The Homecoming

Their fangs dripped as they picked up the dragon-babe, staining the caretaker's white scales. After so long, a new dragon birthed, only to be ripped away by these usurpers, the drake groaned inwardly as they receded into the wild. He lay wounded and bleeding on the forest floor. As he spoke the ancient summons, he fell into a deep trance, hoping they were uttered in time for any in the old alliance to hear.

Come dragon-friends, come, the dawn has arisen, on our unending night. The Solas forever freed from their prison, shine with new light.

—

Ronen huffed as he hoisted himself over the most recent ledge in the landscape. His half-dull blade hung heavier than usual.

I’m getting too old for this, the haggard tracker grunted to himself.

As sweat beaded on his weathered brow, marked by years of care as it was, he took a moment to catch his breath and admire the beauty of the changing scenery before him. His journey through the scar tissue that was these petrified steppes was finally coming to an end. Before him was the tree line which marked the beginning of the Emerald Tangle, a perilous mess of wilderness and river valleys. Though worst challenges were surely awaiting him, he was grateful that the climb through the high desert steppes was yielding itself to pristine forested taiga. The many crevices of the high desert were matched by his own worn appearance, a man who looked to be on the later side of mid-life, and had spent too much of it in the open air. He disliked the terrain; it reminded him of his years serving. Cuts in the otherwise placid steppes, blasted out by unspeakable things without names, could have easily been mistaken for natural occurrences to the untrained eye. But not his.

Worn down by infrequent rainfall as they were, the gorges in this place were no act of nature. Ronen had witnessed that firsthand many years ago. They lined the only road in and out of the Emerald Tangle. These lands had long ago been abandoned by the retreating Mantle garrisons, the legions of the Ivory Seat, but they still testified to their violent withdrawal.

The agents can't have made it far, he half-stated and half-hoped.

His years of service were starting to wear on him, but hope finally caught in his heart again with the news that sent him across land and desert. Dragonkin again being born into the world. He made his way for the collapsed archway that heralded the beginning of the Tangle. Its white stone had been scorched by battle and muddied by time. As the sun began to set behind him the arch was awash with sunlight that almost made it look as glorious as years long past. The ivy that climbed the stones only partially obscured the triumphal monument’s history. The inscriptions and images told of a great struggle against savagery and the settling of the Emerald Vale a thousand years ago. The captains and commanders astride great winged creatures were shown throwing their seeds out to the nations, emerging from the Emerald Wilds to be meet with adulation and cheers. The column ended with cities being erected, enemies defeated, and the first Mantle bringing peace to the ten realms.

“Lies,” Ronen audibly snorted. He steamed at the perverse history victors tend to write for themselves. Walking past the collapsed stones without a second glance, he leaned heavy on his walking staff and quickened his pace. The tree line would provide as good a shelter as any from the howling winds of the steppes.

A few minutes after the fire was put out, Ronen leaned back on his rucksack and gazed upward through the canopy, looking through its leafy gaps like holes in a blanket. “Much like my own,” he chuckled to himself as he fingered the worn rag wrapped around him. He dreamt of new hopes, and new fears as he slept under the pale Emerald sky.

—

Holman absentmindedly wiped down the bar as he gazed outside. The monks chanted on and on, spinning their prayer wheels as the body was lowered.

“Funerals are for mornings,” he complained to himself. He was sure the death would dampen people’s thirst this evening. He knew only fools drank while they were despairing, and he wasn’t keen on seeing many of them tonight. The paying customers came to celebrate, the troublemakers came to mourn.

Unfortunately, Holman’s age and size made tavern keeping a difficult vocation. He was deceptively strong for his size but often had to demonstrate that fact to others. Naόs was the last outpost before serious wilderness, a largely forgotten town that was frequented by trappers, pilgrims, or vagabonds. In the last age, the town was revered as the site where the Listener heard the first words. Most came here to worship, or to drink, and sometimes both. Other than Holman’s Tavern, the Monastery was the only place of note in Naόs. They were two suns orbiting each other, which kept the town functioning after many hard years. Both were places of talk, connection, and most importantly, trade. Quite a few monastic delegations came and went each year, making the pilgrimage to pay homage to this holy place. The locals would often complain these sojourners had too much faith and not enough generosity, save what they gave to the damn temple. “Not a completely fair assessment”, Holman would say, “they pay very well to keep my memory foggy”.

The monks continued their chanting outside. Holman continued his scrubbing. More chanting, more scrubbing. Louder chanting, louder scrubbing. He boiled over and threw his rag pathetically at the front down. The lack of noise and impact only succeeded in frustrating him further, and frightening the Tavern’s cat, Emelia, affectionately called Emmie by the locals. Emmie leapt away from her bed near the door and hissed. That’s not very considerate, she glared at Holman. He held up his hands in apology.

Later that evening, the tavern door seemed reluctant to let anyone through. The main hall was sparsely populated. And though the fireplace was stoked and roaring, the mood of the town was subdued and cold.

“Funerals happening more and more recently,” muttered Monica as she swept the already spotless floor. Monica had a penchant for busying herself with more than was needful. Though Holman fancied her and kept her around for her odd sense of humor and matchless attention to detail.

“Yeah, it is odd,” Holman acknowledged reluctantly while sharpening his paring knife. A light rain had begun to harass the beggars outside, and they made their way in, followed shortly after by a hooded traveler Holman hadn’t recognized. Usually, he would have shooed them away with bread, but given the empty hall, he threw them each a blanket and motioned for them to curl up by the fire. Their wordless thanks were enough.

The traveler approached the bar, and incredibly, brought in a curdling smell worse than the beggars. He sat himself down at the bar without a word.

“Can I get you a drink, or perhaps some bread and stew?” Holman offered as he motioned for Monica to fetch some for the two wet men curled up around the fireplace.

“Just a room,” the stranger spoke with what seemed to be a low rumble undergirding the words. The stranger’s voice made Holman’s neck hair stand on edge. The voice carried a hidden ferocity, lined with something between haggard breathing, or perhaps purring he thought. It was enough to make him press the wanderer further.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think we’ve met before,” Holman held out his hand, testing the stranger a bit.

The stranger remained silent.

“Fair enough. What name shall I stencil in for the log?” he asked while reaching under the bar for his logbook and inkwell.

At this point the smell was nauseating, Monica looked green in the neck, and even the beggars were looking about the room.

“Just a traveler,” the hooded figure half-growled.

“Ser Traveler,” Holman recorded in his meticulous handwriting, “welcome to the Holy Hollow. That will be 3 deknars,” he forced a grin holding out his hand, “as well as an additional deknar for the bath.”

“I won’t be having a bath,” he rumbled once more.

“Not for you, for all of us once you’re gone,” Holman dared as he smirked.

The half-man did not take the quip well. In fact, Holman was unsure he (or it?) had taken it at all. Counting out three deknars with his cloaked hand, he placed them on the counter.

“Hmm,” Holman smiled broadly as he looked down at the coins, “you know they give lessons in basic mathematics this time of year at the monastery. Perhaps you’d enjoy it,” he said without reaching for the payment on the counter.

“You’d best take what I offer,” the bestial man snarled under his handkerchief. His shaded face and mouth did not need to be seen for the threat to be felt. The rolling growl was felt like thunder in the chest. His voice snapped and crackled with each syllable as if a Tangle Jaguar had learned its words.

Holman twisted the paring knife between his thumb and forefinger on the bar, without removing his eyes from the man.

“Hol—” Monica began to protest, but he held up a hand.

Though the room was uncomfortably warm, ice shot through Holman’s veins. His face betrayed no sign of his fear. His smile was as snide and self-confident as ever, almost inviting the creature to make the first move. The putrid smell was enough to pickle the harvest’s cucumbers in mere minutes.

The man pushed himself slowly back from the counter and walked at a measured pace toward the fire. Pausing as it held its hand out for warmth, it surveyed the room. Holman noticed droplets of moss-colored liquid trailing behind the man. In what seemed to all happen at once, Holman’s eyes flickered to the droplets, the tavern door burst open furiously, and one of the beggar’s heads rolled across Monica’s excellently mopped floors.

So much had happened that the tavernkeeper wasn’t sure where to place his eyes first. Instinctively he vaulted over the bar and pulled Monica behind him. The living beggar bounded backward like a retreating spider at the spray of his companion’s blood. The half-man let out what could only be called a roar from under its hood, which now looked more black and blue than strictly midnight. The new arrival at the door seemed to have entered with an old blade drawn and ready. The remaining beggar did what he did best, though the half-man had seemingly lost interest in dispatching him. In fact, he seemed to lose interest in everything but the new man, turning his back on the tavernkeeper and the beggars. His purse was large, but not uncommon for the treasures normally hauled to Naόs.

The new addition finally came into Holman’s view, though one eye never left the half-man, with his pitiful paring knife trained on it. The older-looking man stood frozen at the threshold, a light breeze and spittle accented his entrance. He appeared perhaps 20 years the senior of Holman, but still looked fit and capable. The amulet he wore seemed to bear the mark of the old Sentinels, and his hair, salt-and-pepper as it was, still could not have made him old enough for the order. He relaxed, striding with four considered steps toward the bestial interloper.

The half-man spun around with inhuman speed and ferocity, drawing a curved black blade that looked as if it was crafted from obsidium. He raised his weapon to stop the haggard Sentinel.

As the blades were close to meeting the salt-and-pepper man, in a barely audible voice, spoke, Nekro!

The creature whimpered and cried out as its sword arm withered and crumbled against the blow of the other blade. Though the salt-and-pepper man’s blade snapped against the superior metal, it mattered little. The lower trunk of his broken weapon landed in the half-man’s stomach, sending him backwards against the wall near the fireplace.

The creature whizzed and squirmed, catching its breath with labor. The man tore off the creature’s hood and handkerchief to reveal something Holman had never seen in all his days. The bestial thing had the appearance of a man, but his skin was covered with grey and black flecked fur. Extending out of either side of his mouth were two elongated fangs with half-dried liquid on them, staining them green. The half-man’s lips contorted in an unnatural way that Holman could only assume was meant to be a snarl. It wasn’t quite human yet bore an unnerving familiarity.

“Where is it?” the salt-and-pepper man spoke softly as he pressed on the blade’s handle, now mostly lodged in the creature’s gut.

“AGHHHHHHH,” the creature roared with enough force to shake the bottles behind the bar.

“I won’t ask again,” the man said flatly.

The sabertoothed creature spit in the man’s face, leaving a vomit-like stain on his grey beard. Perhaps out of instinct, the creature clutched tightly at his large purse.

The piercing blue eyes of the man flickered down to the purse, and then back to the creature. For the first time, Holman thought he may have seen something close to fear in the creature’s eyes, as it realized its instinct betrayed it.

Barely a moment passed as the salt-and-pepper man wiped his beard with a cloth from his back pocket. He pulled a small dagger from his belt, and as casually if throwing out the morning wastewater, he drew the smooth edge under the beast’s chin, dispatching it.

Its blood was as red as any. As it pooled near the fire, Monica was disturbed. She pitied her floors, not the dead intruder.

—

It had been two weeks since Ronen’s eventful entrance through the door of the Holy Hollow. The tavernkeeper and his staff were grateful and suspicious in equal parts, with no lack of questions for him. Though they accepted his coin easily enough, and with it his silence.

The purse sat squirming in the corner of the room. Ronen sighed. The Holy Hollow had provided a much-needed rest, but he knew he couldn’t stay much longer. The pup needed to be rejoined with its caretaker, and his time was running short. He recited a portion of the ancient code that always filled him with a tinge of grief,

A Sentinel’s work onward goes,

the watchmen stand until the day,

When from on high the final word flows,

and before the Sun the night gives way.

He looked at the shimmering curved sword in his lap. Even at eventide it caught the spare light and made it dance. The flickering lantern’s warmth sparkled on the black surface. It appeared deceptively inviting for such an object. The purse stirred once more.

Laying the blade on the bed, he made his way to the corner of the room. Pulling back the flap of the bag, and reaching his hand within, he scooped up a small dragon. He stroked its head kindly. He fed it a bit more lamb from his leftovers, which it eagerly consumed. It looked up thankfully at him, with what he thought was sadness in its eyes. Dragons had a way of mirroring the emotions of their bearers. He assured the creature the best he could and placed it back in its makeshift nest for the evening near the fire.

“Tomorrow, we set out,” he cooed to the dragon-babe.

“Is that so?” Holman commented with a sneer through the cracked door.

Ronen spun around with an agility that dispelled his age and sent Holman a few steps back. “Careful, boy,” Ronen said coolly as he replaced his dagger back into his belt.

“Look, old man, it’s bad enough that you didn’t pay for the stained floor,” Holman began hotly, “but what’s worse is that you’re keeping that thing here, risking my staff, my reputation, and inviting gods know what else on us”.

“I think you mean to say, ‘Thank you for saving my life’,” Ronen said with composure as he turned to begin packing.

Ronen continued, “It has been two weeks, and it’s time I leave. I would think you’d be overjoyed by that. I’m grateful for your hospitability, but this place is becoming too crowded with the coming of The Listener’s Fleadh. You’ve been handsomely compensated for your services, what more would you like?” Ronen asked without looking at the tavernkeeper.

Holman sighed, “You’re right. I’m just on edge. I am grateful for your help—” he trailed off.

“What is it?” Ronen turned back toward him, sheathing the glistening blade.

“I’m just worried about what happens when you leave, about what may come here looking for you, and our friend,” Holman said looking at the sheathed sword.

Holman looked frayed and older than usual. He looked at Ronen with exhaustion and said, “You said haven’t told me what that monstrosity was,” he shuddered as he recalled the terror.

Ronen softened, letting his soldierly demeanor soften for the younger man. “I can imagine that was difficult for someone whose life has been in Naόs,” Ronen placed his hand on the deflated and tired tavernkeeper’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I was seeking it, they were not seeking me,” Ronen assured him, “in fact, there’s a good chance they’re unaware you or I even exist.”

Ronen looked thoughtfully at the young man for a moment. “I suppose you deserve something of an explanation. The nature of the creature is unimportant for now. He was a Mantle agent, sent by the Ivory Seat.”

“But the Mantle was destroyed two hundred years ago!” Holman said with disbelief. “My ancestors ended the reign of the Ivory Seat!”

Holman looked quizzingly at the aged veteran. Ronen continued, “Yes, defeated but not destroyed. This Emerald Vale was once the homeland of the Mantle a thousand years ago, and they are determined to reclaim it. It is also the founding place of my order, as you so keenly guessed by my amulet,” Ronen half-winked at Holman.

He sat down at the small table in his room, and invited Holman to shut the door and join him. Emelia slinked through the door and curled up near the small fireplace in the room, grooming herself. Ronen lit a pipe and began anew.

“You know the story well enough,” Ronen tapped his finger on the course wooden tabletop. “The fall of the Sentinels, the Ag Marύ, as it’s called among my people. The Mantle was defeated, but at great cost to us all, especially your people,” Ronen pointed his pipe at Holman.

“Even if the Mantle still existed, why would they send that thing into my tavern?” Holman asked in a panicked voice motioning to the sword on the bed.

“That thing, is called a Mactίre. It was weakened and came here out of necessity not by choice,” Ronen said while pulling smoke, “That’s why I was able to dispatch it with relative ease.”

Holman seemed to subside a bit, “So then it’s likely no one knows it’s here,” he said in more of a statement than a question.

“Oh, to the contrary they travel in packs, usually by threes and fours,” Ronen said with a calmness that seemed out of place.

“Then—” Holman stammered, “then that would lead them back here?” He let the question hang with dread in the air.

“We have no way of knowing that.” Ronen said with as much reassurance as he could muster, “They will likely search the town, but there was hardly anyone in the Hollow that night, and with Monica cleaning your floors there’s sure to be no sign of the Mactίre’s stain,” Ronen attempted a joke.

“I meant what I said though,” Ronen continued, “I must leave in the morning. That young one,” he said motioning at the cooing dragon-babe next to Emelia, “needs to be reunited with its caretaker”.

“So, you’re just leaving us? What should we do if another one shows up? We’re not safe here! At least leave that weapon, or perhaps take us with you!” Holman began to panic once more.

“No,” Ronen stated flatly, putting out his pipe with a few solid taps on the now slightly charred tabletop, “I cannot be encumbered. My mission is not protection, it’s to deliver this budding hope back to its kind,” he eyed the sleeping creature with a far-off look.

Holman looked despondent and grey. His appearance took on a shade of fear that was as colorless as the cloudy morn, just before dawn. Emelia flickered her ears and jumped into his lap. “So be it,” he said with an exhale, “I hope you’re right.”

—

Ronen made his way down the bank of the thick forest, toward the abandoned remnants of Patagon Rew.

He stumbled a bit coming out of the tree line, and his rucksack clattered onto the ancient stone scattering his provisions, making more noise than he would have liked. Thankfully the other sack, with the dragon-babe still fast asleep inside, remained securely at his side.

As he collected his belongings, he surveyed his surroundings. The white towers and walls were as untouched by the creeping tangle as the last time he set eyes on the city. Battle marks still were visible, though aged along with him.

As the morning was dawning, he pressed onward through the white streets with greater confidence than he had through the forest. The white stones made the old soldier nostalgic. The careful carvings of the homes made his centuries of exile sting all the more, “Oh how I’ve missed you,” he said longingly as the courtyard came into view.

Even though afflicted by the centuries, the circular colonnades still stood proudly, gleaming atop the hill that overlooked the valley below. The rising sun made the columns and statues alight with praise, almost singing to Ronen as to a long-lost son returning home.

Naόs was a mere monastic retreat of the old Ivorian dominion, the first Mantle. Patagon Rew was its beating heart. He crossed the sunstruck courtyard to its edge, looking down the valley into the body of the city. The sun had not risen high enough to dazzle the rest of the ruins, and it sat still in the darkness of early twilight.

Nestled at the riverbank running through the city was a collection of large figures, with smoke rising from their encampment. Ronen grinned, the creases on his face rebelling against the forgotten expression.

By the time he reached the encampment, it was high noon. The nests and ridges the dragons had carved out of the old architecture were befitting for creatures of their age and majesty.

He approached with two hands held high, “Solas am mάireach! Caraid uld!” he shouted with a beaming smile.

A glistening black dragon approached him. The creature had scaled wings, with what could almost be plated feathers, though solid in appearance, running up and down its spine. It spread its bat-like wings wide, bent its knees, and placed its forehead on the ground before him.

Ronen bowed deeply and smiled. “How are you, my friend,” he spoke warmly in his own language once more.

“I am troubled, Urramling,” the dragon looked at him with one great blue eye that mirrored his own. Ronen saw a tear begin to fall from the dragon’s eye.

Ronen caught his tear in a bottle, corking it for later use. “That is quite the gift, thank you,” he again bowed reverently.

“The least I could do for the Urram, an honor benefiting you,” the wise dragon hummed. He motioned for Ronen to follow him into the dragon nest.

The halcyon hills and gleaming spires could not dispel the tense mood in the nest. Ronen peered around him, afraid to broach the subject.

Guessing at his thought, the black drake spoke, “The Dragh is dying,” he said mournfully.

The black dragon turned his neck toward him, giving him one eye. “I'm grateful you have come,” the dragon said, “he was assailed while hunting, by those plaghean,” he said with a hiss.

Ronen stepped into the middle of the large spanning encampment, moving toward the caretaker with caution. Around him were stains of bright green colored blood, the puncture marks of fangs were still visible in the great elder dragon’s side, oozing out of his white scaled hide.

Ronen sat his pack down, placing one hand on him, the Sentinel began to mutter some long-lost incantation.

“We fear the beasts have been empowered by some newly discovered words, corrupted and warped as they may be,” the black drake said without looking at the caretaker.

“Mallach!” Ronen yelled in frustration. He swore to find them, but first, he had come for a reason across the desert and tangle.

“Forseti,” Ronen addressed the black dragon by name, bowing as he did, “forgive me, I must find these creatures. The little one is too important to allow them to escape."

“Speak, Urramling, what do you need?” Forseti returned his honor and stooped low for the Sentinel.

Ronen pulled the stirring Solas babe from his rucksack, placing it at the feet of Forseti. The black dragon hummed, nuzzling the young one gently as he bent low to inspect it. “I must ask you to care for him until I return, then we will decide together how to move forward.”

“Thank you for returning the blessed Draghkin home to us, we feared our message had not reached the order in time,” the creature appeared to attempt a smile.

“A Sentinel’s work onward goes,” Ronen smirked before kissing the black drake’s nose. “I shall return soon. Guard him, he is hope restored.” The soldier spun around, cloak fluttering, and was off back toward the tangle.

—

His torch lit the trail ahead of him, moss-colored liquid smattering the bark to his left. He touched it, bringing it to his nose. Cursed beasts, he fumed to himself. The dragon blood stained his fingers.

The Mactίre were careful, but not without flaw. He was as old as they were and was not ignorant of their tactics. It was his third day tracking them now, and he knew he would soon close in.

He crested over the ridge and spotted a prone figure at the bottom of a small ravine. He drew the obsidium blade and stepped toward it without fear, wishing it would face him. “Come meet your end, coward!” he cried loudly, lifting the torch ahead of him as he advanced.

But the light revealed something quite unexpected. Holman was lying there, half covered in leaves, pale as the morning. The veteran cursed, “Foolish boy!”

The creatures had torn through his collarbone, leaving him to bleed out in their haste to escape the Sentinel. The young tavernkeeper had followed him, probably out of fear the creatures would return.

“I had other uses for this, blasted child,” he berated the unconscious man as he uncorked the bottle containing Forseti’s tear.

Pouring the large tear over the wound, the young man gasped for air as the wound began to close rapidly. His blood began to crawl back into his skin. The torchlight suggested the color may have returned to him as well.

“Up!” Ronen cried while pulling him up by the armpit, “We have no time to waste and you must keep pace now.” He gave him a few slaps to the cheek. “Here,” he said handing him his old dagger, “keep with me or you may not live to see the sunrise”.

They hurried through the thicket at what seemed to be random intervals in Holman's view. Ronen would stop occasionally, smell this, touch that, brush the ground, and look toward the blackened horizon.

“Damn it,” Ronen growled, “they’ve moved into the plains,” he looked back at Holman.

“Come quickly now, if gods be good, we may spot them down the valley and in the plains beyond the tangle.” Holman looked as green as the Emerald and felt worse than he had in living memory.

Ronen stamped out his torch and made for the tree line that marked the end of the Emerald Vale, and the beginning of the plains of Anmύt. These plains led straight into the sea, sometimes disappearing at high tide. The golden coasts were left largely unguarded. Due to their shifting tides, they were thought to be a natural defense from enemies, and thus they served as a perfect escape for clever Mantle agents.

“Quickly now,” Ronen growled in a way that made Holman jump even in his stupefied state.

The tree line was like a great wall, thick and dense. Moving toward it slowly, Ronen pulled some vines aside like a curtain.

Holman and Ronen froze as they looked down the cliffs onto the plains that stretched out for miles. It was full of little lights. Torches and campfires burned like near and distant stars, stars that once wandered through the long void but had finally come to their home. Mantle Legions had landed. They had come to reclaim their lost ivory city and its throne.

The Ivory Seat had returned.