Dragons, for all their luster and reputation, are often elusive creatures. Never the most numerous of species, these ancient beasts have become rarer and rarer sights as the kingdoms of humanity have spread across the planet. They've taken all their accumulated wealth and knowledge and vanished into the deep places of the world. Reports, legends and hearsay really, say the great drakes of old dwell beneath the ocean depths, in the burning hearts of volcanoes, and in the frozen wastes at the edges of the map.

Despite their reclusiveness, the more learned among spellcasters believe dragons still keep watch over humanity, observing us in our folly, and that it is not impossible to seek counsel from these wise beings. Uncommon, but not impossible. Finding a dragon though, would take a person of skilled magic and strong dedication. Rorik Stormcoast was such a person.

Hand over hand; he undertook the arduous climb up Queltain's highest peak, the Thorn, named for its crooked shape. Many would balk at summiting a mountain this tall, fewer so free climbing it, but Rorik would not back down from the challenge. Not when so grand a reward waited at the end.

The wind was not as harsh as he expected at this height, causing the ends of his white scarf to billow only a bit. The handholds in the rock face were good as well. While the climb proceeded better than anticipated, Rorik did not let the ease of his ascent relax him. It only meant the challenges ahead would be all the tougher.

Finally, the sorcerer reached a plateau and dragged himself over its lip. He ran a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat and a few errant white locks. Climbing in his cuirass may have been exhausting, but nowhere near as exhausting as attempting this quest without it would be. The armor served as his talisman, his tool for casting spells. And a sorcerer that could not cast spells was no sorcerer.

Fog cloaked the rocks this high up the mountain. Peering into the mist, Rorik spied a relatively clear path winding upward. After allowing himself a single drink of water and a moment of rest, he pressed on. A dragon waited for him at the Thorn's summit.

He wrapped his scarf a bit tighter against the cold.

"Brrr. This dragon must breathe fire. How else could he keep warm in such a place?"

The comment was a jest only for himself. He had no idea if the old lizard he sought breathed fire or not. Indeed, he had deciphered precious little information about his quarry beyond a name: Rainheart.

Though it likely saw few visitors, the path Rorik now trod appeared well maintained. Neither rough nor rocky, he wondered if Rainheart prepared this way for any would-be seekers. A question he would have to ask the great drake. The sorcerer's idle thoughts did not last long, for through the fog he spotted a most unusual sight, another traveler.

Raising one lanky arm, he called out, "Hello! You there!"

The fellow heard his cry and came forward. Stepping out from the haze, their appearance made their being this far up a tall mountain all the odder. Rorik's new companion was a child, a silver-haired adolescent with androgynous features. Their attire made determining their gender no clearer. The sorcerer had never seen such clothes, armor made of woven stainless metal strips rather than plates over a loose silk tunic and black tights, with a blue cape draped over their shoulders. But oddest of all was the youth's lack of shoes. The Thorn was the last place Rorik expected to find someone dressed like this.

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He cleared his throat to disguise his surprise.

"Greetings, traveler."

"And greetings to you." His compatriot's voice hid their gender as well as their clothes.

"May I ask young one, what are you doing in such inhospitable climes as these by yourself?"

"I could ask you the same question sir."

Rorik let out a chuckle. His fellow climber had spirit. He decided to indulge them.

"Indeed, you could. Very well, know then that I am the court magus to Governor Holyoke of Daima Prefecture. The renowned Rorik Stormcoast!"

With up thrown arms, sparks shot from Rorik's hands to punctuate his pronouncement, popping with a cheer above his head. A theatrical pose added further emphasis.

The strange adolescent responded with a blank face.

He prodded harder. "Rorik Stormcoast? Hero of the Battle of Black Dog's Hill? Leader of the 12 warriors who slew the Weirding Wyrm? Second Place finisher of last year's Cadian Gauntlet?"

His companion shrugged.

"No? Well, you'll know my legend soon enough. For I am climbing the Thorn to seek Rainheart and learn his wisdom, if he'll have me. And yourself, my young friend?"

"The same as you, sir Rorik. My father is ahead, seeking the dragon as well. He left me behind to keep me safe from any dangers he might encounter. I am called Nokorin."

Rorik glanced up the path a ways, the mist now clearing, but spotted no immediate need of caution. Still, if Nokorin's father deemed it prudent, he steeled himself for any trouble. The sorcerer sensed he and the man were quite alike.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Nokorin."

He offered the youth his hand to shake, but it took them a moment to understand the gesture. Daintily, they gripped his outstretched hand and waggled it a little. From their reaction and garb, Rorik judged them to be a foreigner to Queltain.

"Has your father been gone long?"

"Several hours, at least," they answered.

"Hmmm..."

Rorik rubbed his chin through his scarf, considering. The youth's father may have reached Rainheart already, or the man might be lying in a crevasse somewhere. Sad to say, the latter option struck him as more probable. He might have sensed some camaraderie with the man, but he doubted another would reap the same success as he.

For their part, Nokorin appeared none too concerned about their father's welfare. Perhaps they just possessed a child's faith in their parent. Nevertheless, he could not simply leave a defenseless child alone in this place.

"Nokorin, why don't you accompany me to the dragon's lair? Save your father the trouble of coming back for you."

Unfazed by the offer, the sorcerer's new companion gave a slight shrug. "If you wish."

"Um, excellent then."

The youth led the way, striding up the path with an almost regal bearing. As though the two of them happened to be going in the same direction, not traveling together. Rorik scratched his head in puzzlement at this foreign adolescent.

As they wound up the serpentine mountain road, Nokorin broke the silence.

"May I ask you a question, sir Rorik?"

"Of course. I am a man of extensive learning, a sorcerer after all, so I likely have an answer."

"My question exactly. You are already a master of the arcane arts, and apparently possessed of many accomplishments. Why seek the dragon then? Is there really more wisdom you can learn from him?"

Rorik held up his index finger. "Ah, that is your first mistake, my young friend. There is always more to learn." He smiled behind his scarf and with his eyes.

The youth merely raised a single eyebrow. Seeing them feed his answer into the machinery of their mind, Rorik found himself anticipating their response.

It came. "Hmm."

The sorcerer admitted some disappointment to himself, but it vanished when he glimpsed his companion's feet.

"Where are my manners? Your feet must be in agony from walking without shoes on ground like this. Here." He knelt and cupped his hands behind his back. "I will carry you the rest of the way."

This drew genuine surprise from his companion.

"Oh, that is not necessary. I am in no pain," they said.

"Nonsense. I don't care if going barefooted is your custom; you're liable to get cut on the rocks doing so here. Come, I insist."

Nokorin thought it over for a moment before acquiescing.

"This is a very kind gesture, sir Rorik. I shall not forget it."

The sorcerer gave a warm smile, glad of the unexpected company on his quest. "Ready? Let's be off."