A whelp, that’s what I slew. It’s good to know I can still defend myself. Now, what was a dragon whelp doing down here? They don’t venture far from their nests. If the worst has happened, the dragon has laid eggs somewhere, and that’s was why the wing was closed. And if this is true, I must press onward. But I fear. This dragon, in itself, with the skin peeled up in parts, with the ribs being conspicuous even if it seemed energetic enough to be well fed, with the teeth so sharp and the eyes so full of fire… he looks like he had come out of hell itself. If a hatchery awaits, I could find a dozen or a score like him, all of them anxious for their first non-fraternal kill.
But that’s no reason to lose hope: I hear distant wailings through the walls. They have echoes in them, and the muffled sound is sure to come from afar.
The fog of madness will come back to cloud my judgement away soon, and I am eating though my mana by casting these sigils. I cannot afford to use them to constantly lure away the insanity. It’s a disgrace, I have grown weak during my time here. A tragedy, not because I am a madman—many people are, some from ill, some from grief, some from vice—but because I am aware of such madness and there is nothing I can do to permanently fend it off. It lingers, it lurks, it stalks, every waking moment, I know I will fall back. Back into a state whose cooperation is not guaranteed, back into a prison made of myself, back into complacence with my own destruction and, furthermore, of everything I once stood for. And it isn’t worse only because the dragon is not inherently evil, no, it would be unfair on my part to call it so. A dragon owes humanity no existence, a dragon owes humanity no loyalty, a dragon owes humanity no honor nor traditional goodness. If to someone at all, dragons owe their peers these things, and my enemy, the one I hate, is offering them just so. What they do with magic, I consider vile, but I haven’t seen them doing so to other dragons. What we do to them with swords and spells, they consider vile, and don’t we do it to other men?
Misunderstand me not, I hate my captor with my guts and whatever may remain of my soul, like I would hate a dengue-carrying mosquito that stings me, without necessarily considering it evil.
It’s the madman turn to be in charge now. Pawn, kill any puppy you encounter, our life depends on it.
“Kill any puppy you encounter,” said the completely non-evil Sir Namesake. I won’t comply, sir, unless the puppies attack me first. They belong to the Lady, and their murder can lead to righteous punishment.
Look at them glance from the sides of the gallery. From the balconies as I passed by, from behind columns as we advance. The puppies love us, Jilly. I keep wading forward, taking little rests to write and recover my breath.
The fingers also inhabit here, mocking the puppies as they mock me. One cannot say they are unfair. The singsong of the maiden is getting closer and closer. Soon I will arrive in her chamber, I think I can spot the doors in the distance. I can’t fathom how many builders must have been needed to erect the palace. It seems to span kilometers, and the lady reigns over each and every millimeter.
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I am getting thirsty; I should have brought some wine. Yet, considering my feet are wet, maybe I can drink the water that floods the room. A small sip ought to be safe,ll more so if I place a purification sigil right underneath. From somewhere, I know the sigil’s patter, it is crystal clear on my mind.
I will draw the sigil with Jilly. The puppies like seeing her unsheathed. They want to play fetch with it, I bet. So cute, they are. Not like the dogs, these ones don’t have more hands than they should. I reckon they belong to a different breed. Something in the way they wag the tai tells me they may not be retrievers.
I feel the soothing presence of the Lady approaching. I must make haste if I want to see the maiden.
I am surrounded by whelps. Hungry, with eyes of any and all colors that shine in the murk of this flooded cavern. Some of them decided to attack and got decapitated or their heart pierced, the ones that remain alive seem wary. Call it natural selection, if you will.
The wailing Maiden is beyond the wall of flesh. My hand trembles when I try to rise Jillsenbane. I think I should not do this as long as my sanity lingers. Whatever lies at the other side could be either just another minor horror, or the one to sap my hope away. If I cross the sphincter while my eyes see reality, I may have no option but to face the dragon. Come back, madness, this disgraced man misses your gifts sometimes.
The gates didn’t come down easy, but Jilly is sharper than any rebellious and tasty door. The wood was filled with liters and liters of immature wine. Hacking at it was a boring, repetitive task that could have been made easier with the cooperation of the puppies. They, however, kept their distance, getting closer solely to snarl at Jilly.
Across the doors the light was blinding, as sunlight rained from the windows high above, illuminating the crucified maiden, revealing her numerous ivory wings clad in feathers that served as nests for the budding puppies. She looked at me with eyes so tired, with blonde hair overly long framing her face but never getting in the way of her stare. The room smelled sandpapery.
I crawled to her ribbons, that like the water of a fountain sprouted from her waist and fell down, waving, billowing.
“You don a visage like that of a finely aged traitor, little one,” she sobbed.
“Yes, yes I do, Maiden. I came here to ask you for a favor. Empty handed, I am afraid.”
One of the pups hanging from her wings emerged from his chrysalis of translucent feathers and fell down on the palace floor. He whined only a little before getting on its feet-, what a good dog.
“I have only need for nothing. There’s no gift you can give that would please me.”
She fluttered her wings, and a veil of feathers slowly descended over the room, over the puppies, over me.
“But could you grant me what I wish for? Can your… rather familiar sword give me nothingness? Can it lay me to rest? Is that Jillsenbane? Have you come back for me, Francisco, dear, traitor?”
“Francisco? Yes, that is my name, but I am no finely aged traitor. What’s yours?”
“I forget it often, but in this instant, in this, our long awaited rendezvous, you may, if only once more, call me Abeline.”