The Somewhere Stories :: The Weather
The Jemsen Druid often came by the camp to barter with the chieftain. He guided hunts into territories that needed culling. He negotiated for the welfare of the forest and groves. Hunt here. Cut here. The chieftain listened to his wisdom with reverence. Her mother, the chieftain before her, had defied the Jemsen Druid and they were cursed for a season with plague and famine.
After the talks, by the firelight, the Druid would share its tales. Dowen, the boy, would listen with rapture as he spun his enchanting yarns. One such tale was known by few. The villain had masked the truth from the masses and cloaked his designs in darkness. But the Jemsen Druid had spoken with the trees—trees who were there since The First Age—trees who had seen first hand how the dragons fell.
Hundreds of leagues from the village of Danua by the Whisperwood forest—
Centuries before the birth of Dowen Amae’s Son—
There lived an elven noble.
By his heritage and fortunate birthplace, he found himself adept at wizardry. Through his life he studied, searched, and sacrificed. Magic was his one true love. Even as the elven kingdoms were rich in knowledge, his thirst could not be sated. He forsook all else and left his home to pursue his calling.
As he traveled his power grew. Magic permeated his being. Yet, he remained unfulfilled. For all he knew were the spells of mortals. His expertise qualified him for more and his ambition would not allow him to rest.
Dragonkind kept powerful secrets, he knew. He had seen them wield magic with such grace that his greatness could not compare. For dragons are magic incarnate—and tasked to bear the magic of the world. The least of them wielded spells in such a way he never conceived as possible.
He sought to learn this power, certain that it was a matter of skill. He could master it—he would master it—and there become the greatest wizard any mortal had been.
Decades passed as he hunted down dragon after dragon. All denied his request to apprentice to them. How he had humbled himself! To be an apprentice again? And to then be denied?
Yet, he was undeterred. In his determination he employed divinations that yielded the insight he needed.
Antalaxius. Venerable White. Now a mythic figure among the stars, then a barely maturing wyrm—by dragon standards. The Venerable Council had accorded to skip his vigil over the Orb of Calling. Antalaxius wore the grudge like a stone in a crown. If they would not trust him with one sacred duty, why should he honor their trust with another?
The Elven Noble sought him out and found his lair in the frigid peaks of the Razorgrain Range. Antalaxius, like all dragons, knew better than to share the secrets of their kind with the likes of mortals. Even long-lived mortals such as elves need not know the power of dragon kind.
But he was a vicious creature. The more hate in his arctic heart, the greater his pride. When the venerable council skipped his vigil over the Orb, it passed to another and was lost. If they could lose something as precious as the Orb, what good were any of them? What good were any secrets?
The Elven Noble, keen and watchful, guided the ire of Venerable White. Sharp-tongued, he riled the beast’s frigid fury until it ripped through his silence. Secrets spilled forth—not as a slip—but as a point of pride. This was the revenge of Antalaxius. This was how he came to be known as The Folly of Man.
In the century to come, the wizard aided Antalaxius in strategy against his foes. In exchange, Antalaxius taught him the powers that dragons wield. Through decades of study the wizard translated and transcribed spell after spell. Other dragons came to know of this alliance.
Antalaxius and his companion had to be stopped. Wave after wave of attacks, ambushes, and threats piled on the pair. The world around the Razorgrain Range paid the price. Dragons do not wage war as we do. Risking one’s scales for a pithy victory is a sure way to lose a promised eternity.
They sent armies. They blighted the land around the range to starve out the pair. They stopped the sun to thaw the peaks. They sent hordes of dwarves to collapse mountains. Until Antalaxius had enough.
He hated the trouble the wizard brought. In a fit, he threw him out. No more would he humor this troublesome alliance. It’s a wonder he didn’t eat the Elven Mage. White dragons are not known for their loyalty. Had Antalaxius eaten him, this would be a different tale.
The wizard’s plan was a success. He had grown in power. His skill with magic, though more science than nature, now rivaled that of a dragon’s. He slew Antalaxius in his lair.
He was left without a mentor, but he had seen beyond the veil. He understood the basics of dragon magic and had even penned a spell or two. Nothing could stop him now—but time.
The dragons robbed him of his great work. If only they had been willing to share their knowledge, he could have advanced his abilities! He could be a master! As it stood his life—his long life of a millennium—would end without fulfilment. Hunted, damned, and outraged by these ancient beasts, he hatched a new plan.
If he could not have his revenge, others would take it for him. He went town to town, city to city, gathering forces. He convinced anyone he could that dragonkind sought to rule over mankind. Dragons were pompous, vicious rulers, the lot of them. Their time had come and gone.
He rose an army called Dawn Breakers. They hated dragons and hunted them to extinction. Yet they remain vigilant for the hint of a dragon. It is the dream of every member to be One Who Slays The Last.
What they didn’t know is that that elven noble—The Dark Lord—was using the crusade to fuel a fabricated immortality.
Elves must return home by a certain age. Floating ships descend from the sky and retrieve them to a distant land. If they do not return, they perish here like the rest of us. When they die here their souls disperse into the makeup of our plane. They are gone.
So, The Dark Lord—once a fair elven wizard, now cloaked in mystery—crafted a ritual that funneled draconic essence into his being. With the death of every dragon, his power grew and his life extended. It took a wicked toll on his corporeal form, but such is the price of great power, wrenched from life itself.
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Dowen Amae’s Son sprinted through the trees, sword in hand. His feet tore through the undergrowth, sending twigs and mud soaring behind him. His tracks planted heavy in the earth as the weight of his armor bore him down. But he had learned to be one with his armor. The spring in his step was compressed by the metal that encased him. His shield kept brush from scraping his eyes as he blasted through branches. Leaves, needles, twigs were caught in the wake of his haste.
He burst into the grove where his enemies awaited. Dozens of men in gold cloaks awaited with spears—Dawn Breakers. Many a hunter prefers stealth in his approach. Dowen Amae’s Son was not one such hunter. What bear cared to lurk when it could roar?
He blasted his way through the first line, using his shield to dissuade spearheads. Seventeen shafts shattered against his mighty armor. He slammed his visor down and with a swipe of his sword, cut the heads off six men. In a single blast from his mighty shield another dozen men were thrown onto the spikes.
“Ha!” he shouted. “That’s what you get for using traps!”
An avalanche of arrows came over the next line of foes. They whipped through the air with a sound like bees. When they met his shield, they sounded like a drumming party. Arrowheads tore through his mighty steel, rendering it useless for defense. He spun it about and thrust it into the crowd. What would have killed him dug instead into the meat of his foe. With his sword, he laid low a final enemy.
The one remaining, he kicked in the back of the knee. The Dawn Breaker fell to the ground and dropped his sword.
“Your time has come, Dawn Breaker,” he said. He looked down his sword at the beaten man. It gleamed with sunlight. Its sharp edge sharper than any other edge.
“Tell me where I can find your Dark Lord.”
“I’ll never talk!” said the Dawn Breaker. To the hero’s surprise, he flung a handful of sand in the air, trying to blind him. At the last moment, Dowen blocked the sand with his free hand.
“Ha!” He said. “As if I’d fall for that old trick.”
But it was enough. Dawn Breaker grabbed his sword and rolled to his feet. Thereupon an epic duel began. Cuts were cut. Thrusts were thrusted. Blocks thrown. The two weaved in and around each other, neither gaining purchase nor advantage until at last Dowen was worn down.
Panting, he fell upon a fallen log. His wooden sword fell to the ground. The boy had exhausted himself, for now. He laid against the log, gazing at the grass of the grove, until the sounds of the forest returned. Birds chirped, squirrels chittered, and rabbits dared to leave their holes once more.
He had learned from his tribe, who learned from the druid, that he could gather moisture and dew from the whisperwood oak leaves. Should a beetle or bug happen to be on a leaf, all the better. The bodies of growing boys need snacks. He went from leaf to leaf, slaking his thirst and hunger both.
He was nearing his fill when he happened upon a pair of branches fallen to the dirt. They were near in size and shape. With a bit of hemp twine and some clever engineering, he was winged. He scooped up his sword and took the sky.
High and low, he sought his foe. Scanning trees and clouds for that elusive enemy. Instead, what he found was far more deadly than he could have known. A dragon. The long-dead corpse of a dragon god—animated by dark magic. If he were ever to reach The Dark Lord, he must overcome this force.
His wings whipped the air, a torrent forming behind him. He summoned his shield from the ether again and directed his sword to the heart of the beast. He was nearly there when—
He tripped.
The ground gave way beneath him as he tried to stop himself. Down the steep hill he tumbled. Sword lost. Wings broken. Elbows bruised. Again and again, he tried to stop himself to no avail. Tumbling, he saw the end approaching. A cliff. The ravine that marked the land of the Danua. If he survived the fall—if—he would be trespassing. He knew not upon whose land.
His eyes grew wide. His breath stopped leaving. Fingers and knuckles bloody. Shirt torn. He saw to the bottom of the ravine. He locked his eyes closed. He could not bear to see his own end.
Then he stopped.
Mid-tumble.
Snagged upon a whisperwood sapling that had taken root in the tiniest crack and grown as he had grown.