Scales of Stone

Prologue:

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. A fog always preceded their arrival. White tendrils would reach under doors and through any open windows or faults in the buildings. Down flues and chimneys, the vapors would plunge. Swatting them with brooms or hands would only deter the pressing for a brief moment before it would return. Clouds seemed to lift and sag with heaving, slow breaths. With each exhale, the grasping, curling tentacles would penetrate deeper. All glass would mist over with the arrival of the clouds. Peering into the blinding white was useless. All shapes and colors were gone, leaving faint ghosts of objects only discernable if you were close enough to breathe on them.

Going out was something people did at first. With curiosity and panic on their faces, they would leave their places of work or their homes and take a few tepid steps into the white void. Entering the visiting atmosphere would make hairs prickle immediately, and soon a deep sense of dread seeped into bones. The gripping terror forced a hasty return to the recently emptied space. Getting caught in the open when the fog descended was worse. It meant being lost from the world, until the fog lifted. Even desperate mothers found themselves unable to take more than a few lunges beyond their thresholds for little ones before succumbing to the fears. From where they had collapsed, you could hear them whimpering in resignation. Those unlucky enough to be outside were unharmed physically, but they were not left alone. Lost people would be discovered sitting cross-legged on the ground with eyes stretched wide from the invisible monsters. They would have no memories of the time they spent there, and it took several held heartbeats of searching faces of friends and family before recognition and relief would break the stupor.

As the fog eventually receded, enormous stone carvings of the wyrms appeared, scattered in the forest close around the town. Some with grotesque mouths full of broken, twisted teeth about to snap and rend prey. Others might be in more defensive forms, recoiling from being struck. Occasionally one could be found that was almost beautiful in its cast, but most were terrors to behold. A sense of something being very wrong overwhelmed the normal senses wherever someone came across one of the giant gargoyles. Cold and forgotten, their gruesome visage invaded the heart and mind. It was safer to venture out for everyday chores or trips as a group, coming upon the statues alone might result in a search party being formed.

When the first fog passed and the folk were accounted for, horse hooves pounded down the cobble street speeding along the High Road. Couriers sent flying toward the north pass, intent on gaining an audience with the king’s court. More went shooting down the southern route towards loved ones that lived along the banks of the Lithe river.

They all soon returned, outraged and downtrodden.

Blocking the entrance to the passes were nearly matching totemic megaliths of a crouching dragon. The stone was black, with an oily look on the smooth surface when the sun shined on it. The head and shoulders were hunched down to crush its meal. A vast mouth full of jagged rows of teeth ginned as it devoured the road. Great wings covered in spines rose up and into the pass far above the road, sealing off any quick attempt to scale the beast. Appearing like a hunter enjoying the fruit of its skills, these impassible guardians completely separated the Valley people from the outside world. Many people despaired when news spread of these atrocities.

Trapped. Caged in a giant feeding trough constructed of cliffs and mountains. It has been thirteen days, the fog rolls in when it will, and the dragons keep multiplying.