Private Tales Where the Sky Ends

[Valkanthrandilax]

It was such a pity the Spine was infested with orcs and dwarves. Some of the most heavenly sights on Arethil formed in the rise and fall of lofty mounts and deep valleys dotted with glimmering lakes, and the lesser races had to tarnish it. Thank the gods they didn't have wings themselves and the Thirians hadn't figured out a way to expand, for they'd dirty the very heavens themselves, too.

The shadow of a dragon passed over the stars, blocking their light as he soared overhead. High above, the chill wind rushed over his black scales. Valkanthrandilax descended from on high, the cold air of the skies giving way to the warmth of summer. He glided over a vast lake, its glassy surface reflecting the starlight and moonlight. Violet runes glowed softly with stored magic. The dragon skimmed the surface of the lake, feeling the cool water rush over his obsidian talons. An unlucky fish snagged on them, and he plucked it out of the water.

He winged to the shore, landed deftly, and let his wriggling catch fall to the grass. The dragon snapped it up into his narrow jaws in short order, then extended his forked tongue to lick his lips. Valkan paused, then raised his head. There was another here, and it was not the odor of an orc or dwarf long departed. The dragon's long tongue flicked as he tried to pinpoint the location of this other traveler. In the thicket, perhaps, sleeping under the cover of leaves? Or had he been awakened by the dragon already?

"It seems I am not alone," he rumbled. "Would you entertain an old drake with conversation?"

 

[Aldebaran]

Tinged with stars and the glamor of Lessat and Pneria's dance between clouds frought with summer angst, a pretty sky indeed graced Aldebaran's eve.

Toes resting on the bank of a lake, alighted with gentle ripples as he kicked, Aldebaran lay propped up on an elbow. He was watching the clouds, counting the stars. Murmurs passed his lips, ticking off stories fancied and recalled of those stolid constellations. They made for a disjointed hymn. Praise sung to a blessed evening free of company.

For tonight, he could say that peace caught him idle.

A clay gourd hung about his wrist, unstoppered and slick at its mouth. He drank lazily from it, sighs breaking his quiet litany. Contentedness curled him up on the bank.

It was thus that the stirring breeze caught him unattended. The whisper of grass and glade trailing beneath a wind not yet registered. Sudden noise. Sudden presence. His eyes swelled in the sight of the drake, his ears drumming along to the hum of its voice. But startlement passed to a simple smile.

"Ah, wise wyrm, you flatter me with your companyship," he breathed (for it was all he could manage), rolling from his elbow and straightening. His feet splashed, finding purchase in the shallows, cementing him to an upright seat.

"With wine at my belt, I can offer a sip, but am afraid it may pass for little if not to wet your lips. I am called Aldebaran, Old Drake; and may I ask as to your address?"

 

[Valkanthrandilax]

"Well met, though you are rather quick to call me wise," the dragon replied. "I am Valkanthrandilax, but you can call me Valkan if you wish. Certainly the more manageable of the two."

He lied down on the shoreline nearby, letting the cool water lap at his talons. His spade-tipped tail curled up around him, and his purple, forked tongue tasted the crisp summer air again. The pungent taste of fish still lingered, but he could make out myriad other tastes and odors wafting through the air. He drummed his talons against the pebbles, pondering the smells. The dragon tilted his head ever so slightly to the side in thought.

"Mulled wine?" Valkan asked. "You have fine taste if so. I would be more confident in my guess, but the scent isn't quite so clear to me. There are so many other aromas: residues of herbs, medicines, poultices. Traveling to treat a client, or…?"

 

[Aldebaran]

There was a lazy cadence to the exchange. The dragon's voice trilled in the wells of Aldebaran's chest, nestled him as a babe in swaddling cloth. Perhaps fear made for a proper reply, wariness even, but the old man could muster the breath for neither. So he smiled, a show of lip and a shine of teeth.

"You judge me rightly," he said, offering a seated bow.

He eased back on the bank, letting his chin fall into the hollow of his throat to gaze upon the dragon through lashes long in the tooth of age.

Holding out the gourd he continued, "I've a fondness for this particular game. You see, I have some troubles emptying the thing myself, so I took to topping it off with local vintages well before it reached the bottom. Not always a pleasant effect."

A shrug, lips adopting a soured scrunch.

"Clove and cinnamon... or what may be on hand?" His eyes held a conspiratorial twinkle. "Well, it contents me all the same."