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Species Western Dragon
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Spring, 1329
It was spring again, and annual mist tumbled through the River Triangle like an ephemeral sea, silently rolling over moors, hills, trees and stones, so that by morning a thick blanket of haze pervaded through the land. Visibility was barely a dozen feet, leaving everything as half-formed shadows. It was the kind of weather made for staying at home under blankets or huddled by a kitchen fire, for only cold dampness and darkness awaited outside. However, those abandoning creature comforts to move through the miasma would find the old and well-worn path leading through the hills and valleys towards a certain town named Stanton near the edge of the wilds. Here along the Brekshire North Road, a silent company slowly trudged through the morning mist. Dressed in hunting tunics and wrapped in cloaks, with large ragged packs on their backs and weapons by their sides, the figures headed towards their destination, obviously hard men accustomed to the rigors of the road. As the path continued a small building appeared out of the mist. A small sign swung in the breeze, signaling its function as a tavern: The Gladstone.
The tavern door swung open, and its inhabitants used to the darkened fire-lighted room turned and squinted to see the dozen or so newcomers enter. The company crowded around the bar and the largest figure, swathed in an overcoat and scarlet scarf, threw out a dozen silver coins.
“Barkeep, house drinks for my crew here.”
“Alright.”
As soon as the drinks were passed out, the leader grabbed the bartender and pulled him close.
“Listen, I want some information, and I’ll pay ya well.” The figure whispered.
The bartender was surprised by the maneuver, but quickly recovered. He glanced around and leaned over. The rest of the band drank or ate little peapods in silence, concealing the meeting with their bodily presence.
The leader threw out a gold coin. “What can you tell me about the Town of Stanton?”
The barkeep took a hold of the coin, bit it, and satisfied that it was real, deftly pocketed the generous tip.
“Strangest thing you know, that place. Five years ago, it was just a forgotten little town fifty miles northeast of here, at the edge of the Wilds. Then all kinds of oddities sprung up.” The bartender leaned his head closer. “You know that incident with the dragon at the Spring Festival a few years back? The one that humiliated King John and the Knights of Constantine? That was in Stanton. Tell ya I haven’t been up there for a while but it keeps getting stranger. People say the town has stopped building into the woods and now follows the Rapidan; all the farms north of the river have been abandoned even though the land there is fertile. Instead a mule or cow is offered up to the edge of the fields at the end of every year. People say the woods are haunted, and the townsfolk are appeasing the spirits. I dunno: you won’t get anything from the locals. They seem eager to forget even the Stanton Incident. Still, the town also seems to have a charmed life. In the last five years, despite the goblins raids and increased bandit activity all over the River Triangle, Stanton has remained unaffected. Hell, even my tavern was robbed by bandits two years back. But nothing ever happens in Stanton.”
“And I suppose this makes Stanton a very wealthy place.” The leader of the mysterious group replied.
“Suppose so. Money grows where it stays, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve heard from some people that the town is actually protected by some guardian. Have you heard anything about that?”
“Nah. I’ve even heard people say the dragon from the incident has been charmed by some hero and now guards the town from all threats. Nothing but old wives’ tales, I say. I myself saw the Royals leaving Stanton while carting off a bloody object covered by a tarp.” The bartender shrugged. “The town is just lucky –lucky and strange, that’s all.”
The leader grunted his thanks and threw out a double silver coin. The others in the company quickly finished their drinks and snacks and turned to leave.
“I guess we’ll see if Stanton’s luck lasts.” The leader concluded after the company exited the tavern.
As they continued, the company saw a lone hawk sitting on a low-lying branch near the doorway. It watched the crew curiously for a second, then with a screech, spread its wings and flew off into the clouds. Most of the crew ignored the ominous omen.
“Suppose the area is cursed?” One of the bandits asked their chief.
“Lies told to scare people like us from going over. I tell ya, there’ll be rich loot for the lot of us.” The leader replied. “Places like that, not being hit for such a long time, there’ll be a mountain of gold and silver just ripe for the taking!”
“I can’t wait to see the looks on those fools when we take our due!”
“Calm down men." The chief admonished. "Those Stanton townsfolk might still put up a good fight, so be on your guard.”
A scarred and sinewy blackguard next to him chuckled and ran a finger along the edge of his notched francisca. “Right. Like they did at Clarita, or Bell Den, or Marlsville.”
Within two hours the outlaw crew had reached the outskirts of Stanton, its wooden buildings outlined in gray by the slowly fainting fog.
“There it is.” The leader confirmed, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, thickly wrapped in linen. “Remember men, sheath your weapons until I use mine. We don't want anyone to raise the alarm too quickly. And be ready for anything.”
The other bandits nodded in agreement and readied their weapons as they quietly shuffled towards the fortified gateway. However, as the mist slowly dissipated over the morning sun, a lone figure suddenly appeared out of the gloom.
“A good morning to you, gentlemen.” The figure, dressed in the cloak and cloth of a forester, stated as he leaned on a gatepost. The brigands were dumbfounded by the sudden appearance, before slowly moving themselves to encircle the stranger.
“You all should have paid more attention.” The Forester continued, “Stanton had long since gotten news of your arrival.”
The bandits muttered to themselves, then looked to their leader, who pulled out his bastard sword and snarled. “We'll see about that!” None of his subordinates followed suit.
Their opponent remained unfazed. “You have one opportunity to turn back.” The cloaked figure simply stated as he leisurely pulled out the awlpike from behind his back, adding: “Any one of you are free to leave right now. Tell hostile folks to avoid the good town of Stanton. If you choose to remain, your life will be forfeit.”
Confident again, the other bandits all drew their weapons and simultaneously moved towards the Forester, the leader giving a cruel sneer.
“You can't stop all of us.”
The Forester looked up and idly nodded.
“You know, you are absolutely correct.”
He suddenly dropped into battle stance, raised his shield and lowered his awlpike.
“I cannot.”
An instant later a polearm whistled through the air and struck the outlaw leader. The burly fighter gurgled as the awlspike embedded in his chest was then jerked free, and with a gasp fell headfirst into the mud.
In front of them the Forester had calmly riposted his weapon and eyed the next closest bandit.
“But there are others who can. Last chance.”
“Kill him!” The scarred figure yelled as he charged.
The surviving bandits likewise rushed forward, only to stop in their tracks when a giant figure skidded to a thunderous landing behind the Forester-a gigantic 25-foot dragon, wings still half furled from flight, its mighty horned head leading down to a vicious smile that revealed dozens of knife-like teeth. For a split-second time seemed to stop; the bandits all frozen in awe at the sight of this new instrument of death, the Forester figure stopping to smile, the dragon inhaling in a breath of air. Then the second passed. Awe immediately turned into fear, as the brigands all dropped their weapons, turned around and began fleeing back down the road.
“The Guardian!”
“Run!”
“Mercy!”
Looking up, the Forester’s hood fell to his shoulders, revealing a determined, Volscian face with a bearded chin. As Logan Durham calmly wiped the blood from his blade, Meratezatgh threw out a ball of fire, incinerating the slowest two individuals. Without pausing the dragon lunged forward, rustling Logans’ cloak as he stormed past. After briefly watching Mera tear into the retreating bandits, Logan shrugged and leisurely followed in pursuit.
***
Throughout the morning bursts of flame and the sound of screams echoed in the mists around Stanton. By the time the sun appeared out of the haze an hour later, all of the would-be raiders were gone, leaving only blood, torn pieces of flesh or bone or charcoal. The dragon had likewise disappeared, as did the Forester.
Another figure soon appeared, walking through this smoking, bloody battlefield, an individual with a thin Normadic face with sharp cheekbones and a well-groomed mustache. De Trobliand calmly took a deep draw of his pipe, blowing out a ring of smoke as he silently walked among the charred and bloody remains, searching for any information from what was left.
Nothing. The dragon had been quite thorough in his destruction.
Finally, after an hour of casual searching, the Normad found something interesting: one unfortunate individual had been shredded apart by the dragon’s claws, leaving a tangled mess below, but his upper torso complete. De Trobliand went down on his knees and began rifling through the coat pocket of the deceased. Coins, knives, reward papers ... then a large pamphlet, torn and stained and slightly singed through its recent ordeal. The Normad unfurled the parchment and read the blood-stained leaflet from under the sunlight. He frowned.
Men of the South!
The Time of War is upon us! For too long your leaders have meddled in the North, sending up your colonists to our territories, desecrating our ancestral tombs and monopolizing the trade in foodstuffs and steel. Nalbin rightfully belongs to the Tassure Empire, the rulers of the first race. It is time that the Trasgu sweep aside the decadent, usurping and corrupt Auxian kings. All true friends should stay out of the fight between the righteous Vespers and the agents of evil. Tassure Prevails!
-King Baldwin Vesper
De Trobliand pocketed the pamphlet and looked to the north. Clouds were already gathering on the edge of the horizon. The light had just come, but another storm was approaching.
The Normad took a deep puff of smoke.
Brad Fiedel– The Terminator Theme
From https://x.com/CVamperoo/!
It was spring again, and annual mist tumbled through the River Triangle like an ephemeral sea, silently rolling over moors, hills, trees and stones, so that by morning a thick blanket of haze pervaded through the land. Visibility was barely a dozen feet, leaving everything as half-formed shadows. It was the kind of weather made for staying at home under blankets or huddled by a kitchen fire, for only cold dampness and darkness awaited outside. However, those abandoning creature comforts to move through the miasma would find the old and well-worn path leading through the hills and valleys towards a certain town named Stanton near the edge of the wilds. Here along the Brekshire North Road, a silent company slowly trudged through the morning mist. Dressed in hunting tunics and wrapped in cloaks, with large ragged packs on their backs and weapons by their sides, the figures headed towards their destination, obviously hard men accustomed to the rigors of the road. As the path continued a small building appeared out of the mist. A small sign swung in the breeze, signaling its function as a tavern: The Gladstone.
The tavern door swung open, and its inhabitants used to the darkened fire-lighted room turned and squinted to see the dozen or so newcomers enter. The company crowded around the bar and the largest figure, swathed in an overcoat and scarlet scarf, threw out a dozen silver coins.
“Barkeep, house drinks for my crew here.”
“Alright.”
As soon as the drinks were passed out, the leader grabbed the bartender and pulled him close.
“Listen, I want some information, and I’ll pay ya well.” The figure whispered.
The bartender was surprised by the maneuver, but quickly recovered. He glanced around and leaned over. The rest of the band drank or ate little peapods in silence, concealing the meeting with their bodily presence.
The leader threw out a gold coin. “What can you tell me about the Town of Stanton?”
The barkeep took a hold of the coin, bit it, and satisfied that it was real, deftly pocketed the generous tip.
“Strangest thing you know, that place. Five years ago, it was just a forgotten little town fifty miles northeast of here, at the edge of the Wilds. Then all kinds of oddities sprung up.” The bartender leaned his head closer. “You know that incident with the dragon at the Spring Festival a few years back? The one that humiliated King John and the Knights of Constantine? That was in Stanton. Tell ya I haven’t been up there for a while but it keeps getting stranger. People say the town has stopped building into the woods and now follows the Rapidan; all the farms north of the river have been abandoned even though the land there is fertile. Instead a mule or cow is offered up to the edge of the fields at the end of every year. People say the woods are haunted, and the townsfolk are appeasing the spirits. I dunno: you won’t get anything from the locals. They seem eager to forget even the Stanton Incident. Still, the town also seems to have a charmed life. In the last five years, despite the goblins raids and increased bandit activity all over the River Triangle, Stanton has remained unaffected. Hell, even my tavern was robbed by bandits two years back. But nothing ever happens in Stanton.”
“And I suppose this makes Stanton a very wealthy place.” The leader of the mysterious group replied.
“Suppose so. Money grows where it stays, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve heard from some people that the town is actually protected by some guardian. Have you heard anything about that?”
“Nah. I’ve even heard people say the dragon from the incident has been charmed by some hero and now guards the town from all threats. Nothing but old wives’ tales, I say. I myself saw the Royals leaving Stanton while carting off a bloody object covered by a tarp.” The bartender shrugged. “The town is just lucky –lucky and strange, that’s all.”
The leader grunted his thanks and threw out a double silver coin. The others in the company quickly finished their drinks and snacks and turned to leave.
“I guess we’ll see if Stanton’s luck lasts.” The leader concluded after the company exited the tavern.
As they continued, the company saw a lone hawk sitting on a low-lying branch near the doorway. It watched the crew curiously for a second, then with a screech, spread its wings and flew off into the clouds. Most of the crew ignored the ominous omen.
“Suppose the area is cursed?” One of the bandits asked their chief.
“Lies told to scare people like us from going over. I tell ya, there’ll be rich loot for the lot of us.” The leader replied. “Places like that, not being hit for such a long time, there’ll be a mountain of gold and silver just ripe for the taking!”
“I can’t wait to see the looks on those fools when we take our due!”
“Calm down men." The chief admonished. "Those Stanton townsfolk might still put up a good fight, so be on your guard.”
A scarred and sinewy blackguard next to him chuckled and ran a finger along the edge of his notched francisca. “Right. Like they did at Clarita, or Bell Den, or Marlsville.”
Within two hours the outlaw crew had reached the outskirts of Stanton, its wooden buildings outlined in gray by the slowly fainting fog.
“There it is.” The leader confirmed, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, thickly wrapped in linen. “Remember men, sheath your weapons until I use mine. We don't want anyone to raise the alarm too quickly. And be ready for anything.”
The other bandits nodded in agreement and readied their weapons as they quietly shuffled towards the fortified gateway. However, as the mist slowly dissipated over the morning sun, a lone figure suddenly appeared out of the gloom.
“A good morning to you, gentlemen.” The figure, dressed in the cloak and cloth of a forester, stated as he leaned on a gatepost. The brigands were dumbfounded by the sudden appearance, before slowly moving themselves to encircle the stranger.
“You all should have paid more attention.” The Forester continued, “Stanton had long since gotten news of your arrival.”
The bandits muttered to themselves, then looked to their leader, who pulled out his bastard sword and snarled. “We'll see about that!” None of his subordinates followed suit.
Their opponent remained unfazed. “You have one opportunity to turn back.” The cloaked figure simply stated as he leisurely pulled out the awlpike from behind his back, adding: “Any one of you are free to leave right now. Tell hostile folks to avoid the good town of Stanton. If you choose to remain, your life will be forfeit.”
Confident again, the other bandits all drew their weapons and simultaneously moved towards the Forester, the leader giving a cruel sneer.
“You can't stop all of us.”
The Forester looked up and idly nodded.
“You know, you are absolutely correct.”
He suddenly dropped into battle stance, raised his shield and lowered his awlpike.
“I cannot.”
An instant later a polearm whistled through the air and struck the outlaw leader. The burly fighter gurgled as the awlspike embedded in his chest was then jerked free, and with a gasp fell headfirst into the mud.
In front of them the Forester had calmly riposted his weapon and eyed the next closest bandit.
“But there are others who can. Last chance.”
“Kill him!” The scarred figure yelled as he charged.
The surviving bandits likewise rushed forward, only to stop in their tracks when a giant figure skidded to a thunderous landing behind the Forester-a gigantic 25-foot dragon, wings still half furled from flight, its mighty horned head leading down to a vicious smile that revealed dozens of knife-like teeth. For a split-second time seemed to stop; the bandits all frozen in awe at the sight of this new instrument of death, the Forester figure stopping to smile, the dragon inhaling in a breath of air. Then the second passed. Awe immediately turned into fear, as the brigands all dropped their weapons, turned around and began fleeing back down the road.
“The Guardian!”
“Run!”
“Mercy!”
Looking up, the Forester’s hood fell to his shoulders, revealing a determined, Volscian face with a bearded chin. As Logan Durham calmly wiped the blood from his blade, Meratezatgh threw out a ball of fire, incinerating the slowest two individuals. Without pausing the dragon lunged forward, rustling Logans’ cloak as he stormed past. After briefly watching Mera tear into the retreating bandits, Logan shrugged and leisurely followed in pursuit.
***
Throughout the morning bursts of flame and the sound of screams echoed in the mists around Stanton. By the time the sun appeared out of the haze an hour later, all of the would-be raiders were gone, leaving only blood, torn pieces of flesh or bone or charcoal. The dragon had likewise disappeared, as did the Forester.
Another figure soon appeared, walking through this smoking, bloody battlefield, an individual with a thin Normadic face with sharp cheekbones and a well-groomed mustache. De Trobliand calmly took a deep draw of his pipe, blowing out a ring of smoke as he silently walked among the charred and bloody remains, searching for any information from what was left.
Nothing. The dragon had been quite thorough in his destruction.
Finally, after an hour of casual searching, the Normad found something interesting: one unfortunate individual had been shredded apart by the dragon’s claws, leaving a tangled mess below, but his upper torso complete. De Trobliand went down on his knees and began rifling through the coat pocket of the deceased. Coins, knives, reward papers ... then a large pamphlet, torn and stained and slightly singed through its recent ordeal. The Normad unfurled the parchment and read the blood-stained leaflet from under the sunlight. He frowned.
Men of the South!
The Time of War is upon us! For too long your leaders have meddled in the North, sending up your colonists to our territories, desecrating our ancestral tombs and monopolizing the trade in foodstuffs and steel. Nalbin rightfully belongs to the Tassure Empire, the rulers of the first race. It is time that the Trasgu sweep aside the decadent, usurping and corrupt Auxian kings. All true friends should stay out of the fight between the righteous Vespers and the agents of evil. Tassure Prevails!
-King Baldwin Vesper
De Trobliand pocketed the pamphlet and looked to the north. Clouds were already gathering on the edge of the horizon. The light had just come, but another storm was approaching.
The Normad took a deep puff of smoke.
Brad Fiedel– The Terminator Theme
From https://x.com/CVamperoo/!
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Western Dragon
Size 2355 x 1565px
File Size 4.19 MB
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