Fantasy
There weren't always dragons in the valley
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The fire hissed and burned my raw skin. Smoke filled my lungs and my hair singed in the fuming air. My sword scratched at the scales of the giant beast, and the steel boiled, chased down my arm and peeled my skin to the bone. The dragon was as dark as a shadow. It snarled and growled as I swerved from the fire that poured out its mouth. Its claws cracked the stone beneath my feet, and its wings were a turmoil in the air around me. It had scales as big as my hand that burned at the touch. Sweat covered my body, and my skin was set on fire by patches of red burns. As I ripped its throat open with my dagger, blood poured on my head, soaked the skin down my back and burned my throat. I heard a screech that echoed through my ears. I stumbled with fatigue and teetered on my heels. The big scaly wings of the dragon thrashed me to the ground and whipped at my limbs. I felt the smoke cling to my throat. My breath quickened as I scrambled on the ground. I stood to observe the beast and stumbled. My eyes burned from the smoke, and the air's haze incapacitated me. I coughed and choked on the thick smog. As I reached its head, I trailed my fingers along its scales and horns. My fingers burned, and I jittered in the heat. Its eyes were open and dead, with a look of solace. I wept as I looked at its lifeless eyes and wings that looked so frail on the ruined ground.
By Eva sutherland4 years ago in Fiction
The Trigone Valley
There weren't always dragons in the valley. In fact, there was a time when life was nonexistent in the valley. For where these trees and shrubs now grow their roots once was a site of sorrow. Nature, as the merchant and his traveling envoy consisting of several royal guardsman could see, was nothing short of a miracle considering the legend that all peoples of this land carry with them. Though many winters had since passed, what the locals call, "the Arrival" none who were there that fatal morning, including this very same merchant, will ever forget what had happened.
By Preston Isham4 years ago in Fiction
Yea Though I Walk
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But then again, there hadn't been a need for them. No need until now...until the new society took over. It had unseemingly crept up from the gutters like a black fog, saturating every crevice and nook, choking all the good out of this place where the only truth left in our world was so cold and bare and ugly that even the strongest among us turned face away from it. All the darkness left was a soul-less abode where our children would never be allowed to grow up in freedom. The dragons would make sure of that.
By Shirley Belk4 years ago in Fiction
Fate-speakers of Ruugan
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. The Treaty of Gildglen, which established the marchlands on either side of the gorge around the Crystalsteel River, allowed the Dragons of the Conclave only to enter the Upper Holdreach Valley to take tithes from the herds there once a year, in late-grass season.
By J. L. Dodgson4 years ago in Fiction
Flames of Vengence
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. There had been a time when the valley had been a thriving district, when there had been things to trade and people to trade them. Lucah could remember the bustling markets, the sounds of laughter at the summer festivals, dogs barking at a passing carriage as the Bower’s old gelding drew it steadily down the main street.
By Tara Marie4 years ago in Fiction
God of Nothing
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. For centuries, it had remained untouched by the chaos that blossomed throughout the Divine World. To the north, the Burning Range scorched a line of fiery cliffs through the lush green terrain, mirrored to the south by the formidable presence of the sky-rending Bloodstained Mountains. Situated between these awe-inspiring behemoths, resting peacefully amidst wild grasses and creeping patches of Blood Fire Blossoms, stood the Valley’s only structure: the jagged and unforgiving Vermilion Mountain.
By Eamonn Bullock4 years ago in Fiction
The Eternal Flame of Ockris
Prologue There weren't always dragons in the valley. Legend states that in the year 1329 the first dragon ever was created by Brendlich, an Alchemist Wizard from the chambers of Gladistine who was hell-bent on becoming a maker. In a large obsidian cauldron, they say he combined the eyes and tail of a lizard with the heart and talons of a falcon. He then added the wings of a vampirous bat and mixed it all with the blood of 3 orcs. Lastly, he carefully sprinkled the brew with a few smidgeons of faerie dust — he would churn it for many hours. After the mixture began to bubble and steam, he conjured the power of the Master Spirits for that necessary vital spark required to initiate life. In seven days, the resulting creation emerged from the thick, simmering, reddish black and putrefied liquid. Unique in its design, wicked in its appearance, it slithered its way out on to the cold, damp and mossy brick floor. Its birth cry was more piercing than that of a thousand Coracks screeching at the same time; it would be heard several miles away in every direction. Brendlich called the savage animal Draco, lord of the dark skies. The Master Spirits gifted upon it the hellacious power of fire; efficient and volatile, it could burn, scorch, melt or vaporize anything within a single breath. In just two years, the Draco grew an astonishing twenty times its original size of a Brangus bull. As one Draco became two and two became three, a race of them were called Dragons. Many names have been given to the different breeds that existed but Dragons they are and Dragons they remain. They continue the honor of being the most feared creatures in all of Xanthapy.
By Lamar Wiggins4 years ago in Fiction
Paper Dragons
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley...” At least, that’s what the first note said. It was the strangest thing. I woke one morning, as usual and began my normal routine. Coffee. Breakfast. Clean the dishes. Then I saw it. A tiny, perfect origami dragon, settled comfortably on my windowsill. As I got closer to inspect it, it suddenly sprang to it’s feet. Letting out the smallest puff of smoke. I jumped back, startled by the sudden movement of an otherwise inanimate object. The little paper dragon scowled at me, if you could call it a scowl. After a moment of silence and still, seemingly satisfied, the dragon moved from the previously unnoticed envelope he’d settled himself upon. A crisply folded piece of parchment sealed in gold, smelling of a spice I had no name for.
By Jessa Boze4 years ago in Fiction
