20 years prior:
A vicious swipe of the dragon’s serrated tail slashed across Gareth’s torso, knocking the spellsword back with a spray of blood.
It had taken the trio of senior adventurer’s just under two weeks to track the ruby scaled beast, and they had finally confronted it on the slippery surface of the outflow of a glacier at the southern tip of the northern mountains.
As Gareth skidded across the ice, Dorian cursed, ducking and rolling just in time to evade another swipe of the dragon’s enormous tail. They had been so focused on avoiding the beast’s incinerating solar flames that they had neglected to give proper consideration to its brutal melee capabilities.
Fortunately, Dorian was in his element — quite literally, as the glacier made a perfect playground for his [Fabled Ice Affinity].
Activating [Elemental Manipulation] and linking it with the damaging ailment [Chill], the elemental summoner burned his entire mana pool by combining it with the empowering skill [Overdrive] to cause a colossal spike of ice to erupt from the ground below the dragon’s scaly belly.
The jagged, thrusting spear penetrated deep into the beast’s flesh. Moments later, a flare of brilliant vaporized the spike and turned the ground into a steaming puddle — but it had been just enough time for Dorian to regain his footing and retreat out of striking range.
After collapsing slightly, the ruby scaled dragon staggered to its feet. Breathing hard, the adventurer prepared to dodge again — but instead of a slash from its tail or claws, the beast flapped its enormous leathery wings — now partially shredded — and took off in a gust of wind.
Cursing once more, Dorian used [Summon Elements] to conjure a whirlwind of razor sharp ice crystals — but his mana had barely recovered, and he was only able to scratch the dragon before it ascended out of reach.
The adventurer desperately fumbled for a mana potion in order to prepare to counteract the coming onslaught of solar wrath — but instead of attacking, the beast began flying northward, following the glacier upstream between the rocky cliffs rising on either side.
Keeping one eye on the sky, Dorian rushed over to where Gareth lay in a puddle of his own blood, the crimson splash contrasting sharply with the brilliant white snow. Marian had reached him first, and the healer was already attending to him.
“He may not make it,” she cried out, her admirably calm voice echoing between the rock faces.
Skidding to a stop, just a few paces away, Dorian rested his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths. Standing up straight, he tossed the now empty glass vial to the side. His mana had recovered nearly halfway, and was continuing to regenerate at an artificially increased rate.
“Let me help,” he said as he searched in the small leather pouch strapped to his waist, “I still have the legendary life elixir.”
Marian shook her head violently as he finally retrieved a small, dark crimson syringe. “No. You need to go. Finish this.”
Dorian clenched his jaw. The pool of blood was growing, and the spellsword’s complexion was turning deathly pale, even as the healer worked to stitch his torn flesh back together.
“He’s fucking dying, Marian.”
The healer spared him a brief glance. “And even more people will die if you don’t finish this now.”
The adventurer licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, you’re right. But at least take the elixir.”
She shook her head again. “No. You might need it. Now go.”
Dorian sucked in a breath. Turning around to face north, he scanned the sky ahead. The dragon had disappeared from sight. Frowning, he returned the crimson syringe to his pouch and retrieved a clear flask — a flight potion.
The utility flask had been a significant investment in both time and resources — the system significantly limited flight capabilities for classes which didn’t support it, which was most of them — but he would have to hope that it would pay off now.
Popping off the cork, he downed it in one motion.
Temporary Skill Activated: [Flight] Level 10
Duration: 3 minutes
Steadying himself, the alchemist activated the skill. He rocketed into the air instantly, and his mana began draining again at an alarming pace.
He doubted he would be able to sustain the skill for the entire three minutes — he would have to find the beast quickly.
It only took several seconds for him to pass above the rocky cliff faces. With no better guess, he decided to fly straight north. Pushing the skill to its limit, he darted between the snow capped peaks at blinding speed. The frosty wind nipped at his nose, eyes, and ears, and caused his ragged and torn cloak to billow and flap.
Catching sight of a spurt of flame in the corner of his vision, Dorian whirled around the side of a jagged peak and descended towards a small, dark cave opening. When he landed, his mana pool was almost completely depleted again.
The cave entrance was supported by a small, slippery ledge that extended several dozen paces to either side. Leaning against the side of the mountain, the adventurer took a minute to catch his breath and steady himself, as well as to let some more of his mana to regenerate. He didn’t have any more mana potions.
Deciding that he could wait no longer, Dorian cautiously skirted the ledge up to the cave entrance and set foot inside — and immediately slipped down a steep slope into the all consuming darkness within.
He didn’t attempt to slow his descent as he slid down the icy slope, instead focusing on keeping his orientation controlled.
After a perilous several seconds that felt far longer, he hit a level surface — hard. Physically wincing at the shock to his butt and spine, the adventurer grit his teeth and felt around in his jacket for an enchanted artificial torch.
Flicking it on, he came face to fang with an enormous toothy maw.
Dorian froze.
The dragon was right in front of him — he could feel the warmth of its breath, and the pale light of the torch reflected off of its one good eye.
The other had been reduced to a bloody mess.
He held his breath and braced himself for the onslaught of fire and fangs that was sure to arrive — but it never did. The dragon held his gaze without so much as curling a claw.
Finally, it’s jaw parted. “You aren’t attacking.”
Dorian blinked. The beast’s voice was deep and gritty, sharp but not piercing. The adventurer had heard legends that Dragon’s could speak human languages, but he was still surprised. Regaining his composure, he licked his lips and resisted the urge to wipe a sudden sweat off of his dampened brow.
“You aren’t attacking either.”
The dragon snorted — a wheezing, wet sort of sound. Its breath felt cooler now. “There is — no point.” It paused. “I am dying. Your chill has reached my heart core.”
Furrowing his brow, Dorian tried to make sense of the beast’s words. “And yet you attacked us just moments ago. You even eviscerated my companion.”
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Shifting slightly, the dragon took a moment to respond. “Your party has been actively pursuing me for some time now. At that point, I thought that I still — had a chance at freedom.” The beast’s words sounded physically pained. “But now — now there is no reason for any more death.”
The adventurer shook his head. “I don’t understand. Freedom from what?”
Resting its head on its front legs, the dragon wheezed a sigh. “The Westerlands are… inhospitable.” It paused for a long moment. “Arishi told me that I could find a better habitat on the eastern coast.”
Puzzled, Dorian remained silent for a moment. Why would the god of Nature do such a thing?
He made a sudden decision. As the dragon shut its one remaining eye and heaved another sigh, the alchemist retrieved the life elixir from his pouch. Standing up slowly, he crept forward. He was no healer, but perhaps the elixir would be potent enough even for a creature as large as the dragon.
Level Up!
[Elemental Summoner 61] -> [Elemental Summoner 62]!
+3 Defense, +4 Power, +5 Finesse
Dorian froze. The syringe slipped from between his trembling fingers. He suddenly felt ill, and it wasn’t from the onset of potion sickness.
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“I pronounce you Lord Dorian Skeil Winterborn.”
The crowd cheered at the priestess’s words, and Dorian slowly rose to his feet. The ceremony was taking place at the foot of the steps up to Verdanport’s largest temple. It was a public affair, and onlookers spectated from either side of the lush carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion.
The priestess stepped aside, and an acolyte brought forth a plush velvet cushion bearing a brilliantly gleaming, ornate silver dagger. The ceremonial weapon had been commissioned by a new friend of Dorian’s — a weaponsmith named Remus who had recently opened his own practice.
Gingerly lifting the dagger, Dorian gave a slight bow, before turning around to face the crowd. With one swift motion, he thrust the dagger up to the sky, to renewed cheers and applause. He forced a grin.
Truth be told, his heart wasn’t in it, and he was merely going through the motions — but it would be unbecoming to show such feelings as publicly as this.
He bowed again — this time deeper — and then turned back around to face the temple. The young acolyte stepped aside, and the priestess smiled. After glancing around one more time, Dorian passed between them and made his way up the steps to the wide open temple doors.
The interior of the temple was simple yet beautiful. Multicolored light streamed in from the tall, narrow windows, filtered through the vibrant stained glass. Simple cushions dotted the stone floor, and an unadorned, polished marble altar occupied the front center.
The only other features were freestanding metal statues of the major gods and a sparse assortment of mundane candles — along with two familiar people.
“So how does it feel to be a member of the nobility, Lord Skeil,” Marian asked as she closed the distance between them.
“I remain myself, my Lady,” he replied. “Perhaps I was always destined to be ordained by the gods.”
The two friends shared a look before bursting out into raucous laughter. “My, such vicious mockery must surely be hitherto unheard of in the house of the gods!” She exclaimed in false shock, her voice taking on the affectation of a scandalized nobleborn woman.
“Yes, well, I’ll be sure to remember you as the last of us to achieve noble status,” Gareth butted in. The spellsword had nearly fully recovered by now, though he was still advised to not exert himself physically for another week. “Even if it was only by two days.”
“You might call it an unfortunate consequence of them saving the best for last,” he said as he casually straightened his coat sleeves. Marian rolled her eyes, and Gareth scoffed.
“Anyway,” the spellsword continued, “I rented out the entirety of the Siren’s Call tavern. We have it to ourselves for the entire rest of the day and night — though I do suggest we perhaps open it up on an invite only basis at some point…”
Dorian nodded. “I’ll be sure to attend — but I need to see the branch leader back at the guild first.”
Gareth frowned, and Marian snorted. “Really?” She put her hands on her hips. “Leave it to you to get your day as the hero of the kingdom and still get reprimanded.”
“It’s not my fault he hates me,” Dorian protested, at which the healer rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’m not in trouble this time.”
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As Dorian walked through the sunny streets of the mercantile district, he idly fidgeted with the ceremonial dagger. It was surprisingly sharp — he had actually cut himself with it back in the temple, though fortunately Marian was there to heal it.
Slipping it into its attached leather sheath, he slipped it into his coat pocket and took out a single ruby red scale.
Rubbing it between his fingers, he though back to the conversation with the dragon in the cave. He had taken the scale not as a trophy, but as a token of memory.
Entering the adventurer’s guild complex, he returned the scale back to his pocket and made his way past the front desk towards the branch leader’s private office. The gray uniformed clerk gave him a brief acknowledgement in the form of a curt nod and a small wave.
Upon reaching the plain, unpolished door that marked the branch leader’s office, Dorian straightened his posture and knocked twice on the frame.
Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open to reveal the visage of a white bearded old man. The two men met each other’s gaze in silence for a moment, until the weary old arcanist finally spoke. “Lord Skeil, I suppose it is now.”
Dorian nodded politely. “Yes sir.”
The branch leader nodded quickly to himself. “Come with me. I feel I need some open air.”
He shut the door behind him and began walking towards the nearest exit to the central courtyard. Dorian followed him in silence. As they approached the exit, Dorian’s ears picked up the sound of angry ranting.
“I fucking swear, when I find out who took me off the team… I mean God! I should have been the one to slay the fucking dragon! Do you have any idea how much faster my career would progress?”
Unfortunately, Dorian knew who it was before he even caught sight of the worldwalker — Kenneth. As he and the branch leader stepped into the courtyard, Kenneth fell silent. Dorian didn’t even spare him so much as a glance.
The branch leader spoke first. “Would the two of you please give us a moment of privacy?” Kenneth and his companion nodded and turned to leave. The old arcanist snorted and leaned in to whisper. “You do realize he will find out eventually, yes?”
Dorian shrugged. “Someone had to do it. You and I both know it was too risky to have him face an adult dragon at this stage.” He sighed. “And there’s no doubt that he will eventually get his time in the sun.”
The branch leader shook his head. “You know that I don’t like you.” Dorian remained silent — he didn’t know what to say to that. “But that sort of selfless pragmatism is admirable.”
“Thank you sir,” Dorian replied, bowing slightly.
“And despite your transgressions, you’re a damn fine adventurer.” The old man paused. “I’m old. And tired. Very tired.” He stared at the alchemist intently. “So I’ve decided to nominate you as my replacement.”
Blinking, Dorian took a moment to get over his initial surprise. “I’m honored, sir,” he managed. “But I must confess I intend to resign from the guild entirely.”
It was the branch leader’s turn to show surprise. “That is… unfortunate,” he said.
“I intend to take up enchanting and open a business,” Dorian continued. “And if my opinion means anything to you, I suggest that you nominate Warden Young in my place. I can’t think of another potential candidate as reasonable and level headed as Mister Young.”
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Mid morning sunlight streamed into the barren shop, striking the newly installed marble countertop with a blinding brilliance. Dorian leaned against it, taking a break from unpacking the wooden crates of freshly shipped supplies and equipment.
Money continued to flow in as parties of adventurer’s scoured the land for deposits of the dragon’s treasure using fragments of its heart core. So much, in fact, that the alchemist and novice enchanter could easily forgo working another day in his life — but that wouldn’t suit him.
No, Dorian still wanted to contribute to the Kingdom — only now, he would support the economy and provide goods and services instead of fighting monsters.
It would still be uncertain whether the venture would be successful for another year or so, but he was tentatively optimistic.
As he was about to return to unpacking, someone knocked sharply three times at the door. Dorian frowned. He wasn’t expecting another delivery for another five hours.
The young woman at the door wore a blue courier’s uniform with gold trim — marking her as affiliated with the Crown. Dorian wondered what her business here was.
“I have a message for Lord Dorian Skeil Winterborn,” she said as he opened the door. “Would that be you, sir?”
“Indeed,” Dorian confirmed, and she presented him with a thick navy blue envelope. Taking it, Dorian retrieved a silver fountain pen from his coat pocket. “I presume I need to sign for it?”
“Yes Sir.”
As he signed the miniature form she presented to him, he spoke again. “Did you come all the way from the Capital?”
“Yes Sir, this message is direct from His Majesty’s Court at Nordington.” She paused as he handed her back the form. “Whatever it is, it must be pretty important.”
Dorian had to agree. He hadn’t been expecting anything like this. “If you’re delivering royal correspondence, you must be excelling in your career.”
“Thank you Sir! I’m actually training to be a licensed mercenary, but I’m still leveling well while making ordinary deliveries.”
Dorian nodded. It was well known that the courier class was extremely effective in combat applications — so much so, that their rates for ordinary deliveries were almost exorbitantly high in order to compete.
Dorian thanked her, and she departed in a burst of wind.
Returning to the interior of the shop, he retrieved the dagger he had received several months ago at the ceremony from on top of one of the crates. He had been using it to cut through the packaging rope and to pry open the lids.
Slicing open the envelope, he pulled out the pale blue sheaf inside and unfolded it.
To the Esteemed Lord Skeil:
The office of the Head Oracle to King Anderson kindly thanks you and your associates for your efforts in promoting the safety and wellbeing of the Kingdom and Her people.
In addition to the honors and benefits hitherto bestowed, let it be known that you, Lord Dorian Skeil Winterborn, are henceforth a member of the King’s Favored, with all of the entitlements thereof. Please contact the Department of Royal Affairs if you wish to make your appointment public.
Furthermore, the Head Oracle wishes it to be known that Arishi, God of Nature, thanks you for your initiative in your campaign. Had you not departed as early as you did, He would likely not have been able to lure the beast into your path in time.
Finally, let it be known that the Kingdom wishes —
The dagger slipped from his frozen fingers and clattered to the floor.