Prologue
Selee-01
All according to my Scenario
He had brothers once. A mother, undoubtedly. Perhaps a father. Now, he was the last. He wandered for days in the mountains, until he was faint with hunger and thirst. It was then the warlock found him, carrying the boy to the old tower at the edge of the valley. There the boy slept, only waking to eat and drink. After three days he had gained enough strength to walk around the small tower, and began eating in the kitchen. The warlock talked to the boy often, but rarely got a response. That was fine to him. The old man knew that he would speak when he was ready.
On the ten-and-ninth day, the boy spoke.
“What’s your name?” He whispered, as they ate breakfast.
“Names have power,” the warlock replied with a toothless smile, “but you can call me Yew. What’s your name?”
The boy frowned, and shrugged. They talked more over the next week. Simple things, such as gardening and the weather. At the end of the week, the old man felt ready to ask the first question in his mind.
“How did you arrive on my doorstep? The mountains are tall, and I know of no village for miles.”
The boy did not respond for so long that he thought he would never say. At last, he motioned for paper, and drew a banner. A stormcloud, forked lightning striking. The banner of the Imperial Army. “They... burned my home. My family. Everyone...”
Silence filled the room. Then the warlock laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“I can teach you my art. Conjuring the Powers, speaking with the Mountain Walkers. Would you like that?” The boy nodded.
For the rest of the winter, and well into the spring, he learned secrets. How to summon, how to bind, and how to name the Powers. And he was taught the three rules of magery: Do not summon that you cannot put down, never use the art save in dire need, and that all things have a price.
In the summer, he tended to the goats and hens, and in winter he learned more. Of the Mountain Walkers, and their foes, who ruled all the earth long ago. And so it passed that the boy wanted to learn of dragons.
“Dragons?” The old warlock repeated. “Dragons are all two hundred years dead. Slain by guile, armies catching one in a cave, or by cannibalism. They crawled on two legs and scaly wings, and flew easy as birds. They breathed flame and ate the ashes of men, horses, and anything else that burned. They drank the power of the world, and nearly killed all magery. Despite that... they were glorious. They did not fly like an albatross or eagle, slow and heavy, they danced. Their scales glowed like infolded metal. The world’s a poor place without them.”
The boy considered this.
“Could they become like men? Change skins?”
“I’ve heard tell some things were neither man nor dragon,” the warlock said, “but I put no stock in that.”
***
Only a year later, the old man was dying. “Age,” he said. The boy fetched him water, made meals, and did the chores the warlock could not. One evening, the warlock requested a certain box, made of a grey metal that was not bronze or silver. The old man produced a key from his bedside drawer, and opened it. A gleaming black blade, a single piece of black, was laid within.
“This is frozen dragon-blood, what lesser men deem obsidian. Every one of my order has one, and I’ve used it more often than I should have. It’s sorcery, and won’t break easy. It’ll be yours when I go.” The boy nodded, and carefully replaced it.
“Will you accept my blessing?” Another nod. The warlock placed a hand on his black hair.
“I, Elenxes of the Dark Blades, do bless this child. May he live long and die with honor.”
A few days later, Elenxes died. The boy buried him at the foot of a yew tree. It seemed appropriate.
***
The boy traveled over the mountain pass, hoping to find a town. He slept under brambles and rocky ledges to keep the rain off, and raised the hood of his cloak to keep warm. All he had was a bedroll, a handful of silver, some food, and his obsidian blade. At one point, he slipped and gashed open his hand on a jagged rock. The blood that was spilled was black and smoking. He gathered a handful of leaves and squeezed them in his bleeding fist until they fell apart.
A few days later, he arrived at a small town. The sign at the wooden palisade read “Coldfast”, carved with surprising skill. The inhabitants were taller than he, and had brown or blond hair instead of black. He stuck out, and the boy made sure to keep his head low as he made his way to a tavern.
***
“What room will this get me?” The newcomer asked. Hammer, the barkeep, looked at the silver pieces. He hadn’t seen those kind of coins in years, engraved with a comet on one side and an emperor on the other. The worn writing read “Emperor Caeson, Long may He Reign”. Still, silver was silver.
“There’s a room at the top of the stairs, first left.” The boy nodded, and set off. Hammer returned to the counter, polishing off another stain.
***
The next day, the newcomer sat at the fire and listened to everything spoken beneath the smoke-blackened rafters.
Archer should return from the battlefields soon.
Rose was expecting a baby.
Axe had drowned in the mountains.
Taxes were rising.
Slate was getting married an eighth time.
Taxes were rising.
The Ormlands were even more lethal than ever, and the boiling fog had clouded over the entire Smoking Sea.
Oak lost a hand in a rockslide.
Taxes were rising.
“Why pay taxes?” The stranger asked. Hammer responded.
“The Empress would crush us.”
“Isn’t she more concerned with the raiders? Why would she go after an isolated town?” Hammer grew uneasy.
“That’s traitor’s talk.”
“I have no allegiance to her.”
“Silence, before I shut you up.” At that, the boy’s eyes met his for the first time. They were molten, burning, piercing blue. The boy got up, and returned to his room.
“Maybe the boy has a point,” Hawk whispered, “the winter will be harsh if we pay the taxes.”
“Mayhaps I ought to shut you up.”
***
The next day, the boy asked to help in the tavern, “else I’ll be unable to pay for my room.” Hammer reluctantly agreed, and set him to clearing tables. Before long the townsfolk had named him Owl, for his quiet manner. Before long, half the town was seriously considering the consequences of refusing taxes. Each passing day, Hammer grew more worried.
“Revolt is never easy, even for princes. Prince Aerzymandas tried to overthrow Emperor Darklyn, and was burned at the stake for it. Why would we get off lighter?”
Nobody listened. When the time came no wain full of silver departed. Winter was harsh, and the icicles hung nearly to the ground, but there weren’t any starving children.
When spring came, a century of armored calvary were spotted on the horizon.
Every man and woman who could lift a weapon was armed, and the few archers of the town set themselves on the roofs. The boy called Owl grabbed a makeshift shield and drew his obsidian blade. If any of the older people recognized it, they gave no indication. The group of would-be warriors gathered on the muddy field beyond the gates, most of them inside the wooden walls. The leader of the century, a fat man with an unpleasant mustache, shouted.
“By the will of the Empress, Long may She Reign, the township of Coldfast must surrender the taxes duly owed! If this is paid, no harm shall come to the people of the township!” For a moment, it seemed as if the taxes would be paid, but one of the archers fired an arrow into his horse’s chest. The mortally wounded beast reared, throwing the fat man into the mud, and chaos broke out. Screams filled the air, and the boy named Owl was clubbed with a hammer.
Everything went dark, and the boy saw a burning fleet. Armies clashed, and burned corpses rose in boiling tides. A dragon alighted before him, and asked his name.
I have no name, he screamed, and the dragon set him aflame.
***
From the walls, it was clearly a slaughter. The calvary was armed with long spears and cudgels, and the townspeople had only rakes, pitchforks, and assorted makeshift weapons. Then light filled the field, and all was quiet.
A roar shook the earth, sending horses and men tumbling like toys. And a dragon flew from the smoke and flame. It crashed to earth in the center of the calvary, bathing two dozen men in a volcanic breath.
It was the size of an ox, but its wingspan was twice the length of the whole beast. Rippling black scales protected it from the feeble spear-thrusts, and burning blue eyes glared from beneath its horned brow. The remaining horsemen fled, and the dragon rose into the sky. A single wingstroke brought the dragon around, a wall of flames cutting the survivors off from escape. Horses screamed and kicked. The dragon stooped, landing on the other side of the flames. As the townsfolk approached, the horsemen threw down their weapons and surrendered. The dragon laid down on the smoldering grass, and watched as the men were led away.
The inky scales gradually began to fade to grey, eyes burning to ashes, and the whole monster crumbled into nothing. A shape stumbled from the ash, resolving into the boy. His mouth and nose dripped smoldering black blood, and his clothing was burned to a black layer over his skin.
But he was not dead.
Hammer looked on with horror. “Holy ancestors,” he mumbled, “I insulted him.”
The dragon-boy tripped and fell.
***
Over the next day, the boy slowly recovered. When he briefly awoke, he ate everything put before him before returning to slumber. The next morning, he stretched and dressed despite his feverish temperature. Owl, now named Dragon, requested a visit to the survivors. The town was happy to oblige.
They were being kept in the tavern, all weapons and armor confiscated and horses tied up. At his command, they were herded out onto the square. Dragon inspected them, blue eyes seeming to cut through to their essence. His gaze focused on one in particular.
“You. What’s your name?”
The young man started.
“Hawthorn is what they call me,” he said.
The young man named Dragon “Are you willing to join me? Renounce loyalty to the Empress and be rewarded richly.”
“I have one condition,” Hawthorn said.
Dragon quirked his brow. “Name it.”
“I want my little sister.”
Dragon thought for a minute.
“Is there a man you trust among your comrades?” Hawthorn nodded.
“Make arrangements with him, and I will provide him with a horse. Afterwards, we shall have dinner. I’m starving.”
Hawthorn flashed a weak smile, and turned to one of the other captives.
***
That evening, in an unoccupied room in the tavern, Hawthorn turned his thoughts towards future events.
“What do you plan now? With your... power, you could be a rich man. There are ships in the harbor of Peake that would take you anywhere. You could leave Orm Archen.”
Dragon wrinkled his brow.
“What does Orm Archen mean? The Empire?” Hawthorn chuckled, and drew a parchment from a pocket. He passed it to Dragon, who looked at it curiously.
“The Empire is larger than I expected,” Dragon remarked. Hawthorn cracked a grin as Dragon pored over the map.
“Planning your conquest?” Dragon didn’t even glance up.
“Yes.”
On the ten-and-ninth day, the boy spoke.
“What’s your name?” He whispered, as they ate breakfast.
“Names have power,” the warlock replied with a toothless smile, “but you can call me Yew. What’s your name?”
The boy frowned, and shrugged. They talked more over the next week. Simple things, such as gardening and the weather. At the end of the week, the old man felt ready to ask the first question in his mind.
“How did you arrive on my doorstep? The mountains are tall, and I know of no village for miles.”
The boy did not respond for so long that he thought he would never say. At last, he motioned for paper, and drew a banner. A stormcloud, forked lightning striking. The banner of the Imperial Army. “They... burned my home. My family. Everyone...”
Silence filled the room. Then the warlock laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“I can teach you my art. Conjuring the Powers, speaking with the Mountain Walkers. Would you like that?” The boy nodded.
For the rest of the winter, and well into the spring, he learned secrets. How to summon, how to bind, and how to name the Powers. And he was taught the three rules of magery: Do not summon that you cannot put down, never use the art save in dire need, and that all things have a price.
In the summer, he tended to the goats and hens, and in winter he learned more. Of the Mountain Walkers, and their foes, who ruled all the earth long ago. And so it passed that the boy wanted to learn of dragons.
“Dragons?” The old warlock repeated. “Dragons are all two hundred years dead. Slain by guile, armies catching one in a cave, or by cannibalism. They crawled on two legs and scaly wings, and flew easy as birds. They breathed flame and ate the ashes of men, horses, and anything else that burned. They drank the power of the world, and nearly killed all magery. Despite that... they were glorious. They did not fly like an albatross or eagle, slow and heavy, they danced. Their scales glowed like infolded metal. The world’s a poor place without them.”
The boy considered this.
“Could they become like men? Change skins?”
“I’ve heard tell some things were neither man nor dragon,” the warlock said, “but I put no stock in that.”
***
Only a year later, the old man was dying. “Age,” he said. The boy fetched him water, made meals, and did the chores the warlock could not. One evening, the warlock requested a certain box, made of a grey metal that was not bronze or silver. The old man produced a key from his bedside drawer, and opened it. A gleaming black blade, a single piece of black, was laid within.
“This is frozen dragon-blood, what lesser men deem obsidian. Every one of my order has one, and I’ve used it more often than I should have. It’s sorcery, and won’t break easy. It’ll be yours when I go.” The boy nodded, and carefully replaced it.
“Will you accept my blessing?” Another nod. The warlock placed a hand on his black hair.
“I, Elenxes of the Dark Blades, do bless this child. May he live long and die with honor.”
A few days later, Elenxes died. The boy buried him at the foot of a yew tree. It seemed appropriate.
***
The boy traveled over the mountain pass, hoping to find a town. He slept under brambles and rocky ledges to keep the rain off, and raised the hood of his cloak to keep warm. All he had was a bedroll, a handful of silver, some food, and his obsidian blade. At one point, he slipped and gashed open his hand on a jagged rock. The blood that was spilled was black and smoking. He gathered a handful of leaves and squeezed them in his bleeding fist until they fell apart.
A few days later, he arrived at a small town. The sign at the wooden palisade read “Coldfast”, carved with surprising skill. The inhabitants were taller than he, and had brown or blond hair instead of black. He stuck out, and the boy made sure to keep his head low as he made his way to a tavern.
***
“What room will this get me?” The newcomer asked. Hammer, the barkeep, looked at the silver pieces. He hadn’t seen those kind of coins in years, engraved with a comet on one side and an emperor on the other. The worn writing read “Emperor Caeson, Long may He Reign”. Still, silver was silver.
“There’s a room at the top of the stairs, first left.” The boy nodded, and set off. Hammer returned to the counter, polishing off another stain.
***
The next day, the newcomer sat at the fire and listened to everything spoken beneath the smoke-blackened rafters.
Archer should return from the battlefields soon.
Rose was expecting a baby.
Axe had drowned in the mountains.
Taxes were rising.
Slate was getting married an eighth time.
Taxes were rising.
The Ormlands were even more lethal than ever, and the boiling fog had clouded over the entire Smoking Sea.
Oak lost a hand in a rockslide.
Taxes were rising.
“Why pay taxes?” The stranger asked. Hammer responded.
“The Empress would crush us.”
“Isn’t she more concerned with the raiders? Why would she go after an isolated town?” Hammer grew uneasy.
“That’s traitor’s talk.”
“I have no allegiance to her.”
“Silence, before I shut you up.” At that, the boy’s eyes met his for the first time. They were molten, burning, piercing blue. The boy got up, and returned to his room.
“Maybe the boy has a point,” Hawk whispered, “the winter will be harsh if we pay the taxes.”
“Mayhaps I ought to shut you up.”
***
The next day, the boy asked to help in the tavern, “else I’ll be unable to pay for my room.” Hammer reluctantly agreed, and set him to clearing tables. Before long the townsfolk had named him Owl, for his quiet manner. Before long, half the town was seriously considering the consequences of refusing taxes. Each passing day, Hammer grew more worried.
“Revolt is never easy, even for princes. Prince Aerzymandas tried to overthrow Emperor Darklyn, and was burned at the stake for it. Why would we get off lighter?”
Nobody listened. When the time came no wain full of silver departed. Winter was harsh, and the icicles hung nearly to the ground, but there weren’t any starving children.
When spring came, a century of armored calvary were spotted on the horizon.
Every man and woman who could lift a weapon was armed, and the few archers of the town set themselves on the roofs. The boy called Owl grabbed a makeshift shield and drew his obsidian blade. If any of the older people recognized it, they gave no indication. The group of would-be warriors gathered on the muddy field beyond the gates, most of them inside the wooden walls. The leader of the century, a fat man with an unpleasant mustache, shouted.
“By the will of the Empress, Long may She Reign, the township of Coldfast must surrender the taxes duly owed! If this is paid, no harm shall come to the people of the township!” For a moment, it seemed as if the taxes would be paid, but one of the archers fired an arrow into his horse’s chest. The mortally wounded beast reared, throwing the fat man into the mud, and chaos broke out. Screams filled the air, and the boy named Owl was clubbed with a hammer.
Everything went dark, and the boy saw a burning fleet. Armies clashed, and burned corpses rose in boiling tides. A dragon alighted before him, and asked his name.
I have no name, he screamed, and the dragon set him aflame.
***
From the walls, it was clearly a slaughter. The calvary was armed with long spears and cudgels, and the townspeople had only rakes, pitchforks, and assorted makeshift weapons. Then light filled the field, and all was quiet.
A roar shook the earth, sending horses and men tumbling like toys. And a dragon flew from the smoke and flame. It crashed to earth in the center of the calvary, bathing two dozen men in a volcanic breath.
It was the size of an ox, but its wingspan was twice the length of the whole beast. Rippling black scales protected it from the feeble spear-thrusts, and burning blue eyes glared from beneath its horned brow. The remaining horsemen fled, and the dragon rose into the sky. A single wingstroke brought the dragon around, a wall of flames cutting the survivors off from escape. Horses screamed and kicked. The dragon stooped, landing on the other side of the flames. As the townsfolk approached, the horsemen threw down their weapons and surrendered. The dragon laid down on the smoldering grass, and watched as the men were led away.
The inky scales gradually began to fade to grey, eyes burning to ashes, and the whole monster crumbled into nothing. A shape stumbled from the ash, resolving into the boy. His mouth and nose dripped smoldering black blood, and his clothing was burned to a black layer over his skin.
But he was not dead.
Hammer looked on with horror. “Holy ancestors,” he mumbled, “I insulted him.”
The dragon-boy tripped and fell.
***
Over the next day, the boy slowly recovered. When he briefly awoke, he ate everything put before him before returning to slumber. The next morning, he stretched and dressed despite his feverish temperature. Owl, now named Dragon, requested a visit to the survivors. The town was happy to oblige.
They were being kept in the tavern, all weapons and armor confiscated and horses tied up. At his command, they were herded out onto the square. Dragon inspected them, blue eyes seeming to cut through to their essence. His gaze focused on one in particular.
“You. What’s your name?”
The young man started.
“Hawthorn is what they call me,” he said.
The young man named Dragon “Are you willing to join me? Renounce loyalty to the Empress and be rewarded richly.”
“I have one condition,” Hawthorn said.
Dragon quirked his brow. “Name it.”
“I want my little sister.”
Dragon thought for a minute.
“Is there a man you trust among your comrades?” Hawthorn nodded.
“Make arrangements with him, and I will provide him with a horse. Afterwards, we shall have dinner. I’m starving.”
Hawthorn flashed a weak smile, and turned to one of the other captives.
***
That evening, in an unoccupied room in the tavern, Hawthorn turned his thoughts towards future events.
“What do you plan now? With your... power, you could be a rich man. There are ships in the harbor of Peake that would take you anywhere. You could leave Orm Archen.”
Dragon wrinkled his brow.
“What does Orm Archen mean? The Empire?” Hawthorn chuckled, and drew a parchment from a pocket. He passed it to Dragon, who looked at it curiously.
“The Empire is larger than I expected,” Dragon remarked. Hawthorn cracked a grin as Dragon pored over the map.
“Planning your conquest?” Dragon didn’t even glance up.
“Yes.”
