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Chapter Text

Of the Unhatched Eggs

Now in the time of this tale, there were few dragons living in Sornieth, and lairs were far between. To find a lair with more than close family in it was a strange discovery indeed—a full clan even more so. In the harsh landscape of Dragonhome, there was once a pair of snapper dragons who lived alone in a quiet patch of scraped earth. Though they tried many times, they were unable to hatch and raise a family. For many years, they fell further into despair. There was not yet a cure for egg rot, and where they lived a plague of the disease had fallen upon the land like a vestige of the Shade, slowly destroying the snappers’ hopes.

As the two dragons cried out to the wind, a passing sprite heard them. Curious, though not fully understanding the mournful tone of the plea, the creature bore this scrap of news to the feet of the Earthshaker himself, who watched the world listlessly from his place near the pillar.

And the Earthshaker’s heart and mind were stirred by what the sprite told him. He felt as if he could hear just the faintest sound of the crying snappers, carried far across the plains to where he sat vigil. And a great wave of magic rose within him, and the dragon god once again used his power to create. Taking pity on the victims of the plague, he gave the sprite his orders.

While the snappers were away from their forlorn nest on a hunting trip, the Earthshaker’s familiar stole into their territory in secret, and quietly gathered the remains of the lonely rot-stricken egg sitting in the nest. The sprite’s return heralded a resurrection. In the dim hours before dawn, the god tended the egg, and gradually it reshaped and was filled with life once more. And then it was done. The heartbeat of a dragon could be heard within the shell.

The time quickly came for the egg to be returned to the nest. The snappers had been sighted moving slowly back to their lair, scavenging what little they could along the way. Though he longed desperately to witness the hatching of this child for himself, the Earthshaker was unable to leave his post. Once more, he watched as a figure faded into the distant horizon; yet this time, he knew for sure that there was hope.

The sprite, clutching the precious egg to its chest, swiftly located the pair of snappers, and while they were busy upturning a rockpile in their scavenging, it placed the egg in their path, then returned to its master.

And though he could not hear the shout of amazement and joy for himself, tears welled in the Earthshaker’s eyes. He did not hear the wonder of the new parents as their child was born a fae dragon (some species from the offshore Starfall Isles—how, by Earth, had it ended up with those lovely brown eyes?), but he knew that there was happiness. Seeing this, the earth sprite knew what it had done was somehow important, and it slipped away to tell its friend the wind sprite.

And slowly, slowly, across the land, victims stricken by egg rot, driven out of their lair in a desperate search for treasures to hoard in place of family, found healthy eggs instead. Delighted to be able to help their creations in this way, the dragon gods continued to send out the eggs with their respective familiars, long into a future free of the egg rot disease.

And the Earthshaker smiled, though his siblings were not there to see.

Chapter Text

Of the Journey of Narovin
(a traditional Coatl story, translated by Peridota of Clan Mort)

Down below in the deep darkness
What lurks and lies in wait?
Nothing more, assures the mother,
Than the slumbering of Narovin.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

They say the sun spoke to Narovin
When he was live and well,
Said to the strong, fierce coatl,
There’s something in the deep.
                                                Hummmmmmm

Narovin crawled beneath the ground
Where it was dank and dark,
Found jaws glinting in the darkness,
A voice that muttered, who?
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

And when Narovin spoke his name
The voice, it growled and growled,
Child of fire and sunlight,
Why do you come here alone?
                                                Hummmmmmm

He did as the sun had told him
And plucked a feather from his wing
A tool to write with, in the dark,
To shape this world from below.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

The voice, it roared because of course
In the dark it could not see to write
Cruel joke it thought, played by Narovin
Cruel Narovin, we shall see.
                                                Hummmmmmm

You think it funny, said the voice,
To offer me this tool?
You know I cannot write down here
Now I shall play a joke on you.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

If you can bring the light
Down in this deepest dark,
said the voice to Narovin,
I will disappear.
                                                Hummmmmmm

They say Narovin smiled
Although no one could see
They say he took his feather
And it began to glow and glow.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

And the voice, it held its word,
It vanished without trace
But Narovin, he fell asleep
And down there he stays still.
                                                Hummmmmmm

They say a piece of Shade
Had lingered long and festered
Down in the deep, deep darkness,
Where Narovin journeyed.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

They say the sun, she was
The voice of mighty Flamecaller
They say Narovin’s slumber
Is the root of all our fire.
                                                Hummmmmmm

They say whenever Narovin stirs
Or turns over in his sleep,
The volcanoes burst and quake
Because of the light down in the deep.
                                                Hmmmmmmmm

But Narovin, he is doomed,
For if he ever wakes,
The world shall burst in flame
Because of the light down in the deep.
                                                Hummmmmmm

Chapter Text

Of the First Explorer

When Sorenai was not yet born, the winds did not stir as strongly as they do today. Only light breezes carried across the sea, and only the laziest gliders of birds could be seen sailing on the invisible tides of the air. Most creatures stuck to their own territories, and did not wander far and wide. Even the nomadic snappers of the north kept within the realm of Earth. Whether the truth of this tale is true or not is debatable, but the fact remains that every spiral you talk to today will agree that it is gospel. They say that one day, the winds stirred in excitement, breathy whispers sweeping farther than ever before. For the first time, dragons of the Southern Icefield felt the slight warmth of the Windsinger's home, and looked up in wonder.

And this was the day of Sorenai's birth.

He hatched, his scales paying homage to the Windsinger himself. Every dragon present at that time agreed that it was an auspicious sign for the young one's future. Sorenai grew, playing on the ever stronger air currents with his friends. But as time passed, the spiral looked more and more often towards the horizon. Why did they never travel so far? Where did the sun go every night? These were questions to which his parents had no answers. They grew worried, unsure what to make of this strange behavior. But when he reached adulthood, Sorenai was free to make his own way in the world. He packed a bag with some food and tools, and said goodbye to those around him. The unfamiliar word lingered on their tongues, and though they cried in alarm as Sorenai announced that he would be leaving the realm of Wind, an odd thrill ran down their long spines at the prospect. It is said that five hundred, three thousand and point four spirals gathered to watch him leave (the origin of this precise statistic is unknown). The host of undulating bodies danced above the clouds, mimicking the movements of Sorenai until he had long since faded into the distance, a green dot hovering above deepest blue.

Now as Sorenai was crossing the ocean, several creatures leaped out of the sea. "Come play with us, Sorenai," they clicked. So Sorenai joyfully dove under the waves after them, happy and carefree and unaware of any danger. He blew a giant bubble to breathe in, and the beings swum circles around him, until he was quite confused. Then all at once, they disappeared, and Sorenai was left floating in an empty expanse, so bewildered that he no longer knew which direction would take him to the surface. He swam anyway, only succeeding in getting deeper and more lost. Desperate, he pleaded with some kelp tenders to help him find his way back. They agreed, on the condition that he would accomplish but one task.

"Here is what you must do--you go to the great darkness that lies in the trench, and you sing to it: 'oh great glimmer deep in the water, tell me of the mystic runes you bear.' There is a creature down there that no one of us has ever seen and lived to tell of it. But we are not mighty dragons, like you. Carve the shape of the rune on the creature's forehead into this tablet, and return to us."

Sorenai, having no choice, left on his voyage to the great depths. As he drew closer to the trench the kelp tenders had spoken of, he noticed that fewer and fewer fish passed by. And when he overlooked the shimmering darkness which seemed to plunge downwards forever, it was with hesitation that he called out, "Oh great glimmer deep in the water, tell me of the mystic runes you bear."

And the glimmer answered, "Hello, Sorenai. Allow me to rise up to greet you. Forgive my slowness, for I am old and weary." Sorenai waited, swallowing only once as a shape began to form amidst the black waters. A great manta ray--it had to be larger than the imperials of Light--was there, rune-covered rocks coating its body. The spiral danced impatiently, flitting about in the waters with the tablet and chisel at the ready. And so it was with great luck that he avoided the first swift slash of the beast's tail. Surprise barely had time to register before Sorenai found himself in a fierce battle to the death. His claws could do nothing against the monster's hide; if there had been any damage, he could not see it. But through miracle, he managed to dodge every attack of the manta's.

"Why do you still fight?" the creature cried in frustration.

"I am the wind," Sorenai said. "Here below the waters, I am the wind."

 And so it is that we leave this tale, for as you know, Sorenai survived and found his way out of the ocean, back to the sky.

Wiser now, he did not listen to the clicks and happy cries of "Come play with us, Sorenai," and instead continued on to the next territory. In that dark wood it was eerily quiet, as if the whole place were holding its breath. Though he looked and looked, he could not find a single dragon. Eventually, he became aware of a hissing, sliding noise through the trees. By the light of the mushrooms, Sorenai discerned a hoard of serthis, patrolling their lands with determined eye. The snake people spotted him, and quickly surrounded the poor spiral.

"Who are you?" the leader demanded.

"I am the wind," Sorenai said, though his voice was nervous. "Even in the darkness, I am the wind."

With time, Sorenai's adventures became known throughout all the realms (even in that Shadowy realm where no dragon had shown its face, when the snows began to fall even that land generated its own whispers of the spiral's visit). The wind blew stronger and stronger in his homeland, until an endless hurricane swirled above the face of the planet. The winds were felt in the Starfall Isles, and the fae began to migrate, skipping along on the new currents. The winds worked their way underneath the canopy of Nature, and the wildclaws ran out across the surface of the world in search of the enticing smells it promised.

Stories of Sorenai circulated, such that they all can not be recorded here; their number would fill a library. Then, one day, without warning, without a word, Sorenai disappeared. His parents, who had remained in the Wind territory all their life, were distraught. Though other dragons were beginning to interact with their fellow kin and journey to new homes, the spirals stayed under the watchful eye of their storm. Until the day of Sorenai's vanishing--for of course, it coincided with the date of his hatching.

Every spiral alive today who was present for that moment will swear to you that they heard a voice, echoing throughout all of the Wind territory.

The voice said, "I am the wind. Even where the wind is not, I am the wind."

And from that day, the spirals began to journey and explore more than any other dragon.

Chapter Text

Of the Outer Ocean

There was once a guardian gifted with great powers of Sight, and so famous was he that the Tidelord grew impressed. All oracles of his level were sworn to a vow of mystery, for it would not do for other dragons to learn the future as it appeared at every turn. The Tidelord knew this, had seen what happened (past, present, future) to those who lived their lives without the unknown. In cruel twists of fate, the remnants of the Shade worked its way into their hearts, contorting them with fear and anger. So the guardian, understanding the importance of his duty, gave away glimpses of true vision that were shrouded in metaphor and confusion.

Now in the course of his work, the guardian grew discontent. The dragons who asked for his help only became frustrated by his cryptic answers, and turned away from his information unhappy and ignorant. The guardian was forced to watch as they mistook their path for the right one, as each fell victim to what he had seen, lacking the foresight to face their future with knowledge.

And the guardian grew arrogant, and began to tell those who came to him everything he could see, sparing no detail, from the time of their arrival until their dying day. For some, he would weave a network of malicious lies, thrilled with the power he wielded to hold his listeners captive with horror.

Finally, his actions drew the attention of the Tidelord, who had seen that Imperials no longer visited his realm, instead remaining fearfully as lonesome wanderers; for whatever the guardian had prophesied, be it lie or truth, was too terrible for their kind to behold. And the Tidelord came to the guardian, and cursed him and his gift.

Never again would the guardian be able to speak or communicate in any way the lies and prophecies that filled his head.

Miserable, the guardian wandered the sea, often choosing to remain with his head above the surface, watching the stars and their movements during the night, and the path of the sun during the day. Many years passed in this condemned solitude, although his friends never gave up trying to bring him some happiness. But in this state, the guardian witnessed a vision of the future, darkness passing across and under the clouds.

In the deepest places of the sea, a tremor of the earth created a great fissure, a tunnel straight through all of Sornieth to its heart. The guardian knew where this tunnel lead, and was frightened, for in the waters beyond the edges of the land, there lurked monstrosities greater than anything in the memory of dragonkind. As surely as if he had seen it with his mortal eyes, the guardian knew that those beings would find the crack and crawl through it. He panicked, and tried despite his curse to warn the other dragons, but the most he could do was an impression of the Shade that passersby politely clapped for, slow paws moving through water and sending out tremors crying hey, great beasts of the outer ocean, we're here and have no idea you're coming!

Humiliated and desperate, the guardian crawled through the sea with dread to the feet of the Tidelord. Not even to his god could he explain what he had seen, although surely the Great Watcher had seen it as well. As he swam uncertainly before his master, the guardian was finally struck by the understanding of his Charge. He asked the Tidelord for a blessing, as he was a cursed pilgrim on his last hope. And the Tidelord, smiling, granted him his single wish.

To this day, oracles of the Water Flight pilgrimage to the feet of a gigantic guardian statue in front of a wall of bedrock. It is said that the statue guards against the pain of truth, blocking the same malice which had infected its soul from too little unknown in life.

But the eyes of the statue, some say, still glimmer with pride.

Chapter Text

Of the Great Mimockery

Part I: Being the Complaints of the Serthis

The Serthis had long been dwelling within the crumbled ruins and mysterious archways of the Forum, and the Shadowbinder often took it upon herself to hear their pleas as goddess of the region, for the snake and the dragon were not so different. One day a large group of them appeared before her, grumbling and huffing about the transgressions they had experienced.

Hamunhal, who was the oldest among them, said, "My lady Shadowbinder, none except you are master of tricks. From your gaze fall the best games and riddles, and you whisper of secret knowledge in this eternal night. You placed the nocturnes in the trees long ago, and there they have flourished on the night of deepest dark and cold. We humbly offer you our cry: at night, when our potionmasters and magicians are asleep, a voice calls to our Chieftain and produces visions and torment.

"We know, my lady, that many of your people distrust our movements, and seek to drive us from our encampments. We know also that a Nocturne, by the name of Karn, has been called the greatest mortal trickster of the dragons. The Chieftain recognized his voice, on one night in particular, where it seemed that the trees stretched out their limbs towards our leader and whispered threats in his ear. He called Karn to our camp in the daytime dark, and demanded truth from him before our judges.

"However, Karn's truths so confounded us, that we cannot tell whether he has spoken humbly or in mockery of us. We ask, lady Shadowbinder, that you hear Karn's testimony for yourself, and judge his actions to be fair for us to deal with in our own way."

Hamunhal folded his arms and looked up at the great dragon god, who nodded in assent.

Part II: Being the Testimony of Karn

Now Karn the nocturne knew that the Serthis' method of judgment and punishment was unforgiving, and he was not trained for combat. His greatest achievement was his cunning, a match for that of the Serthis themselves. The truths he had spun for the Chieftain had been twisting and confounding, but before the Shadowbinder, he knew this tactic would not work.

"Dear mother," he began, "perhaps I should start at the beginning, so you know of my character as I experience it through my eyes. Some years ago, I hatched from an egg on the outskirts of the wood, and found myself quickly without comfort. I saw, by and by, that the owls knitted warm moss drapes for their young, and I climbed into one's nest in order to procure some of this soft covering for myself. As I hunched like the owlets, the mother returned and cried 'What is this? You are not my owlet.' To which my reply was quick, 'Oh, but by the Mother of Tricks, I may not be your owlet, but an owlet I am. I am but newly hatched--don't you recognize what I am without the down I will soon grow?' The mother owl was taken aback, and knitted me some moss to keep me warm through the day. By nightfall, I flew, taking all the moss of the nest with me. And the mother cried out, 'Hey, hey! You have tricked me and stolen my children's blankets!' To which my reply came and went, 'Tu-who, tu-who, can you not see what you mistake for moss is but my feathers?' And she ceased her pursuit, remaining silent in confusion."

Hamunhal interrupted then, crying, "Oh lady Shadowbinder! This fiend makes a mockery of us, even as I speak! See how he shares such frivolous tales of youth, yet touches not upon our own encounter!"

"Silence!" said the Shadowbinder. "You came before me with humility, to which I will uphold you. You shall not dishonor my people in your anger, but let him speak."

Hamunhal gasped for words, but dared not stir her anger further; he fumed, however, and glared at Karn, as the nocturne busied himself by smoothing down the frill of his chest.

With an elegant bow, Karn continued, "Now we come to the true crux of my tale, Mother of Games. I admit to my crimes, oh on that lonely winter's night, when I coaxed a round of baking from one of my cousin webwings by pretending to be a forlorn and fallen loaf of bread on the ground. I took that true loaf, O mother, and ate it where I lay. My cousin was astounded at the sight of bread coming alive to eat its own, and fled from his cooking instruments, leaving me with a delicious pile of pastries and pickled meats. I ate the lot--shame me not!"

"See here! See here! See here!" the voice of Hamunhal stunned both the speaker and the company. "See what he calls the 'true crux,' when still Karn refuses to address our own problem!"

Once again the Shadowbinder stirred in reprimand. "I give you warning for a second time now. Interrupt again with your attempts to sway me to your side without the fullest story, and I shall throw out your complaint."

Hamunhal wished to speak up against this, but remained silent, bitter and seething for he knew with certainty what Karn was doing. Hamunhal knew that, although his own voice seemed to issue from his direction, he had not interrupted once, much less twice. It was the nocturne's doing, a sleight and toss of voice. But to point this out would be to interrupt--a third and final time, so far as the Shadowbinder knew.

Karn merely smiled and said, "Please do not make enemies of the Serthis on my behalf, O Mother of Unseen Laughter. For it is true that I came to their Chieftain at night, while his potionmasters and magicians were asleep, and asked--horror of all things to ask, and I am truly ashamed--for a little lamp to light my way. I may have hinted, oh mother, that I feared the whispered threats of the trees, that I feared that without light, their branches would tickle and scratch at my sides. I may have hinted this, and why, what else should happen but--"

"Oh, curse all dragonkind and curse this Karn!" Here Hamunhal heard his own voice, and grew angrier than ever. "Curse the nocturnes and their mimicry and mockery! Curse you, lady Shadowbinder herself, for not seeing this fiend's cruelty to us while we stand helpless!"

At this, the Shadowbinder was enraged. "That is thrice you have interrupted and dishonored my people, Serthis! And now you seek not to only dishonor them, but also me and my authority! Speak, then, if your tongue wishes to be so free. Speak, and let the whole world know your truths if you cannot contain them for but one story!"

"Oh, I have not spoken, not once," Hamunhal said quickly, hoping to calm her, although his own mind writhed in fury. "It is Karn who has spoken and 'interrupted' all these times, yes, even this last and greatest of dishonors. He mimics my voice and throws it before me."

"Are you quite sure I interrupted all three times, dear Hamunhal?" Karn asked, quite innocently, from where he sat in a meek crouch. "For it seemed to me that this last time, yes, even this last and greatest of dishonors, came from your own mouth without inhibition, although you may not have realized it."

Part III: Being the Disgust and Exodus of the Serthis

After hearing this, Hamunhal was both outraged and mortified, for it occurred to him at that moment that Karn had spoken in truth--Hamunhal had dishonored the Shadowbinder and her people, when his anger at Karn's actions grew too great to contain. The Shadowbinder, seeing that Hamunhal's heart could turn on her at such short notice, refused to pass judgment on Karn.

The Serthis, disgusted with how they had been mocked by the nocturne, receded from that region and turned their wanderings to another land.

And Karn went from the Shadowbinder's forum, and his laughter could be heard, distinct and delightful, among the other sounds in that darkest forest's mist.