Yorage

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

For as long as his mountainside home of Veigon had stood strong, and for as many days as he had spent traversing its vast tunnels and caverns, it was becoming increasingly harder to believe that life beyond his hallowed alps existed.

Though, every summer's eve, the Toasty Eskimo filled with song and story rehearsed by travelers who dared journey out amongst the dragons.

Whilst reflecting upon days long since passed, Yorage oft believed his grandfather’s stories of a time without dragons were brewed with a mix of slightly too much alcohol, delusion, and fantasy rather than factual reality.

Presently, however, Yorage would trade a year's supply of mead without the slightest hesitation to find himself living within his grandfather's drunken ramblings.

Yorage quietly sat alone by the warmth of the fire, tightly gripping the carved wooden tankard within his calloused hands, and began to hum aloud the song his Grandfather would recite for him on the day of his birth.

Laughing over the silliness of the tune, he looked around to find that not a soul amidst the tavern was one that he recognized, or, in any way felt comfortable enough to approach.

76 long years had now come and gone in Yorage’s life, and every minute of it was spent breathing the rarified air of the snow-capped mountain tops.

He sat for a moment and allowed his thoughts to then wander far beyond the walls, and a sense of isolation coursed through his veins.

Knowing that his family had long since passed beyond the Great Horizon, his very few friends were beginning to produce families of their own, and his work was becoming ever more unsatisfying, Yorage felt an overwhelming desire for radical change.

Recognizing that the hour was late and his money for the evening growing thin, he then reached into his pocket, grabbed the necessary amount of coins to pay for his meal and many drinks, placed them on the table, arose from his seat, and began the small journey back toward his home.

The mountainside city of Veigon with its hand-laid cobblestone streets all eventually leading toward different types of work needing to be done, the many signs outside its vast array of shops indicating what treasures were awaiting purchase inside, the elaborate carvings amongst mountain walls each telling their story of war accompanied by great triumph and statues carved for each of the great leaders both past and present meant very little to Yorage in these moments.

He was so familiar with the walk home that he could have done it in his sleep- or, like on this night, undoubtedly inebriated.

As he slowly approached the stone wall marked by his family's crest, Yorage took note of the dimly burning oil lamp hanging nearby knowing full well it would play part in his upcoming struggle to open the door.

After wrestling with it for what felt like an eternity the door finally gave way.

Upon entering, and, much to Yorage’s surprise, he looked down to find an envelope laying on the floor mat that his mother had sewn.

He reached for it, grabbed the envelope, fumbled with it for a moment and brought it closer into his view to inspect what had been sent.

In his overly drunken state, he was unable to make sense of the words written on the envelope but knew that handwritten letters addressed and delivered to him came few and far between.

Yorage proceeded to place the letter securely on his nightstand, and, fully clothed, fell atop his bed and deeply into sleep.