Superpowered Human
Group: Creative Genius
Posts: 790
Member No.: 33
Joined: 28-November 07
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He went to open the basket and drop in a couple of fish from his bag for the albatross, while the dragon ate contentedly. The crunching of bones was mildly disconcerting, though he had begun to grow used to the great beast’s size and strength.
“More fools they, then. Why are you different? I’ve never heard of any Mori’Quessir who thought as you do. I did not even know such a thing was possible.” The drow glanced up, noting his friend’s use of the more formal term for his people. It was what they called themselves, “the Dark People”. Other elves rarely if ever called them such, however, considering them to be no longer even of the Quessiri at all. For anyone familiar with elven custom, it was considered an honor to be included among their kind; he gave the wyrm a grateful nod for the compliment, and sat back, gazing up at the sky for a long time before he spoke.
“I’ve always felt different. I don’t know why. Maybe it was Ravyn’s teaching. Or maybe I’m just not one of them. She said once that she thought it might be that I’m like my father might have been once. I don’t believe that, though. What I saw in that gem showed me that he was always heartless. Perhaps the gods made a mistake. Do you think that’s possible? That he was bon into the wrong skin, and I was too?”
Sivestrik frowned thoughtfully, his tail idly thumping the ground softly in what the drow realized was an equivalent of finger tapping. “I know little of the ways of the divine, but I suppose they are not infallible. More likely, I think you are simply unique- shaped by all that, and more. Perhaps you have been touched by some fate you do not yet know.”
He had no answer for that, and so he sat silently staring out across the clearing. After a few minutes, he felt restless, and went to let Quilan out of the basket, though he placed him in a safe spot in the back of the small cave. After giving the bird a few fish, he went back outside to join Sivestrik. They shared a brief breakfast together, and afterward they spent most of the day exploring the small valley. Sivestrik changed to his elven shape, and Lothir even began teaching him a few basic fencing moves with his saber. For the first time, he was on his own; he watched butterflies sipping from blue trumpet-shaped flowers climbing the rocks and trees, and small black and yellow insects buzzing about, darting from flower to flower in an awkward flight. He sat by the pond, watching the long-tailed insects Sivestrik had called dragonflies- though the drow saw little resemblance- zipping over the water to catch tiny fish and the little croaking frogs.
They discovered a deep, spacious cavern whose entrance had been partially blocked by fallen boulders, and which was covered by thick vines, and inside they found the mummified remains of a large feline that had died of old age in its den. It had resembled the displacer beasts that some drow kept as pets and guard animals, but had no tentacles on its back, and only four legs instead of six. The young wyrm told him it was an old black tiger, probably from the dense jungles near Bangala- a land far to the west near the mainland’s southern shores. Lothir wondered how it could have gotten so far from its home, but then he remembered that sometimes the raiding ships would find and capture large and dangerous beasts to hunt for sport, much as they had done to his friend. Perhaps one of them had wrecked, and the creature had escaped. He wondered what it would be like to be so far from one’s home, and alone. Eventually, they decided to give the old cat a decent burial, and dug a hole beneath an overhang near the clearing’s edge.
So the day passed for them, with the sun shining brightly above. It made the yound drow’s eyes ache and water, for they still had not grown used to so much light. He doubted they ever would. They were made for seeing in the lightless world below, not the bright light of day. He was grateful when the sun finally set and he was able to see without keeping his hood up and squinting.
As before, he was amazed by the colors he saw, and watched until the last rays of the sinking sun had faded into a pleasant blue-black. He continued to watch until well after all three moons had risen, and walked in the quiet, dark forest alone for a while after his friend had gone to sleep. He found that he liked the night; it was peaceful and held a soft beauty that daylight masked with harsh light. The forest seemed more alive, with many tiny creatures skittering about, rustling amid the leaves of the trees. He heard a familiar hooting sound, and discovered that Snowfeather had somehow found him. He smiled when he saw the white owl, knowing somehow that She had sent it to watch over him.
For the next three days he stayed in the Maiden’s Vale, as they decided to call it, laughing and talking with Sivestrik, teaching him to use the sword and speak his language, while they both explored every rock and crevice of the valley. They swam in the pond, fished, and even flew together at night- for he had warned the silver of the other dragons living on Tyrant’s Isle- to discover more of the island’s secrets and wonders.
On one such flight they landed upon the top of one of the mountains that reached above the valley, and he had his first real sight of snow. He was surprised by how light and soft it felt, and laughed when the dragon rolled and burrowed about in it like an oversized cat in a patch of bliss-weed. The silver even changed to his elven shape, and showed him how to shape things in the snow, and lie in it to make silhouettes of celestials.
On the third day, as they splashed and swam in the pond, Lothir playfully dove deep into the sun-warmed water and came up beneath the elven youth to grab his foot and pull him under. The silver came back up sputtering, and they tussled briefly until the wyrm took his true shape and slipped his tail under the drow to flip him up into the air, and fall back into the water again with a great splash. He swore loudly in his native tongue, complaining teasingly that the dragon did not play fair, and laughed as he tried to avoid a wing-slap that sent water spraying everywhere. At last he declared the water-battle uneven, and climbed out onto the bank, laughing as he fell back into a bed of sweet clover.
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Darksong: Mature Fantasy, Fantasy for older audiences
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