain. They stretched, and stretched, blocking out the mountain, blocking out the very skies; so Verkis fled and looked back no more.

Their flight was a desperate thing, haphazard through the sky. Verkis’ flew as high as they dared could until their foundling began to feebly protest the thin air and descended slightly. At first, they left for the familiar lands of their kingdom, but fearful of being found there, for the Elder could command many dragons once roused, they flew on, towards the rising sun, until the lands took on an unfamiliar shape. A large body of water appeared as Verkis began to feel the first stirrings of fatigue, and they swooped low to pull a long draught of water, only to cough it up and roar with irritation. The water was wrong, tasting of minerals and not satisfying of all. Resolute, Verkis’ rose once more and flew to seek its far shore.

All that long day and the next as well, Verkis flew. Their wings protested every flap, their tail drooped downward. At one point, with great care, they carefully placed the hoo-man into the hollow between their wings and neck, where it settled in, gripping a protruding spike and hooting with glee. Verkis had never been this tired in their life, and was beginning to lose hope when at last, at long last, land came into sight.

Verkis began their descent, all thoughts of grace and care left. Indeed, they barely made it, back limbs still in the water as they crashed down, turning their neck at the last instant so the hoo-man wouldn’t be thrown into their spines. The small creature tumbled into soft, reddish sand with a shrill protest, but Verkis knew not what happened next for they drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

From there, life changed. The island Verkis woke to, for that’s what it was, proved small, too small. They hopped from there to others, a chain, until they found one with a large pond of fresh water. From there they could truly rest, and Verkis watched their hoo-man grow.

Years passed. The foundling grew, in leaps and bounds, a feat impressive to Verkis, for dragons grow slowly and steadily over time. They found a few larger, furred creatures on their new island home, ones with quick paws and sharp claws that served to replace the borrowed furs their foundling wore when the old ones proved too small. When the hoo-man’s teeth came in, Verkis began the laborious process of teaching the hissing, flowing language of the dragons. The foundling was a delight in this, for they proved a quick learner. Verkis assisted with fashioning stick and stone into some semblance of weaponry, for their claws never grew, but a scant few seasons it seemed after they first landed on this island the hoo-man used their tools—and more importantly their wits—to kill and claim their first significant victory against one of the remaining larger furred predators.

That very night Verkis took them aside, and under the twin moons above performed their first naming. “My foundling you are, little one, and so my name you shall take, but different as befitting our differences; you shall be known as Vyr.”

They left their island, always moving further from home. Vyr continued to learn and grow. They never learned how to breathe fire, but they could fashion ways of stick and tree to carry Verkis’ fire long distances when needed. They became adept in riding along with Verkis in that hollow between their wings and neck, and as their bond deepened would know which way to lean, where to hold, how to anticipate the shifts in the wind and aid Verkis best they could until they were no longer any burden at all. Life was strange, but happy, and Verkis felt no regret at their odd fate.

Three times in their early travels they would spot the distant approach of other dragons, and each time they had time to hide before they were spotted. Each time Verkis longed to fly up, to meet their kind, but the Elder’s pull was strong, and their anger could endure a long time. Safety demanded caution.

“Do you not miss them?” Vyr asked one night, having caught their meal for the evening and roasted it over a fire. Verkis lazily pulled a few strips of flesh off the creature before turning to their foundling.

“Do you not miss your own kind, small one? We have no need for either; we will make do with the two of us as we always have.”

That was not enough, however, for their companion. Verkis’ words sparked something in Vyr, and they began asking more and more questions. Where was I found? How long ago? Were there truly no others? How can we return? When can we return? Verkis attitude on returning was always resolutely against, for a dragon’s mind isn’t easily swayed, but the decision would be made for them.

One evening Verkis was just waking from a long, satisfactory nap to hear a roar, one too large to be anything other than their kin. They shot into the trees, wings popping in protest after years of easy living. Rising over the canopy in the direction of the sound, they saw the source of the commotion; one of their kin, silvery scales glinting against the setting sun, stood before their foundling, who had the nerve to look not frightened, but curious. Verkis approached quickly, the other dragon shooting a warning glare before turning to the still chatting voice of Vyr.

“I’m not sure I understand. You’ve been looking for us? Who is the Elder? I would gladly meet them but I’ll not go anywhere without my friend.”

The other dragon sneered in protest, head whipping around to gaze at Verkis. “You’ve taught this thing our language? You’ve raised it to call you friend? You have truly fallen low, Verkiszhelt.”

The insult stung Verkis, stopping them in their tracks. Zhelt may be a new name, but one that meant traitor, thief, egg-breaker and worse. Zhelt meant the end of namings, that no further deeds would ever be attached to their being. Verkiszhelt was all they would ever be in the eyes of their kin.

Before Verkiszhelt (damning how the name echoes in my mind) managed to react, the newcomer swung their head around, inhaled, and roared out a stream of silver flame, bathing Vyr in the horrid, screeching heat of their fire. Verkis screeched in rage, charging in heedless of the flame, for a dragon cannot be hurt by heat of any kind. A battle ensued, Verkiszhelt seeking to end the unnamed assailant, this kin-slayer, for no doubt Vyr was the closest kin they had ever known. Claws sought purchase on armored belly, wings beat to attempt to knock the other down, but Verkiszhelt had grown significantly in their years of exile, thanks to easy living, and while they weren’t as fast as they once were, the other dragon managing to carve deep gouges almost clean through their membranous wings, Verkiszhelt finally shoved their opponent to the ground, snaking their head around the others to the base of their skull and bit hard. Something popped and cracked, and their foe fell.

Verkiszhelt hung their head, rage quickly giving way to sorrow. They couldn’t bring themselves to turn, couldn’t bring themselves to see the remains of their kin. The awful moment stretched on forever, until they felt it; Vyr’s hand on their flank.

Verkiszhelt turned, and seeing their friend they momentarily forgot their wounds. A leap buried their foundling beneath them and they roared in delight. While Vyr’ coverings had been destroyed in the inferno, their flesh remained whole, unblemished, and a fair sight better than Verkiszhelt’s own. Their kin may be unable to breathe flame, but it appears they could call it their friend as well.

In the intervening weeks they recovered. Vyr had long ago found plants that soothed the cuts and scrapes they easily procured on their fragile, scale-less form. They applied it gently to Verkiszhelt’s torn wings and belly, and they slowly but surely healed. Vyr had many questions, and Verkiszhelt reluctantly, finally, breached the topic of their past. They spoke of battles long, long ago, between dragon and hoo-man—and the dragons who joined their side. Dragons who were named zhelt, and shorn from their namings. They spoke of finding Vyr in their domain many seasons ago now, not knowing what they were, and fleeing when their Elder ordered their death, the same Elder who surely now commanded their pursuer.

“Then we must return and convince them to stop,” Vyr said, solemn but resolute.

They argued the point, but in the end were forced to agree. It only took a few days under Vyr's careful ministrations for torn wings to heal, and they began the laborious process of flying back home—not before Vyr fashioned a new weapon, not stick and stone but stick and dragon horn.

When Verkiszhelt voiced their concerns over the message this conveyed, Vyr replied “We will not hide what we have done.”

Truly the intervening seasons had seen Verkiszhelt weakened by a life of ease, but as they flew mile after mile, day after day, their strength grew. Vyr was in awe over the size of the world; they passed mountains both hot and cold, grassy plains, swampy lowlands, and sandy deserts whose wandering dunes revealed the bones of ancient dragons resting in their shifting tombs. Verkiszhelt could see the gouges across some of the bones that could’ve only been caused by another dragon and shuddered. Let this not be our fate.

Nearly an entire season they flew before the land began to appear familiar to Verkiszhelt, and they dove down early that day to rest for what was to come.

“We must be cautious,” they warned. “The Elder has been around since the old constellations gave way to the new; they are as sure as the rising and setting of the sun. We must not anger them. We are foolish to return, foundling.”

“No. We need to have our answer, my friend. We will try for peace, and if that does not work then it is on the Elder’s head. Our minds will be clear.”

They rested that night, and flying the next day Verkiszhelt lay eyes on home for the first time in many seasons. Their forests had been burned. River-that-shines was a dry. Bald-Top-Hill had been razed as well, so the entire hill now lay absent the pines and flowers that once smelled so sweet. Verkiszhelt turned away with a heavy heart, but determination to right these wrongs grew with every moment.

Their journey to the Mountain-that-Burns was strangely unchallenged. They flew through several territories of Verkiszhelt’s once friends but saw no one, and the reason why became obvious as they entered the mountain’s shadow. The journey that once took them an entire day was completed in almost half of that, Verkiszhelt noted with pride.

All the dragons of the neighboring kingdoms, and some from further away still, circled or perched along and around the mountain. Before them the Elder stood upright, his roaring voice no doubt even now calling for their brethren to further pursue Verkiszhelt and their foundling, but was cut short when they were spotted approaching.

Verkiszhelt landed cautiously, standing still, keeping their posture prideful and stiff, but nonthreatening. Vyr slid from their back, launching a chorus of hissing whispers around them that were cut off by the avalanche growl that issued from the Elder. All around were a rainbow of dragons, their attention focused solely on Verkiszhelt and their foundling.

“Great Elder, greetings from afar,” Verkiszhelt began, projecting their voice to be heard. “Long have we stayed away, attempting peace after our last meeting, but we are forced to return.”

“PEACE?” The tempest was back, the Elder overriding their words. “You speak of peace while bringing a hoo-man into our midst, one sporting the bones of our fallen. You have no idea the wrongs you have committed, Verkiszhelt!”

Verkiszhelt attempted to speak over the jeers and shouts of his brethren in vain. They prepared to grab their foundling and flee once more when Vyr stepped forward, spear in hand.

“Scaled cousins, peac” they began, and now the dragons fell to an awestruck silence. “I have no wish to harm anyone but demand to be heard. The one who attacked us was a silver dragon, as beautiful as the moon above, and it hurt my friend to do what had to be done, but they attacked us unprovoked.” The respect in their voice quieted the crowd.

“The battle was hard fought, but Verkiszhelt proved victorious. There was no honor in the attack or our defense. Only survival.” His words spread amongst the dragons who continued to listen, now with interest. “There was also no honor in sending one’s kin to fight an unneeded battle in your stead!”

Their spear now pointed outward, jabbed toward the Elder, who glowered, taking two steps forward, halving the distance between them and flattening nearby hills as well.

“The Elder knows me not! They would destroy me when I was a hatchling, out of fear of what I would become! If any here are an egg-breaker, it is they!” Hisses, both of assent and disagreement spread through the ranks, the dragons conflicted, having no personal experience with the hoo-mans. “I bid you, let me and my friend go in peace. We have no desire to deal with this dishonorable serpent. Let us part ways.”

The dragons murmured in approval, opinions swaying, and Verkiszhelt felt their lips twitch in amusement. They have earned their own pride.

The insult worked well, but greater than intended. The dragons lost their hostility, impressed by the display, but the Elder, sole survivor of the battles long ago, couldn’t let their ancient foe challenge them unheeded. With a roar that shook the ground and caused the mountain to belch fire, they lunged forward.

Vyr was already rushing back to them, and Verkiszhelt paused long enough for them to climb aboard before leaping into the air. Once more speed was their ally, but it was a close thing; the Elder had shaken the stiffness and weariness from their bones, and hatred motivated them. They circled the mountain, dodging the rocks it now hurled. Thrice Verkiszhelt turned, spiraling, to dodge the Elder’s maw and claws and attempt to land blows of their own, Vyr working in tandem. Thrice they had no effect; the scales were too thick to harm. The Elder could only blast fire in response, but it proved as ineffective against Vyr as the silver’s had.

“We need to flee, foundling,” Verkiszhelt cried, the battle hopeless.

“No!” Vyr rubbed the side of their neck, holding tight with their legs. “I know what to do, gain some ground then turn and fly straight toward them.”

Verkiszhelt hissed in protest, but trusted their foundling completely. They gained ground and turned, arrowing backward, toward their foe. The light of the setting sun was blocked by the Elder, their wings stretching seemingly from horizon to horizon, their silhouette dark save the burning orbs of their furious eyes.

Verkiszhelt briefly wavered, but Vyr cried them onward. Resigned to their fate, they flew toward that terrible maw.

“Elder! I declare you egg-breaker and murderer, and less deserving of your scales than I!”

The Elder’s eyes widened in rage, that terrible maw beginning to roar open—but Vyr’s words had the intended effect and they threw their spear just as Verkiszhelt was forced to dive. It flew straight and true, into the furious orb of the Elder, and the mountainous being fell and was no more.

“Since that day, Zhelt has taken new meaning.”

Verkiszhelt lay calmly on their favorite sunning rock, although they now had to curl into a ball to fit. The trees had regrew and a fresh scent of life filled the air. A variety of hatchlings listened intently to their tale, exclaiming and jetting fire in excitement at all the right moments.

“Now Zhelt means protector, partner, and friend to the hoo-mans. It represents growth and change, and the courage to accept the unknown.”

One of the hatchlings spoke up wistfully. “Will anyone else get to claim the title? Will I get to claim the name zhelt?

Verkiszhelt nodded with confidence, stretching as they heard their own foundling call their name. “I have no doubt, hatchlings.”

Turning, they hummed contentedly at Vyr’s approach. They had found their third human settlement just last season, and were working hard to establish ties, not of fear, but peace.

A new age had begun.