Where Dragons Come From by Tyelca

Chapter 1

He was old.

Very old.

He came from the Ancient World, the long since sunken Land in which history was shaped. It was a World he sometimes longed for,  when the darkness that reigned the great halls peacefully together with him crept silently up to him.

It was in such moments that he sighed, and mourned the merciless Passing of Time. Nothing was left now, nothing had survived the onslaught of that last, fateful battle.

He had been young then, a powerful force only used as a last resort, a last surprise in the war that had been going on for already far too long.

He remembered it well. He had been preparing to go out, quickly going over all instructions in his head, ready to charge when the sign was given.

He never got his chance.

He could still see the chaos that broke out when the Master himself was brought low, how his proud stance radiated acceptance, a calm rock between the thrashing waves of soldiers, enemies and allies alike. Slowly his serene composure spread over the Army, granting every single soldier a clear head to think, to choose, to follow their own path.

Their eyes had crossed, over the heads of millions of soldiers, and the Master had given him a sad smile, as if to say that it was alright, that he should leave to live and fight another day. When the Master’s eyes roamed further, he kept standing frozen, not able to move a single muscle. Only his eyes followed the gaze of the person he had always admired, who had raised him as a father, and found himself looking at another outstanding figure.

This one was clad in dark armor, surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of Elves, and stood out all the more for it. His hair was dark, yet many a golden lock was weaved through the black strands, giving him an unearthly air. Though he was fighting off many a foe, his vision was solely concentrated on the one whom he had served all those long years. The dark warrior nodded, a single tear leaping out of his golden eyes. Then he looked away as he was forced to dodge a particular heavy blow.

It was that instant that the Master changed as well: his eyes hid any emotion they had possessed, his face closed itself off, and he became once more the cold and cruel character he showed his enemies.

He took this as his cue to leave, there was nothing more here.

He thought about taking the obvious way out, yet discarded that idea almost immediately. It would draw too much attention to him to make a safe retreat, and he would capture all the attention, attention that should, especially in this moment, solely be focused on the Master. Instead he opted for a silent and unobtrusive exit, through the dark peaks that surrounded the battlefield. And with taking a last glance backwards, he disappeared.

That had been the last time he had seen the Master, though he had encountered others whom had also served in the great Fortress that would be the only place he ever would call home.

Yet those meetings became more and more rare, and when the land started shaking and crumbling away he had seen many of those left drown in the cold water.

He was forced to seek refuge elsewhere, in the lands that were allowed continued existence. They were wild, uncivilized, much like the creatures that lived there. No courage was to be found here, no great deeds that would be honored in song for centuries to come.

It was then also pure chance that he saw a familiar face between the masses he silently observed from high above. He had followed him, and when there was no one else nearby they had spoken about the Master. Yet they both had not planned to stay together, and soon they parted again. There was a vague promise concerning contact, yet that was the last time they saw each other. It was not long after that the other fared away, over the ocean.

Of course he had heard of the island of Men, and was not surprised when word came that it had been destroyed, he had after all known the one responsible for a long time. Yet, it was a bittersweet victory, for while the descendants of the Three Houses of Men were wiped out, so was the last tangible memory of a glorious Age long passed.

It was then he went North and East, seeking relief from the memories that still stained these regions. He found a new place to live and generally spend the years in the lands above the great Mountain range that divided the New World in two parts.

There he stayed, until rumors about a certain Dwarf King reached his ears. This was no ordinary King, oh no. If the word was true, this one was a direct descendant from those Dwarrows fighting in the great wars of the First Age. The knowing smile of the Master, in that last crucial moment, flitted through his mind. This would be the last of the battles, the last victory he would claim.

It was thus he began his journey, the great distance swiftly covered.

He remembered the blood, he remembered his own fire. It had been glorious, yet it seemed so empty without the Master there to please, without waiting for seldom-spoken yet often-given praise. This was the last time, he decided. Now it was over. And he settled to sleep, a deep sleep that he would not wake up from for several decades, nor did he plan to ever again.

It was not until a small intruder crept into his lair that he was roused. The game they played with words soon became tiresome to him, yet the small thief was too quick to catch. Trying different tactics, his fire breath soared the air, but still the little abomination had managed to evade his attack. The scent that hung around the creature revealed the presence of several Dwarrows, company he did not want to keep.

What followed was a cat-and-mouse game, in which his superior speed and greatness was of limited use, as the small passageways and many pillars provided ample protection against his claws and fire.

It was not until he was immersed in molten gold that he began considering one last act of war, one act that would inflict as much psychological as physical damage. He imagined the Master’s face, the stern mouth, the sparkling eyes. He did not know how he would react on his actions. Would he be proud? Would he be disappointed?

He then suddenly realized he had spent far more time alone than in the great Fortress guarded and cared for by the Master. It was unsettling, like a sudden downpour of ice water. But it was much more than that. In that single moment, stretched unto an eternity, he saw his whole life for what it was: empty.

And then the time moved again, and he stalked outside, intending to carry the half-formed plan in his mind out to the fullest extent. He would honor the Master, in the way he was trained to do: evoking grand massacres that would be remembered in centuries to come.

He left the thief and Dwarrows for what they were, and let his wings carry him to his target.