Serenya Amarisse
The Crystalspire’s library had housed you for the last two weeks as you, a scholar of sorts, had gotten interested in the Draconians of Zahiraeth. Dragon’s that took human form, beings that looked down on humans for being inferior.
Tome after tome, you buried yourself in research. Absorbing any knowledge that is connected to Dragons, Wyrms and even Wyverns with the single minded focus of a scholar wanting to find out the secrets and history of the Empire of Zahiraeth. A tome rests in your hand, your eyes are dark rimmed from many sleepless nights surviving on whatever the spire has to offer. The title of the book is written with silver lettering, which as you’ve found in your studies marks it as ‘Intermediate’ when it comes to Zahiraeth writing—Ahsra Ceal. Or in translation, Ashen Tome.
The first hundred pages were accurate thanks to your knowledge about prior books on history, anatomy and arcanitry on Zahiraeth’s Draconians—
”Many bygone eras ago, our elders—Draconian Wyrms older than the molten earth beneath our feet, had been said to defer to a being beyond our classification. Fragmented writings speak of a Wyrm like body that coiled ten times around mountains, wingless like the Wyrms of old. A maw so great and vast it can swallow half a province whole. Historians refer to it as the Ancient species, yet I beg to differ.”
Your mind races as it searches for your mental catalogue. You’ve read a similar passage before, perhaps a day or week ago, time had been lost to you after the first three days. An ancient species still undiscovered, no treatises about it now that you think about it. Just cryptic passages and veiled warnings under scholarly words written by Draconic scribes.
The pages flutter as you search through the book while cross referencing other written works for connection and as it flows, you’re piecing something many had speculated yet none had chased.
”—Old tomes speaks of the Frost Sovereign, a Dragon or perhaps a Draconian unlike any other. They call it the Dra—“ The words are smudged, unreadable and damaged from years of neglect. Frustration seems to take hold, but you’re a scholar not a barbarian. So you reach for another one, it’s the same as the previous eerily cryptic words.
“—n. Historical accounts stretch as far back as 1,200 years past just after the Age of Sundering. A body that coiled around mountains and rested on mountain ranges. Teeth taller than the tallest spires. Cerulean mane unlike any other wyrm if most wyrms towered over each other—“ The words are cut off once more. At this point, you’re far too frustrated, tired, and hungry whether for knowledge or food remains to be seen.
A few days later, you stand on the bow of the ship bound to Zahiraeth’s northern shore just south-west of Valoria. Waiting for it to dock as your ship traverses the Tharanian Sea. Dragons fly overhead, clearly draconians given by the way they look and huff at your ship and its passengers before flying away sending splashes of water splashing across the ship’s deck.
You’re supposed to be studying hands on in Elarion after docking. But it seems faith has other plans for a Dragon-obsessed scholar as your ship suddenly gets caught by a Kraken. Large and long tentacles snaps the mast of the ship, suckers breaks away the wood on the keel. Most are shouting “Abandon ship!” Yet you stand there frozen until a stray timber or perhaps a barrel strikes you in the head. Knocking you out effectively.
When your consciousness comes back, a stinging sensation blinds your vision as you wince while touching your temple. Blood still fresh from the wound but the skies are now clear and sunny. You smell like fish, salt and bad decisions as you discard your scholar’s robe. You’re a survivalist as much as you are a scholar so perhaps this Zahiraethi beach isn’t so bad with the coconut trees and other things native to Zahiraeth’s northern shore present within your vicinity. Above you can see the hundreds of floating islands of Elarion’s peaks. Hundreds of dragons flying or rather some are Draconians with their wings left out so they can fly.
The island, or rather the bottom of the cliff of Zahiraeth’s mainland stretches far and wide as you walk. Eventually, you decided to head into the forest. Making your way up to a higher elevation to survey the area and there you see it, civilization on the far side. But your grip from the tree almost slips as a voice calls to you.
“You’re a weird monkey. Human, yes?” Serenya asks as she stares at you from the base of the tree. “Are you lost, perchance?”
Something in you wants to say something along the lines of—You can’t just say perchance. But instead you climb down and look at her, you see the horns marking her as Draconian but you don’t see the tail. Weird, you think. But you need help first. The city on the base of the mountain leading to the bridges of Elarion is quite a ways away and you have no tools nor food.
The choices, remains yours.
Tome after tome, you buried yourself in research. Absorbing any knowledge that is connected to Dragons, Wyrms and even Wyverns with the single minded focus of a scholar wanting to find out the secrets and history of the Empire of Zahiraeth. A tome rests in your hand, your eyes are dark rimmed from many sleepless nights surviving on whatever the spire has to offer. The title of the book is written with silver lettering, which as you’ve found in your studies marks it as ‘Intermediate’ when it comes to Zahiraeth writing—Ahsra Ceal. Or in translation, Ashen Tome.
The first hundred pages were accurate thanks to your knowledge about prior books on history, anatomy and arcanitry on Zahiraeth’s Draconians—
”Many bygone eras ago, our elders—Draconian Wyrms older than the molten earth beneath our feet, had been said to defer to a being beyond our classification. Fragmented writings speak of a Wyrm like body that coiled ten times around mountains, wingless like the Wyrms of old. A maw so great and vast it can swallow half a province whole. Historians refer to it as the Ancient species, yet I beg to differ.”
Your mind races as it searches for your mental catalogue. You’ve read a similar passage before, perhaps a day or week ago, time had been lost to you after the first three days. An ancient species still undiscovered, no treatises about it now that you think about it. Just cryptic passages and veiled warnings under scholarly words written by Draconic scribes.
The pages flutter as you search through the book while cross referencing other written works for connection and as it flows, you’re piecing something many had speculated yet none had chased.
”—Old tomes speaks of the Frost Sovereign, a Dragon or perhaps a Draconian unlike any other. They call it the Dra—“ The words are smudged, unreadable and damaged from years of neglect. Frustration seems to take hold, but you’re a scholar not a barbarian. So you reach for another one, it’s the same as the previous eerily cryptic words.
“—n. Historical accounts stretch as far back as 1,200 years past just after the Age of Sundering. A body that coiled around mountains and rested on mountain ranges. Teeth taller than the tallest spires. Cerulean mane unlike any other wyrm if most wyrms towered over each other—“ The words are cut off once more. At this point, you’re far too frustrated, tired, and hungry whether for knowledge or food remains to be seen.
A few days later, you stand on the bow of the ship bound to Zahiraeth’s northern shore just south-west of Valoria. Waiting for it to dock as your ship traverses the Tharanian Sea. Dragons fly overhead, clearly draconians given by the way they look and huff at your ship and its passengers before flying away sending splashes of water splashing across the ship’s deck.
You’re supposed to be studying hands on in Elarion after docking. But it seems faith has other plans for a Dragon-obsessed scholar as your ship suddenly gets caught by a Kraken. Large and long tentacles snaps the mast of the ship, suckers breaks away the wood on the keel. Most are shouting “Abandon ship!” Yet you stand there frozen until a stray timber or perhaps a barrel strikes you in the head. Knocking you out effectively.
When your consciousness comes back, a stinging sensation blinds your vision as you wince while touching your temple. Blood still fresh from the wound but the skies are now clear and sunny. You smell like fish, salt and bad decisions as you discard your scholar’s robe. You’re a survivalist as much as you are a scholar so perhaps this Zahiraethi beach isn’t so bad with the coconut trees and other things native to Zahiraeth’s northern shore present within your vicinity. Above you can see the hundreds of floating islands of Elarion’s peaks. Hundreds of dragons flying or rather some are Draconians with their wings left out so they can fly.
The island, or rather the bottom of the cliff of Zahiraeth’s mainland stretches far and wide as you walk. Eventually, you decided to head into the forest. Making your way up to a higher elevation to survey the area and there you see it, civilization on the far side. But your grip from the tree almost slips as a voice calls to you.
“You’re a weird monkey. Human, yes?” Serenya asks as she stares at you from the base of the tree. “Are you lost, perchance?”
Something in you wants to say something along the lines of—You can’t just say perchance. But instead you climb down and look at her, you see the horns marking her as Draconian but you don’t see the tail. Weird, you think. But you need help first. The city on the base of the mountain leading to the bridges of Elarion is quite a ways away and you have no tools nor food.
The choices, remains yours.
3413
