Vryx: The Tale of Two Tails

The shrill from the battle horns of chorused infantry could be heard past the welcoming meadows of Gaylegate. There was no denying what it meant. An alarm had been raised and with that an insidious film coated the sky. The shepherds penned in their sheep. The foundries would begin to cache on coal. Both industries would be called upon soon enough.

On the other side of the mountain, the boy had finally stopped crying, his residual tears camouflaged by a fickle downpour, and he was now missing a shoe. But no matter how much he tried to fight it, a drowsiness nipped at his heels, writhing through the bones. It came on intermittently, leaving only a few moments of alertness.

He of course was nescient to the fact that the night before someone had sprinkled half a treble dose of somberberry essence unto his pillow. Whomever had been so brazen, was of no ordinary rank. The knowledge of such horticulture had been banned teaching for some time now. Only a sybil well versed in the teachings of Tuditt would have been privy to such herb hex.

Serendipitously, the trees native to the forests of Fidra blossomed this time of year, proffering a most delicious fruit. The forest bed was now littered with them, adding a prismatic glow to an otherwise portentous terrain. He picked up one closest to his foot, and as he lay nestled against a rock two spans his length, took a big bite.

At least he would not hunger.

If malnourishment was his only worry, the boy might have been all right. His limited youth and exiguous study had not prepared him for his present predicament. For he was only seven seasons old, the finish of his mother's milk, still a stain on his palate. How he had found himself in the eye of the forest, a marriage of barbed bush and redolent cadaver was still a mystery. One thing was for sure: he was placed there.

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The dragon's gaze danced around in the blackness of the cavern, as if it couldn't make up its mind on where to fix its focus. It wasn't that it hadn't noticed the child, through the mouth of the cave, recessed against the rock. A dragon's eyesight was as sharp as a blade mined from obsidian ore. Dragons have spent enough time amongst humans to know where there is one, there is many.

Today was different. There was only the boy. A rather ripe suckling, although inauspiciously fattened.

The antiquated beast let out a huff. The scales of its skin reflected like shards of glass, almost matching the jaggedness of its dwelling. It slithered forward, it's primordial talons clinging to moss and mud, moving through both with prodigious ease. There would be no witness to recount this carnage. If anything, this would be an atoning of much iniquity. At the very hour, there was likely some dragon shackled to the belly of a castle, wings barbered and made subordinate through sorcery and starvation.

None the matter. It would be over before it began.

When the dragon readied its flame, the boy was still lost in a daze, disabled by the jinx, the half eaten fruit resting delicately in his grasp. And although the dragon was more than a clearing away, a few flaps of its wings sent small gales all around him. When he opened his eyes, the tunnel of blaze was already on its way.

But something happened.

An energetic field enveloped him, resisting the dragon fire, sending embers in all directions. The boy cowered beneath the shield, its strength augmenting, matching the dragon's intensity. Before it was over, the forcefield boomed, returning fire and charm, catapulting the creature into a tree.

The forest held its breath until the brume settled. When the boy gathered consciousness, he grabbed at the only thing left adorning his body: a trident necklace. He was now naked as a babe, a few cuts and bruises, but mostly intact.

This was no ordinary boy.

His name was Vryx, the third and only remaining son of King Orlan, heir to the throne of Gaylegate. His presence would have parted a throng of onlookers in every village from Lythe to Fallin Falls. At his birth, it was rumored that King Orlan beseeched the royal treasury to sponsor a private performance of the Singing Satyrs of Nassn. Such a recital from these stately beings were historically reserved for ushering in the Great Tillage. The travel accommodations for housing a chiliad of satyrs was staggering!

And yet, here he was, naked in the Forest of Fidra, having just worsted a dragon! It now made sense. Whoever had stolen him in the stillness of the night and jettisoned him into the forest, had not expected him to survive the night.

If only they had remembered to remove the trident necklace.