Wreathed in Smoke

 Hey everyone.

Wreathed in Smoke has now given me two firsts: First new story in some time and first re-posting in an even longer time.

I generally own my mistakes. Good or bad, they are all there for you to find should you dig hard enough. 

However, I like this world that I’m building. I love the characters. I have so much story that I need to tell you. I can’t afford to fall on my face right out the gate.

I didn’t do the world justice the first time around. I didn’t nail the interactions correctly. The tone, the setting, and your relationship to the world I’m building were all too hazy and indistinct.

I think that’s a function of having a story live so long in your head before you put it down to paper. 

Why can’t you see everything exactly as I have been imagining it for almost a year?! That’s madness I tell you!

Anyway. I’m glad that I’m in a position where do-overs are a thing I still get.

Later? That won’t be an option.

Now? Now it’s reset button time all my lovelies. 

Wreathed in Smoke – Part 1

Before there was anything, there was Urallian.

With one fiery breath, she burned away the everlasting darkness.

Blessed with light, life began to grow. 

Her job done, Urallian rested in the great roost Urel’theyk.

She lies there still, dreaming of worlds that were and worlds that are and worlds that are yet to be.

The smell of dragon dung was thick in the air at my premises; three dragon pens, a hitching yard, and a single-story wooden den all clumped together on the outskirts of roost Amonrest.

This was by design; I hated clients. They were noisy and demanding, always asking me for things they were perfectly capable of doing if they could be bothered to try.

No. If you wanted my help, you had better need it. 

Which made my current client all the more inexplicable. I huffed irritably, causing a twin stream of smoke to rocket into the ground. I snapped my wings, flinging sweat from me as I rammed the pitchfork home into a six foot high pile of dung just outside the dragon pens. I lashed my tail, the only outward sign of my displeasure that the enormous *whumpf* of my wings hadn’t even made her blink.

I suppose it was childish to think the sights and smells of dragons would rattle the longest serving Overseer of the Tribute that dear old Mum’s roost had ever produced.

She was Amonrest’s most powerful denizen. At her command was enough wealth to rival even the eldest scale-blessed. For Urallian’s sake, she had gained the grudging respect of Mother dearest in her decades of service! Of all the places she could go for help, why would she choose me, the newest and most begrudging of Mother’s brood? Great roost above, I’d run so far you could barely see the spire from here.

I was about to be offered a wagon-load of coins to wade into a mire of trouble.

The smile she gave me as she spoke would’ve charmed the smell off a dung heap. 

“You see, Drag’Kheriakainen…”

Her pitch was interrupted by a loud bray and a fleshy clap of thunder; one of the draft dragon’s behind us had loosed a foul wind. As it blew over the pair of us, the smell of dragon dung intensified to unbearable levels. 

I reveled in every glorious second of it. The powerful smell brought forth the scraps of memories Mother hadn’t managed to erase. Yet, at any rate.

Guildmaster Laylah Rikkard, Chief of Coins, Overseer of the Tribute, was at last forced to acknowledge how I had chosen to live my new life. Her smile froze with horror while a visibly shaking hand rooted around in her front left dress pocket to produce a scented handkerchief worth more than my entire ostler’s outfit; pens and den combined. The barely restrained gagging noises let me know it was not up to the challenge she had set for it. 

I smiled, hooking my thumbs into my belt as carefully as I could. The more off-balance the client, the more reasonable the demands.

Besides, the quicker I could get this over with, the quicker I could be back out here ignoring everything Mother-related. Time to find out just how much work I was in for. 

“Just Khain, if you please Guildmaster. No need to stand on ceremony out here. What brings you to my establishment?”

A breeze kicked up just then, pushing the fumes out into the unclaimed countryside. The gagging noises subsided and Guildmaster Rikkard attempted to hoist her sunshine smile back into place. It was strained, but you’d have to have a dragon’s senses to know it.

“As you’re well aware of, this is a Tribute year. I will be honest with you Drag’Kh…”

She stopped mid-sentence, her mouth bobbing open and closed in startled surprise. She dropped the handkerchief as she immediately dove towards the muddy cobbles of my small hitching yard in a prostrating apology. I caught her before she could ruin her dazzling viridian dress in the muck, cutting across her babbled apologies as I firmly assured her of my forgiveness for the slight. She had offered me her two eldest children in sacrifice before my words cut through her panic. 

I handed her unsoiled handkerchief back to her, curling her hand around it with my own to ensure she understood how sincere I was with my clemency. Scale-blessed were notoriously petty grudge holders. They thought they were protecting Mother’s honor. Mother thought they were a bunch of preening twits.

“Guildmaster, why don’t we continue this conversation inside my den. I can’t offer you the hospitality you’re used to, but the smell is slightly better. Well, sort-of.”

I gestured towards the small wooden building which sat adjacent to the hitching yard and pens. She gathered herself, curtsying to me with all due deference as she made her way gracefully towards my humble home.

I stared down at the cobbles, my smile gone and amusement driven from me. For someone of her stature and experience to miss a requested change in honorific? 

I wasn’t about to wade into a mire of trouble; I was about to be thrown head-first into an ocean of it.

I tightened my back, pulling my wings in until they were taut against my skin. That accomplished I made my way over to my door and passed through. My hand automatically grabbed the large overcoat hanging on the inside peg and without thinking I threw it over me. It was a big charcoal gray thing I had custom made whenever it became too badly damaged to wear. 

It never fooled anyone, but it wasn’t really for them in the first place.

Guildmaster Rikkard stood with one hand on her hip, the other still pressing the handkerchief to her face. She raised an eyebrow at the coat and the stubbornly modest furnishings inside my den.

Once I had shut the door and shrugged at her muted query, she ditched the winsome smile. Beneath it was a woman hard as dragon-hide. Her eyes were cold fury itself, her mouth now a scar of displeasure carved into her face. She balled up dress and handkerchief in her fists and slapped me with the reason she was here.

“The Tribute has been burgled.”

Air whistled across my fangs as her words knocked the wind outta me. The Tribute represented a tenth of the wealth accumulated by the roost across the last generation. It was more than coins; artefacts enchanted by the various guilds, scrolls and books containing the research of the most learned wizards, highly prized artwork and poetry, and the finest weapons and armor the roost could produce were also a part of the tithe.

All of those riches were gathered for one singular purpose; to appease Mother dearest and convince her we should be allowed to live for another twenty years.

If anyone else on the council found out, Guildmaster Rikkard would be executed on the spot. Her power and wealth came at a steep price; She was tasked with maintaining the vault where the Tribute was stored before the ceremonial climb up the spire to present it for Mother’s approval.

Mother would already know what was in it, of course. She loved to lord over her offerings with gluttonous anticipation. The bulk of Guildmaster Rikkard’s job was entertaining Mother as she walked past the roost’s treasures. 

If something had been taken, Mum would know immediately. Depending on how valuable it was, we might not lose the whole roost. I doubted that a thousand years of unbroken tribute and a plentiful herd of domesticated denizens to produce more would be an easy thing to replace.

I tried to speak, failed at it, then licked my lips and gave it another go. 

“What.. how… who… *hnrgghh* … Do we at least know what’s been taken?”

Her lips pressed together so firmly that her mouth all but disappeared. The hand which had been balling up her dress vanished into the pocket just below it. From within its depths, she withdrew a scroll so heavily encrusted with spell-work that the sheer weight of it should’ve been more strain than the gossamer material could handle.

Urellian’s breath, she had a dimensional pocket sewn into the dress?

Mind numb at the lengths she had gone to keep the scroll secret, I swung one of my scaly mitts out to take it. It weighed more than your average broadsword. I didn’t even bother feigning surprise when the scroll began unwinding at my touch. I leveled an accusatory gaze at her for just a moment before I turned my attention to the list. She didn’t look the least bit apologetic at the assumption contained in the spell-work.

The sum total of the list was one word, hastily scrawled and smudged by what appeared to be tears.

I read it, re-read it, then I closed my eyes and opened them again in the hopes that I had been driven mad by dragon fumes in the last few minutes and had misread the word due to delirium. The black letters were still there, spelling out that we were all about to die.

Someone had stolen her egg. 

It was the only thing Mother would talk about whenever she successfully cornered me. I could describe every single desiccated wrinkle on it in intricate detail despite never having laid eyes on the wretched thing. One of the miners had found it encased in a rich seam of bone last year. The miner in question was now the second richest denizen in the roost and had more titles than I could be bothered to remember.

Mother hadn’t laid an egg of her own for nearly two thousand years. High dragons were notoriously slow to reproduce. Had to be, really. The thought of more than a few dozen monsters with mother’s power and greed on the surface of Fynrallah was so terrible it made my skin crawl. 

They’d stolen the most precious item imaginable. 

“If Mother finds out, she’ll turn Amonrest into a pyre.”

The words tumbled from me along with a cloud of smoke. It had been years since I’d been so agitated that my flame sacs had fully engaged. My lungs were a furnace stoked hotter with each ragged breath I took. 

Tears of pain and frustration fell before I could stop them. 

I had endured so much these last ten years. Ascension had been one long, agonizing nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Despite all of that, I was still me. I had refused to get caught up in the petty games of the other scale-blessed. I was living the life I chose instead of being Mother’s newest plaything. 

Now we were all going to die and my suffering had been for nothing.

I don’t know how long I stood there, lost to anger and pain as I tried not to breathe the fire from my lungs. Guildmaster Rikkard was silent, giving me the time I needed to calm down. The conflagration I had refused to let fly dwindled to smoldering embers. I pried open an eye and nodded silent thanks to my new employer.

I had expected pity or derision from her. Dealing with mother and her offspring all day every day would tarnish even the most charitable spirit. Instead her eyes were full of sympathy and understanding. She even had one hand stretched out, politely offering aid she knew I would never accept. 

I gave my cheeks a hearty slap to clear out the cobwebs of fear and doubt. I looked down at the graceful Guildmaster who refused to quit even though the odds against her were stacked higher than the spire. I extended my own hand and when they met, scale to skin, I knew I had made the right decision.

We were all going to die. Despite that, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the woman who’d walked through my door. 

“Very well, Guildmaster. Urellian as my witness, you’ve got your man.” 

The grim line of her mouth softened into a half-smile of triumph. She closed her unclasped hand into a fist and pumped it once in celebration.

I laughed despite myself.

A very interesting woman indeed.

To be continued…

Eggfully,

The Unsheathed Quill