Out of Isolation: Tales of the Wanderers

For three days I hunted, harassed, and slaughtered the band of men that had ransacked my home. While my brothers and sisters flew west to seek refuge in the high Vorminthian Mountains, I chased the red and silver banners South towards the empire of men. Visions of my wing mates being slaughtered or enslaved echoed through my mind as I tore through their armor and gutted their steeds. For three straight days I did not rest, and ate only what bits of man flesh and horse flesh passed through my gnashing jaws, and I made sure they had no time for rest either. I intended to wear them down. These vermin who had snuck into our nests and murdered my kin did not deserve mercy, nor the honor and glory of a proper battle. They would die weak and exhausted, too malnourished to make even a proper meal for the most desperate of scavenging beasts.

I should have scorched the lot and been done with it, but evidently, my rage had tempered my caution. As we reached the base of the mountain and approached the Nerylian Forest, a great harpoon burst from the forest and lodged itself in my front right leg. I roared in pain and recoiled, but the harpoon’s rope pulled taut and yanked me down to earth. In a panic I spit flames around me, hoping to alight one of my hidden assailants. In response, a squad of soldiers appeared from behind the nearest trees and began thrusting their spears into my wings and exposed underbelly, ducking behind large metal shields every time I snorted fire, the rope pulling me down every time I tried to stand.

Lucky then for me, that the greed of humans knew no limits. As I lay on my side, a shout came from deeper in the forest. Then another. And another. And from the woods echoed a feral, inhuman shriek. I knew that scream. I had made it myself when I woke to find my eggs stolen.

I found out later that among several other races, the armies of men had also attempted to pillage the halls of the Elves and now their retaliation broke through the trees like a flood tide. Wispy creatures that you would normally only see as shadows and flickers in the corner of your eye came flitting from the depths of Nerylian. Flashes of dark hair and patchwork armor flitted through the army’s ranks, barely pausing long enough to slash hamstrings and slit throats.

I felt the tension on the rope go slack, and lunged forward, taking the head off the soldier nearest me. I wrapped my teeth around the harpoon in my arm and pulled it out, roaring as the head pulled flesh and scale along with it. I shot fire into the gash to sterilize it, then balanced myself on my remaining legs and hobbled forward, preparing to take off. The elves may have come for the men, but they were no friend to dragons. I had to leave before their assassins turned their blades to me.

I leapt into the air, prepared to feel the wind rush through my scales. I flapped my wings once, twice. And felt the air rush through my wing as I dropped back to the ground. My membrane was too torn, I wouldn’t be able to take flight properly. I screamed in frustration, charring a group of soldiers in the process, before charging into the woods.

Branches clawed my face as I stumbled through the forest, tripping over roots and jarring my wounded leg. The further in I went, the larger and more densely packed the trees seemed to become, so large that the greatest of my kin could not fully wrap around them, and the more laborious it became to fit my huge frame between them. I yearned for the skies. It took every ounce of willpower to not bulldoze every tree in my path. Hours passed this way, until the trees became indistinguishable, and the sun fell from the sky. Exhaustion had set in long ago. My leg screamed in pain with every step, causing my vision to fade and be replaced with dancing fairy lights. Unable to continue anymore, I found a giant tree, split at the bottom to reveal a hollow trunk, and stuffed myself inside, prepared to let sleep or death take me from this world.

I awoke to the smell of wet leaves and dirt commandeering my nostrils. Ants and other bugs crawled across my soft underbelly, making me want to writhe and itch. Except.

There was a strange weight against my side. A warm pressure on my chipped and bruised scales that while comforting, seemed to press and dig into every wound around it. I peered under my crumpled wing and saw it, clinging and clawing at my side scales. A dark brown ball of fur curled against me. As I lifted my wing, the smell of wet fur, blood, and urine overtook the smell of the forest. I snuffled and shook my head, then returned my focus to the creature.

The creature was draped in the tattered remains of clothing, tufts of dark fur poking through tears in the fabric. One of the Beast Folk then, a Ketzha child based on the kneading behavior. I could not fathom why it had thought it wise to curl up next to a dragon, much less how it had even found my hollow in the first place, but if it could find me, it could find the elves, or wail and cry until they found it. Dragons are not in the business of child rearing. Time to take my leave.

I carefully extracted myself from around the child and brushed a blanket of leaves over it. I pushed my way out through the split in the tree and surveyed the area. Illuminated by the midday sun, my surroundings became more distinguishable. I could see almost immediately how the child had found me, as my journey the previous evening had created a canyon through the otherwise unbroken line of trees.

Truly, the elves have a very good reason to dislike dragons.

Where to go from here. I decided that continuing my assault on the Empire of Men would be foolhardy and suicidal. Continuing West or going back East would run my afoul of the elves, and I doubted even my pathetic state would spare me the ire of a vandalized kingdom with a trampled garden. I could travel North and West, to regroup with my kin in the Vorminthian mountains, but with my damaged wing I could never cross their lofty peaks. No choice then but to return home, gather what bits of treasure remained, and return to my interrupted hibernation.

I prepared to set off, when I felt a tugging at one of my tail spikes. I peered back and saw the child half risen out of the leaves, one hand rubbing sleep from its eyes, the other death gripping the tip of my spike. I raised its head and looked up at me with misty eyes.

“Help…” it mumbled in a sleepy rasp, giving my tail two short but gentle tugs. I circled around to face the kitten and snorted a puff of warm air from my nostrils, blowing back the hair in its face.

“I am of no use to you, hatchling. Wait upon the elves, they will surely pass here chasing my trail.” As I spoke, the child's grip tightened.

“Pointy ears don’t care. Rescued their friends but left others. Only escaped because we were all caged together. Cage elves didn’t even help, just used us for warmth.”

“And I would as soon use you as a late night snack if I thought there was any flesh beneath that fur.” I growled, pushing close to her face. “Hear me well, Beast Kin. I am no friend to you or your people. I am not a cook, I am not a tent, and I am not a pack horse. I am a Dragon of the Valmaeri mountains, and I will not find myself slaughtered because I was slowed by a starving whelp.” I flicked my tail out of it’s grasp and pushed out of the tree hollow, taking a moment to get my bearings before heading North. Beneath the crunching of leaves I could hear the sounds of sniffling fading behind me.

I traveled North for several hours, the trees growing more sparse as I went. No creatures barred my path, my heavy footsteps likely scaring them off long before I could reach them. A shame too, I was getting quite hungry. The humans from yesterday had long been digested, and their armor melted in my second stomach and reconstituted into repairing my scales. Iron wasn’t great, but better than nothing, enough to hold me until I found a stronger metal to consume. Perhaps I should make a quick stop to the Dwarven forges in the Northeast. A few days heating a forge is a small price for the rare metals they horde.

I was startled out of my considerations by a limb cracking overhead, causing something to land on my back with a loud squawk. I reared back, throwing my assailant to the ground, and turned, shooting a wave of flame at the creature. Something exploded in a ball of feathers and dropped to the ground, and I snapped my jaw shut, cutting off the jet. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a very charred wild bird smoking on the ground and a few feet further, cowering on the ground with its tail puffed up in the air, the Ketzha Child.

To this day I cannot comprehend the imprinting instincts of other species. Dragons by nature are solitary by birth. I know of my mother by story, not by nurture, and one day my hatchlings will know the same of me. I'm sure some scholar out there would suggest it has to do with the practice of dragon hatchlings cannibalizing their mother, but I would argue that dragons are simply too prideful a creature to be so codependent.

So you can understand my frustration and confusion when I saw this fluffy pain in my spikes barely the size of my head had been stalking me unnoticed all day. A feeling that only grew when it stood up and, seeing the roasted bird on the ground start to grin and jump up and down. I let it play out its excitement for a moment then let out a low rumbling growl to draw its attention back. It stopped and began pointing at me.

"Cook!" It yelled, pointing at my snout. It then turned its finger towards itself. "I hunt! You cook!"

"One half of a tree raptor is hardly enough to feed me, so-" Before I could finish, the child began nodding enthusiastically, and then disappeared up a tree. After a short silence, several squawks and coos rang out, and with a series of loud thuds, ten more birds dropped from the tree, followed shortly by the Ketzha. It jumped to its feet and looked at me expectantly. Ten tree raptors were hardly filling, but it was more than I'd been going on since I left the mountains. I humored the child by roasting two then ate the rest as they were, the feathers tickling my throat on the way down. When we finished eating the child looked at me, and I looked at it. It began pointing again.

“Cook” Pointing at me. I snorted.

“Hunt!” Pointed at itself. I gave a slow blink in response.

“Home!” It pointed Southwest, a bit askew of the Cimultri forest where the Beast Folk call home. Not the worst estimate for a hatchling. I shook my head, then turned and puffed a ring of smoke towards the northern peaks.

“That is my home child.” It pouted and stomped its foot in frustration, then pointed at my wing.

“Bad hole. Like when my bat got sad.” I scowled, considering flickering the furball into a tree for the comparison. The Ketzha continued on unabated. “Daddy fixed Mister Batterson, maybe fix you too! Home!” It pointed again to the Southwest.

Whoever taught this child to negotiate was in for a world of trouble one day.

I sighed, blowing a puff of smoke into the slowly darkening sky. Home. What was left of home.

I slapped the ground between the two of us. The child gazed up at me, and I looked down at her.

“Cook, Hunt, Home.”