The Passage of Dragons

The Passage of Dragons

We had spent generations living in the capital city of Yasiore, as had many other families throughout the continent of Horenda. We were not oppressed. We were not uneducated. We knew our position on Wieraiden, the world upon which we existed; we knew we had two moons, and two more inhabitable neighbors in the cosmos.

Our lands had been ravaged by interracial war for centuries, but only recently had we begun to feel its impact. Attacks began to plague the capital city, and as much faith as we had in the royal guard, both standard and elite, our families began to fear for their safety. We hardly questioned the judgement of their majesties--the royal family was the most powerful physically, spiritually, and of course politically--but the rest of us did not possess the same strengths.

As such, we chose to migrate. We left a letter of sorts with their majesties, which served much like a contract, binding us to their rule regardless of where we went, and then gathered ourselves to move.

We travelled steadily southward by caravan, with one herd of twenty-seven Xhaiglemesh--each larger than a full-grown Clydesdale horse--a 'vehicle' to each one, and four hundred people from all over the northern territory. We followed the mountains on the eastern side, passing over plains, then sand dunes, before hitting marshland for several miles.

It was here that we ran into issues. The wheels of our carriages continuously sank into the soft, wet earth. It had only been a week since we left, thus the supplies were still abundant.

The Xhaiglemesh tired very fast, however, and it hindered our progress considerably. They were muddy; we were dusty, save those who began to help our transport beasts. We all were weary by the time we reached solid grasslands again, and thus found ourselves forced to stop and set up camp for a few days.

To save on resources, those skilled among us hunted to sustain us, and replenish our supplies, if even just a little. A few of us, weakened by travel, grew ill; our clerics were soon drawn into active service, and on the eve of our departure, sent our hunters to gather supplements that they required.

On the third week, we reached the southern shores of Horenda, which would eventually come to be known as the Daiphoran coast. Here we reached a small predicament. How would we cross the waters? Come the next low tide, we sent out a small group of five scouts to follow the waters out as far as they could, until the depth swallowed their chests. Accomplished at night, we learned the next morn that an island was within ocular distance before they reached their limit.

To our fortune, there was at least one stellar specialist traversing with us--a former tutor for the royal family that had only recently retired--who had the passing of the tides indirectly branded into her memory by way of the cycles and positions of the moons. Within four days would come the Rhalthic tide, the highest and lowest tides of the autumn season.

We waited. In the meantime, we fished in what feeble effort we could make to further spread what remaining resources we had. Four days came and passed, but not without rain and high winds to disturb camp for at least half of the duration. As the Rhalthic tide finally began out, we gathered up camp, our Xhaiglemesh, and ourselves to follow it out; it was like a second run through the marshlands.

Our wheels cut deep into the sands again, making it difficult for the Xhaiglemesh to pull the rest of us after the retreating waters; their claws dug pits into the sand with the effort, slowing our pace, but not so much that we couldn't still match the tides. Within hours we reached the first of what would eventually be discovered as a series of isles--it was a small island, but coming up onto the shore, its beach seemed vastly expansive to us.

While we were gathering ourselves at the very edge of this new place, we were encountered by a small group of what we gathered to be indigenous peoples, who approached us with a wary curiosity. They wore little in the realm of garments--it was obvious that the climate called for little else--and they looked far more human than us. They looked... typical by the images our minds painted of islanders; their skin was sun kissed and dark, as were their eyes and their hair.

When we demonstrated that we posed little threat to them, they turned and hurried excitably back from whence they came, leaving us to wonder just what we had arrived upon. Within the following half of an hour, maybe more, the same people returned, but with one more in tow, the sight of which made many of our hearts sink, and our stomachs clench.

They lead a large, extremely pale man to us. He looked even less human than we did, and much paler, like he belonged far, far to the north. He had silvery wings and tail, snowy white hair, and a certain, non-negotiable menace in his eyes, which churned like the very flame in the pits of Sacred Hell. We were looking at an ancient albino, who seemed to hold immense power over these peoples.

They were jabbering eagerly away in their native tongues, looking gleefully up at the heavily decorated creature, and gesturing towards us every few moments. We watched his face harden, and then turn to us, before he spoke--his voice had a heavy, intimidating rumble to it, with an accent that made it difficult for us to realize that he was speaking our language at first.

It was a demand to know what we were doing on "his" isles. He didn't seem to particularly like our answer--as soon as we were finished, he scrunched his nose at us in disgust, and then turned away, flicking the end of his tail at the nearest of us, before striding away, barking something swift at the islanders that brought him there.

It was after he left that we realized two more things about him; the first was that what we thought was fur on his tail was actually an array of needles--the one he swiped at was bleeding from clean cuts in his face--and the second was that these people believed he was a god. Their god.

We had our doubts, but we didn't have much chance to mull over them before those islanders suddenly ushered us deeper in, leading us into what we didn't realize was an intricate civilization of their own. We didn't know what to expect when we first saw the island from the bared ocean floor, but none of us would have expected the sort of population we found.

They were very hospitable to us, despite the disdain that their "god" expressed towards us, and they were very naiive, as we learned from one of them trying to touch the elementally charged blade of one of our swords, and another getting lost in the books we had loaded on one of the carriages.

They were very interested in the things we had brought with us, especially the more dangerous, which at one point they tried to trade with us for. We refused; we knew how little they understood what we had brought with us, and we weren't going to let them learn through trial by fire. Not with an ancient being like the one we met keeping a scrutinizing eye on us.

As we settled in with them, they taught us their ways. In turn, we taught them of ours, of the many things we brought with us, and how to make them. We showed them how to properly use them, and when to use them, though we hoped they knew better on their own. Sadly, the ancient we met the first day little appreciated that we had done such. He called it corruption.

It wasn't long before he gathered them all and left the island with them, leaving us to fend for ourselves in the village that was left behind. To our fortune, we knew almost everything that the original islanders had, and were able to establish ourselves without much trouble. It was only then that we sent a letter to their majesties, offering a detailed report of everything thus far. It had been months--nearly a year--since we first left Horenda, and we were well on our feet.