A New Threat

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. The thought crossed Saíf’s mind, not for the first time since he had set out from his home in the rugged mountains of the Gods’ Spine. As he lazily turned the pages of the thick tome on his lap, he mumbled to himself,

“What a rotten time that must have been.”

Saíf snapped the book shut, the loud thump drawing momentary looks from the other patrons of the tavern. Upon seeing the source of the noise was but a lean young man sitting melancholy in an armchair near the fireplace, they quickly returned to their business.

Staring at the cover of the book, a hand-painted scene of half a dozen archers firing at the underbelly of what appeared to be a fully-grown green dragon, he continued, “They certainly weren’t keen on saying what in Janos’ name they did before the dragons came down from the northern crags. Now that they’re gone again, what’s left for me to do to bring honor to my name and family?”

Saíf tossed the book heavily onto the small table in front of the fireplace. Bane of Dragons: A History of the Frontier Tribes of the Gods’ Spine, in Their Own Words was not typical reading material for young men of Brightmoon Hold, even amongst those who boasted literacy beyond simple trading ledgers. But Saif was not a young man of Brightmoon Hold, he had been anointed a Hunter of the Janosti Tribe, the same tribe about which he had been reading.

He ran a hand through his thick dark brown hair, tucking a stray strand behind his small, rounded ear, and sighed to himself as he peered lazily around the tavern room. The wide, welcoming hall belonged to an old woman whom everyone in town referred to simply as Grandmother, or simply Gram. The tavern itself had even inherited the matronly name, as the recently repainted sign hanging above the door proudly proclaimed: “Gram’s”. Slightly strange though the name was, Saíf had found it to his liking. The ale was crisp, the food befit what might be expected from a woman called Grandmother, and Gram’s was far enough out of town that the early shipping traffic on the Silver Snake never woke him before he pleased.

Still, Saíf thought to himself, he would have never come to a town as large as Kingfisher Crossing if the choice had freely been his. Though the comforts of a tavern such as Gram’s were plenty, Saíf knew that he belonged in the rugged hills of the Gods’ Spine to the west, stalking prey, felling his quarry, and helping to provide for the Janosti people. But with no dragons to pursue, the best Hunters had turned to mundane elk and bear, and the tribe now boasted more unsigned marksmen and fresh meat than at any time in its storied history. And this “time of unprecedented peace and prosperity,” as the historians loved to call it, had led to his family encouraging Saíf to travel east into the settled lands to learn a trade after completing his anointment ceremony. He could think of nothing more embarrassing than to return home to his family and look two generations of the greatest Hunters to have ever walked Sylaeria in the eyes as he proclaimed himself a potter. A grimace crossed his youthful, tanned face at even the passing thought of it.

He glanced around the room again, surveying the patrons and pretending to himself he was some sort of spy collecting information on unknown adversaries. Gram, the tavern’s namesake, was a slightly hunched woman, though still impressively mobile for her age. She was dressed in a wool sweater and draped in a shawl and apron, and had paused from her usual bustling about the tavern. She leaned over the counter near the back wall intently, chatting with a middle-aged Human couple to whom she’d just served a half roast chicken and some boiled potatoes, and spoke for once without the cheery “Can I get you anything else dear?” face that she always maintained for paying customers. Saíf assumed that meant they were personal friends for whom she need not put on a face. The Humans themselves were greying at the temples and dressed in muted tones, possibly farmers or meager shopkeepers, and appeared unremarkable, though Saíf only had a view of their backs and was not near enough to hear the quiet conversation.

At a long table near the wall opposite Saíf, a half dozen Dwarves had seated themselves at a strategic shouting-for-more-ale distance from the bar counter. No doubt bargemen in town only for the night, the Dwarves’ table was already cluttered with empty wooden pints and earthenware plates, as well as the piles of coin they were gambling with each other. They were attired roughly, in long, well-worn leathers and tattered caps designed to keep the sun off during long days on the water. Saíf was certain that if he ventured close, he would smell the mix of sweat and river water he had become accustomed to wafting from so many similar bargemen in Kingfisher Crossing. Fueled by the ale and payment from another successful delivery, the Dwarves had whipped themselves into a raucous party, their cacophony of laughter and cursing filling the tavern. Saíf briefly considered joining them for a game of dice for a modicum of entertainment, then thought better of it. He had little silver to lose, and there was no guarantee that the Dwarves would be open to outside company.

Saíf continued his sweep of the tavern. In the corner between the Dwarves and the front door an elderly man sat alone at a small table, a traveler’s cap pulled over long gray hair and obscuring much of his face. Saíf could not immediately tell if the man was Human or Elven, but in either case he was clearly old for his race. The man was writing something, scrawling quickly on a long roll of parchment with an impressively plumed quill. Even as he watched for a moment, the man completed his piece, dried the quill, set it down and returned Saif’s gaze, offering a curt but not unfriendly nod. Not wanting to seem rude, Saíf returned the nod then turned his eyes to the door, which, as luck would have it, opened at that very moment.

Had Saíf seen only the patrons’ reaction to the newcomers, he would have expected the strangers had kicked open the heavy door armed with heavy weapons and full plate. The discordant laughter coming from the Dwarves died away immediately, a trio of young Human men seated at the end of the bar near Saíf reached slowly for hidden blades, and Grandmother let out a soft “Oh my” from behind the counter.

Saíf’s instincts mirrored and exceeded those of the merchants. He was on his feet in an instant, as he felt his pulse quicken and a shot of adrenaline heat his blood with the anticipation of combat. He silently cursed himself for leaving his prized elkhorn bow unstrung and locked in his room on the second floor. Instead, Saíf’s had was on the hilt of his hunting knife and while he would prefer not to be near enough to these creatures to use it, the touch of the leather-wrapped steel in his hand was a small comfort.

The two newest patrons of Gram’s had not kicked in the door however, and if they carried any arms, they concealed the weapons well. The lead man, Saíf thought them both to be male at least, had skin of a deep crimson and two twisting horns protruding from his forehead. His devilish visage would likely have been sufficient to evoke the horror of Gram’s patrons, but Saíf’s focus was immediately fixed on his companion. The man who followed had a similar skin tone, but instead of smooth flesh over muscle and bone, the second man’s powerful physique was covered in fiery scarlet scales. As Saíf looked upon the outsider’s face, he took in features that he had seen only in paintings or imagined covering the one of the skulls his clan had collected over the generations: yellow eyes with slitted pupils like those of a cat, horns protruding from his angular features, and a powerful jaw and elongated snout hiding large, deadly fangs.

This creature had the head of a dragon.