Open Chronicles The Taming of the Shrew

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Chaceledon

Chaceledon

The Draconian Diva
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You insufferable bitch!

Chaceledon kept his face schooled, looking down his long lashes at his husband. Well, husband was perhaps a strong word. Captor, enslaver. Rapist came to mind.
Cockroach was another fitting term for the wraith pacing like an agitated cat in front of him.

And just where the hell do you want to go above ground? Hm? You know you’re not allowed in any major cities. You’re supposed to stay here and serve me, not be an insufferable cunt about every minor detail!

Chaceledon arranged his robes over his knees. “I want a week above ground, in civilization. Or I can make this far more miserable. You’ve already fired three heads of staff for Witherhold. Fancy a fourth?” Chaceledon’s tone was restrained, dignified, and just reasonable enough to enrage the withered creature.

Get out. I’ve had it with entertaining you. If you want a week above ground? Fine. Take it. But you’ll be without Volker, without my carriage, and without luggage. You spoiled brat. I’ll teach you a goddamn lesson about crossing me.

Chaceledon blinked, looking shaken for a fraction of a second before regaining composure. Unfortunately, Oor immediately snatched up the crack in his armor. The wraith grinned, and snapped his fingers.

The dragon was suddenly outside, in the freezing air and autumn leaves. He pulled his elegant red robes around himself; he’d dressed for autumn, in fine ombres of reds, yellows and oranges. His robes were decorated in a rich mink fur the shade of coffee, with chocolate diamonds sparkling at his throat and ears. His nails were an appealing frosted glass, with tiny ruby leaves decorating them.

But he was not dressed for the weather. The chill might have irritated a human but it ran straight to his bones. He shivered uselessly, looking around with surprised, dismayed lavender eyes. Oh no. No. The forest was silent and he was alone in a dirt road.

And it was so, so bitterly cold.
 
The wind was cold, the air was brisk, and snow could be felt on the wind. Autumn was leaving, winter was coming, and with the change of seasons came the promise of spring in time. For Ulf, it was a new beginning and an interesting one at that.

He'd bartered and traded until he'd made enough of the silver foreigners' coins to buy his way onto a ship bound for the Summer Lands. They'd made landfall a week or two after in the foreign ship, a bloated and rotund monstrosity, after which he'd promptly gathered his things, sharpened his ax, and headed inland.

The road had been hard and fraught with danger, but nothing his skill and strength couldn't handle. Other travellers had been few and far between, most giving him a wide berth with his weapons and armor clearly evident, but he hadn't minded and preferred his own company for the most part, though he had ensured to be friendly with the few he'd actually spoken to. Customs of hospitality and politeness were to be upheld no matter where in the world he wandered.

He walked along the road and paused only long enough to pull the lyre he carried from his pack. Strumming the instrument, he began to sing, the happiness he felt from the freedom he enjoyed giving spirit to his voice and feet as his clear, baritone voice carried through the woods.

"Dúirt mo mháthair liom
Lá éigin ceannóidh mé
Galley le maidí rámha
Seol chuig cladaí i bhfad i gcéin"

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon pulled his robes around himself and cleaned a small spot on a fallen log by the road. He had won, honestly, but he didn’t know what to do. In the next few days Oor would likely lock him out of the accounts. No gold, no carriage, not even a decent pair of shoes. The boots he was wearing were soft calfskin and wouldn’t last fifty miles, and they were expensive.

Chaceledon looked around, worrying with his hair and cleaning his nails. What was he going to do? It was so damn cold. He chewed the inside of his cheek...which he hated doing. It was a disgusting habit.

He did hear something. Someone on the road. He was relieved to hear the music even if he didn’t understand the words. Perhaps this someone could give him a ride? His hopes fell when it was just a man with a lute. A very rough looking creature at that.

Chaceledon rearranged himself quickly, lifting his head on his shoulders and correcting his posture. Making sure his robes showed a bit of his willowy figure while keeping the air of autumn elegance he’d been aiming for with this outfit.

“Excuse me? Do you know where the nearest city is?” He called to the stranger.
 
"Seas suas ar an tosaigh
long uasal stiúrann mé
Cúrsa seasta go dtí an tearmann
Maraigh go leor fir namhaid
Maraigh go leor fir namhaid."

So caught up in his song, he almost missed the stranger along the side of the road. He - or she? - was dressed to the nines complete with robes, jewelry, furs, and fine boots and asking for the nearest city. Ulf couldn't help but laugh, not at the person he'd found, but at the idea there was a city nearby. He was a stranger in a strange land, how would he begin to know where anything was, much less how near or far they could be.

"There could be a city around the next bend, or there could not!" boomed the Nordenfiir as he enjoyed the chill air. "I am a stranger to this land, here in the Summer Lands from Eretejva. The only place I know is the port I arrived in, four days behind. A fine place it was. Brothels and ale houses aplenty, roast meat off the bone, too, though sorely lacking in ways to prove a warrior's mettle or song. Are you lost? Or are you perhaps a stranger in this land as I?"

Chaceledon
 
The minute he opened his mouth Chaceledon resisted the urge to sigh. Of course. He had found the singing country bumpkin who thought talk of whores and ale was appropriate. Didn’t anyone just enjoy a good charcuterie and sparkling wine anymore?

He pulled his copper hair over one shoulder. “I am...well not entirely lost but...I don’t exactly know where I am either. I know we’re quite far from any cities, there isn’t a chance in the Nine Hells he would have dropped me close. I’m being punished. My husband dropped me in the middle of nowhere.” He explained to the stranger with a soft sigh.

He looked him over. Four days and he was wandering around the roads with nothing but a blade and a song? The testing of mettle did make him a bit nervous; he was a dragon after all. He’d heard so many tales of men testing themselves on his kind. That was the reason for dragonhide armor. He shivered and rubbed a slender hand up his arm.

“Look, if you escort me to the next major city I’ll make sure you’ll be well compensated.” Chaceledon reasoned.
 
"If you wish to join my in my journeys, you're more than welcome," Ulf stated with a shrug. "I know not how far the next city may lie, but I'm sure it cannot be more than a fortnight's travel."

The Nordenfiir tucked his lyre away and gestured to the road. Perhaps there was a village or township nearby, perhaps not, but either way the road beckoned and the weather was beautiful for travel. He didn't wait for the stranger to fall into step and started off down the road.

"You said your husband is punishing you? Perhaps you and your other spouses need reevaluate his honor. In my homeland, a husband unwilling to fulfill his duties or guilty of cruelty is lucky to have his Jarna slay him outright for his evilness and dishonor."

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon got up. Well. Not even helping a lady up. Brute. He began to follow the other, looking down. These were not traveling robes. Not only was he stuck out here in the cold with a lout he was out here ruining his clothes. He would have to toss them, there was no saving a piece of art like this once it had been ruined. Though given the themes perhaps it could be considered stylistic? He could only hope.

“A fortnight?!” Chaceledon exclaimed. Two weeks in the wilderness? No bathing for two weeks? No clean clothes for two weeks? How were they to eat and clean themselves? He looked back at the place he’d been left in worry. The conversation about Oor made him snort in derision. “If I were warm enough believe me, I would incinerate him until there was nothing left but a little smidge on the ground. He’s ruined my body now he wants to ruin my dignity on top of it making me walk through the forest on a dirt road. Dirt!”

The dragon shook his head and hurried to catch up to the other, gathering his robes in one hand and trying to walk as swiftly as he could to keep up with the other’s ground eating strides. “How are we to eat and find shelter? I don’t see a pack on your back and I am not getting near any brothels.”
 
"A fortnight at the most, aye," he boomed, laughing amiably. "Though we shall surely reach one sooner, perhaps a village or township in a few days at most."

The Nordenfiir thought a moment before continuing. His unexpected travelling companion had mentioned fire magic, albeit indirectly. Perhaps there was more to the eye than what the odd, overly-finely dressed stranger initially seemed.

"You mentioned fire. Are you a mage? A scholar, perhaps? I've yet to meet a foreign wizard as most avoid Eretejva entirely," he stated, slowing his pace to the others', less enthusiastic stride. The warrior shrugged off the commentary on brothels and focused on the last question. "As for food and shelter, nature provides. I hunt and fish over the day and I have found these mountains possess many cave systems, many interconnected. Most, thankfully, free of goblin-stench. Occasionally I smell human bandits, but the scents are old. From last winter, perhaps."

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon tossed his hair over one shoulder. Of course this absolute roughneck would be similar to his own son. Living off the land, hunting and fishing. He hoped the man knew how to source a little herbs and spices to make the food more palatable. How Volker spent so long in the wilderness without decent wine or god forbid, decent hair care, he’d never know.

“A few days, I can do a few days. After that I really must insist we find a caravan or...or something.” The dragon told him with a sigh. “I’m a fire mage after a fashion, though I was born quite a while ago. Before all this sprung up.” He gestured at the road with the air of a man who’d found dog shit in the garden.

He walked next to the strange man, looking at him. A decent bit of clothes and armor and he would cut quite the figure. He looked at his weapon with a raised eyebrow. “That steel has far too much carbon, I could make much better. I’ve designed all of my children’s weapons, and they all lasted centuries with good care.” he said lightly. “I would make you an axe the gods would be jealous of.”

Chaceledon lifted his chin. One thing he took quite a lot of pride in was the forging of weapons and armor. One didn’t have to sacrifice elegance for efficacy after all.
 
"A fire mage, eh?" he asked with a laugh. "And an ancient one at that with many children, yet you are as fair as a maiden in a skald's tale. The boon of beauty without the curse of frail mortality. Many a hero of legend sought such a thing with few succeeding."

He listened to the commentary on his armor and weaponry. The stranger knew steel and iron at a glance, something many smiths and craftsmen of his homeland strived and failed to achieve over their lifetimes. Ulf thought a moment before speaking, his words picked with care.

"A weapon to provoke the gods' jealousy would be dangerous, though such ire would be the lesser danger. All mortals err, and so even heroes are slain in sagas and songs. Fine arms and armor are the things of legend, though it is rare to find such things and even rarer are those who forge them. To die in battle is to garner great favor with the gods, though gods green with envy may be reluctant to let the slain enter their halls. For now, simple armor and a simple ax suffice, but perhaps in time I might seek you out to forge far finer fare, my good Maiden-Smith. Paid for, of course, with whole caravans and long ships full of raid-spoils!"

Chaceledon
 
“Oh please, you’re at least saving me from falling at my husbands feet and begging forgiveness for the sake of a hot bath. I’ll be happy to forge you a fine weapon, and perhaps some armor better suited to you.” Chaceledon said with a smile. He had always been proud of his smile. Properly feminine and beautiful, accentuated by his lavender eyes. “As for children I haven’t actually borne any. They’ve all been adopted and carefully planned by my slimy bastard of a husband. I do my best with them. But no, the man who can ruin this figure I haven’t met yet.”

He smiled and batted his long lashes a bit at the man, lifting his chin and striding forward. He was going to charge so much to Oor’s estate. Food, wine, baths for the both of them. How angry would Oor be to find out he’d had a tryst on this little exile? Perhaps once he got the brute cleaned up he’d make a decent partner.

“So what drew you to these shores? More than the mere prospect of adventure, I’d hope. Staying monsters and the like.”
 
"A child is a child, no matter their origin," Ulf stated honestly, finally placing the stranger's gender in his mind before moving to answer the stranger's questions.

"I left Eretejva to explore the Summer Lands and seek my fame, fortune, and glory. I am one of the youngest sons of a Nordenfiir Jorn which means my inheritance is little more than blood and perhaps a small title if I remained in my homeland. Instead, I seek my inheritance abroad after years of roaming the tundra and glaciers of my home. I hope to discover what the gods have in store for me. Perhaps I may even become Jorn of a land I lay claim to. Fate is endless and unknowable, but I plan to see where it takes me."

He paused a moment to gauge the sun, using his fingers to measure the distance to the horizon. He thought a moment more and gestured to a copse of trees ahead in the distance.

"We have perhaps an hour or two of light left. Camp and fire will be easy enough and I can smell the game from here. Rabbit and perhaps deer. Boar if the gods smile on us."

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon listened. Fortune and glory from a man who had little enough inheritance. He could empathize. “I suppose I know what you mean. I am the least favorite child out of all of my siblings; my brother, big brute though he is, will probably claim the lions share of the inheritance. I left our estate to find the same. Fortune and glory. Unfortunately one dinner party too much and I end up like this. Moreover, dragon parents don’t help their children. My mother wouldn’t give me a shirt if I were bleeding to death much less kill a wraith for me.”

His parents were older dragons, far older than he. He wondered where they were...he’d not been allowed to write to them, and they wouldn’t be caught dead in such cold weather. They would be basking in the sands of some great desert with piping hot tea. Perhaps, if no one were around, to play and polish their scales in the sand. It was where he longed to be. Gods, if he was even warm enough to shift, he’d be a dull nightmare.

Chaceledon looked worriedly at the other. “What about bears?” He felt silly asking it. A dragon, afraid of a bear? But a dragon with his breath weapon reduced to a thumb-sized flame and too cold to shift should be afraid of humans let alone bears.

“My name is Chaceledon, by the way.” He eyed Ulf. Surely his name hadn’t purely disappeared from the fashion world? Then again, look who he was asking.

Ulf Flakkari
 
"You may call me Ulf," the warrior said with a smile. "As for bears, the scents are old here and no bear would willingly challenge a Nordenfiir in his prime."

As they made their way to the shelter of the trees, Ulf scratched at his beard in thought. The stranger had mentioned his parents being dragons. Eretejva had its legends and songs about dragons and their hoards of gold and silver or their magical abilities, yet this one appeared as human and appeared more... prisoner than hoarder, it seemed.

"You mentioned dragon heritage. I take it that you are as well?"

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon raised an eyebrow at the man. “I don’t think bears give each other legends and warnings of men from the north.” he pointed out with a sigh. Either way at least one of them was armed. It was a little frustrating; dragons weren’t scared of anything. Were this high summer where he could bask in the heat of the sun, he would send any bear screaming in terror. Gods help him, he’d stab someone and get blood all over him if they knew where the nearest steam baths were. He’d had Volker comb the area for hot springs just to find that not only was this forest empty, it was the least volcanic area in the land.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it was a turn of phrase comparing my parents to dragons.” Chaceledon said archly, dodging the question. He was not about to disclose what he was to a man who had just been talking about fortune and glory. Bringing back a dragon’s head and some of his beautiful scales would most definitely qualify as both.

He remembered Oor parading him in front of taxidermied dragons and dragon bones, just to make him sick. Laughing at the idea there were so few of them left. Chaceledon had only met one dragon outside of his family, and his brother in law had grown half mad from living deep in forests.

No, there was not a chance in hell he was coming out without heat and the chance to fly away.

Ulf Flakkari
 
"No, but they do know the scent of a greater predator," he said matter of factly. The stranger's conversational evasion intrigued the Nordenfiir, but he didn't push further despite his quiet skepticism.

The copse had a small clearing where the wind was greatly lessened. He set his lyre down at the base of a stump and stretched his back a moment before using a booted foot to clear leaves and debris from the clearing's center. Satisfied that stray sparks wouldn't light the campsite on fire, he collected nearby twigs and sticks, carefully stacking them until they formed a conical shape in the center of the fire ring. Once done, he took a dry twig he had set aside earlier and held the splintered tip between his thumb and forefinger. Whispering the spell quietly under his breath, the twig began to smoke where he held it until a faint glow grew from the wood. The spell taking hold and igniting the small twig, he shifted his grip and gently placed the smoldering end within the pile of tinder. A few moments of blowing and careful shifting was rewarded with the first flickers of flame. Ulf sat back on his heels and grinned at the other man.

"A few minutes to ensure this is burning properly and then I shall hunt."

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon looked around at the clearing and crossed his arms over his chest. God, what filth. Kicking away the leaves didn't do much. He sighed heavily and grabbed the least grubby bit of moss he could find, cleaning off a fallen log. God why did the outside have to be so dirty? He would kill a man for an expensive bed. He watched the man gather sticks and begin to make a fire. The scent of the burning wood was...intriguing to him. Oor had banned fire in all its forms in Witherhold.

Properly burning?

Well.

Chaceledon pulled his hair up and repinned it, arranging it behind his neck and kneeling next to the fire. He put his hands over the tiny flame. Warmth. Warmth, real warmth. Finally. He felt the warmth spiral up his frozen fingers and arms. He breathed in deep and closed his lavender eyes, blowing out. A bright lavender flame surged forth, a precious tongue of his own fire he hadn't felt in decades. It consumed the twigs, surging up in purples and yellows until it had extinguished the manmade flame in a surge of dragonfire. True heat came close. He needed more. More of this. More.

Chaceledon went to grab more sticks and add them to the fire, suddenly not heeding the dirt on his carefully crafted nails. More wood was flung into the flames and they hungrily devoured the fuel. But slowly, sadly, the lavender faded to yellow. He didn't have enough magic to maintain it, and the precious heat of a dragon's flame died to that of a common housefire.

He could have burst into tears, but that wasn't ladylike. He stood by the fire and watched it with a crushing sense of defeat, neck tight with the effort of keeping his face neutral. He wasn't going to be able to fix his makeup if he cried now, and if he ruined his face he'd be even more upset.

Ulf Flakkari
 
Ulf sucked quietly at his teeth a moment, a wide variety of clues adding up leaving his skepticism well founded. The scent on the wind, the magic, the conversational slip, and subsequent evasion coupled with what he had watched play out and solidified who, and what, this stranger truly was.

"Like a master artisan long absent of their craft, the knowledge and understanding is there, only the muscles need renewal, Madam Dreki. It will take practice to attain former skill, no need for shame. This is no defeat, it is a victory and a returning. Wear it as such."

He stood and stretched before tossing a log or two atop the fire as it happily burned, its warmth reassuring on his skin after a long day's travel. Ulf leaned his ax, bow, and arrows against a nearby log and turned to sniff the night air.

"Deer are nearby, for certain, though I am also smelling rabbit. Do you have any preference?"

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon fixed him with a cold look. "I am not unskilled you barbarous idiot, I am freezing in this cursed fucking forest!" He went silent for a moment, jaw tight enough that he could hear his own teeth squealing. He hated being cold. He hated this forest. He ached for warm sands, and hot tea, and feeling warm winds propel him upward toward the sun where his powers would only grow stronger. Of flinging himself across burning sands and scrubbing himself clean, not sitting here watching a lively and stupid weak fire. Humanfire guttered and gasped at greatness like a heron attempting to swim. If humanfire was birds pecking at the surface, dragonfire was the leviathan that lurked in the deep.

He loked at his filthy nails and sighed in frustration, sitting down on the log he'd attempted to clean. Great. He was warm enough to produce another small flame, burning away the dirt in a plume of foul-smelling smoke. He shook the gray ashes away with a gust of air and waved them in the cool air to harden them again, looking at the man. "I am sorry about the name-calling." He said with a heavy sigh.

"Venison is my preference please, do we have any rice or salt?" Ye gods this was like camping with his sons. "Please tell me you've brought a tent, or a bedroll?" He could sleep in these clothes if he absolutely had to, but he preferred not to lay directly on the freezing ground. He'd wake up even more human than he already was.

Ulf Flakkari
 
"Venison it is," he stated with a nod as he tossed his cloak by his weapons. "As for rice or salt, I don't tend to carry much with me. I tend to live off the land as I travel, but I did see what I think might be thyme or rosemary when entering the clearing and I can keep a lookout for mushrooms. I would offer truffles, but I can't stand the scent of them and they muddle my sense of smell for a while afterwards."

Ulf paused a moment and shifted, his human form blurring for a split second before coalescing as his Svalen. The black-furred bear sat back on its haunches and yawned, a long tongue sticking out between ivory fangs. He gave his belly a good scratch as he licked his lips before turning a furry head to look at the dragon at the fire.

"I have no tent or bedroll, no," he said, his voice sounding similar, though deeper by far. "But you may use my cloak if you so desire. It is thick and very warm and I had it waxed to keep rain out before I took to sea."

Without waiting for a reply, he calmly sauntered off, his nose leading the way to the hunt.

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon sighed and nodded. He wasn’t going to soil this poor man’s cloak. While the man hunted he tried to do the best he could. He pulled down pine branches and began to arrange them into a fine round bed. It took him a while, neatly trimming down any small irritating branches. Then he lined the inside with cushiony moss, and layered over that with dried lichens. That way they would both be warm and dry. He draped his heavy over robe on it, wide enough for them both, and the cloak on top of that for a little waterproofing.

He stood back to look at his work. Perfect. He smiled and lifted his chin, who said someone had to completely and totally rough it in the woods? Volker had told him about making these when he was out in the wilds. Chaceledon brought flat stones into the fire and cleaned them with a little dragon flame. There. Clean surface for cooking.

Chaceledon sat by the fire and braided his hair, waiting for the man to return.

Ulf Flakkari
 
He'd found, tracked, and brought down a decent sized doe during his hunt, only shifting back to his human form long enough to properly gut and clean the carcass. He tucked the meat into a one of the leather bags he carried with him and quickly shifted back into his bear form before carefully taking the bag in his jaws. The camp was easy enough to find from the firelight and the Nordenfiir ambled back into the glow. He set the bag on the ground near his guest and sat back on his haunches.

"You've been busy," Ulf remarked, his deepened voice more booming than usual. "I do not know how much Dreki eat, but I know how much I eat, so I made sure to bring back plenty."

He scratched a paw at his stomach for a moment, letting out another large, toothy yawn.

"I did not come upon herbs or mushrooms in my hunt. Perhaps you had more luck?"

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon didn’t know what an edible mushroom looked like. He’d gathered a small array of mushrooms. Small white mushrooms he found pretty but were absolutely toxic. Red mushrooms with white speckles, and a charming yellow mushroom. Only the last was edible, unbeknownst to Chaceledon. The dragon proudly displayed the small assortment to the man, lifting his chin proudly.

“See? I found some.” he said. He eyed the bag. “I see you found some luck. I didn’t find any herbs this late in winter.” Not that he would know what they looked like anyway. He’d walked right past a huge Rosemary bush without realizing it. He wasn’t the outdoorsy type.

Chaceledon looked at the bear. “What is a Draki, anyway? Some sort of insult?” he smirked at the other. He cleaned his hands in the flames of their fire like another man would wash his hands. “I’ve made us a bed. I only have one coat and one cloak to work with. If you want a separate one, you’ll have to make do.”

Ulf Flakkari
 
"So I see," boomed the Nordenfiir as he shifted back into his human form. Bereft of his ursine body, the warrior's voice returned to his normal level of depth and volume. "Though only the yellow ones are to be trusted. The others are dangerous to most."

Ulf opened the bag and pulled out the various parts and portions of harvested deer. With deft precision born of great experience, he placed the meat over the fire on various spits, stones, and even one cut of venison directly on the hot coals.

"The mushrooms we can roast nearer the meat is cooked, otherwise they will burn," he said after a moment. He scratched at his beard a moment and sat down before the fire. "I tend to sleep Svalen - in bear form - so I shall be warm enough. You use the cloak and coat. As for Dreki, it is no insult, merely what you are. It means Dragon in my tongue."

Chaceledon
 
Only the yellow ones? Chaceledon sighed and gingerly picked out the ones that Ulf had indicated, tossing the others unceremoniously. He really wasn’t good at this, was he? Everything was so filthy all the time. How did men cope outdoors like this? He watched the bear man pull out the meat and begin preparing it, paying close attention to how he prepared it. He looked at his new friend’s hands.

“You ought to tell me more about where we’re going. I’m sure I can land on my feet somewhere, as long as it’s warm. I will need to get materials to pay you, however.” Chaceledon cleaned the mushrooms of pine needles and bits of dirt.

He carefully arranged them on the hot stone when the meat was closer to being done, seemingly unafraid of the fire and hot fat. Fire cleaned most everything off his fingers. “I’m glad, at least, that you know what I am. But that word is far too close to ‘dreck’ for my liking. Call me Chaceledon.” he said, painstakingly arranging the meat and mushrooms on flat stones. Was it impossible to make such a meal look pretty? One ached for a little seasoning. He offered Ulf his stone, then settled down to eat his own.

Chaceledon was very ladylike, picky and taking tidbits with a thumb and forefinger.

Ulf Flakkari
 
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