HUNGER

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In less than half an hour, she was farther from her home than she'd ever been.

She had turned off the western road just a half kilometer from the Trella's gate, heading south along a creek that was so familiar to her. The sparkle of sunlight over wet stones and the cheerful trill of water as it skipped away from the eastern mountains formed the background of so many of her childhood adventures.

And now, when all the sounds and smells and sights of the creek at the end of her world combined, it all hit her at once. She knew it would, didn't she? But not like this.

The uncertainty of not knowing what, where, and when you'll next eat, sleep, or drink. The constant stress of it, the ever-present awareness that required a whole corner of your mind, conscious and otherwise… a corner that could no longer be used for things like creativity, self-improvement, or empathy. The paranoia of sleeping without shelter, in a world where even small monsters were aggressive and lethal. The unceasing tension of being constantly in danger. Things that were wholly unknown by most settled peoples.

But even as all this flashed through her mind in brilliant clarity, her next footstep did not falter. Nor did the one after.

She thought of her father, and Tessia, and old man Tesmon, and so many others… Would they even be alright? Her father would be devastated. She almost stumbled as her eyes looked inward at a shadowy vision of his grieving form sitting at the table where they'd shared 18 years of meals. And it would be her fault. And Tesmon… and Tessia, who she hadn't said goodbye to—

The thoughts kept coming, and she realized they would never end. She missed them, missed them all already. Maybe… maybe she didn't want them to end. Maybe she looked forward to missing them every day until she saw them again. Because that way she would never forget. Even as she moved forward, always forward.

And now, as she was about to walk past the end of the dwindling creek-side trail, she knew she had to decide—those thoughts couldn't weigh her down if she wanted to keep moving. She was who she was, and no matter how many people she missed, no matter how much she hated why her life had taken this turn, she had no reason to regret the path in front of her.

And so she wouldn't, not ever.

Now her footsteps took her to the very edge of the world that was known to her, her toes touching a thicket of grass beyond which she'd never seen.

Well, this would be it. After all this time…

She doesn't look back. Rather, a certain desire springs up between her lungs like a vernal shoot from thawing snow. After 18 years of a joyful, love-filled life, she feels the desire—the hunger—for a deeper understanding of the world outside her sheltered upbringing. To see things she'd never seen before. Maybe to see things nobody had ever seen before, and to show those things to all the world, that they could know it too. So now, after all this time…

…I'm going on an adventure.

 • • •

Her first attempt to fill a low-level bounty ended in failure. As did the next. After taking light wounds from just a pair of gribbets, she wisely retreated and re-examined her approach. A merchant's life was all she knew… She had never swung a sword before, much less one as big as she was. Rare materials and modern bladesmithing could only do so much—the weapon was heavy, as heavy as everything else she carried combined.

Sitting on a sturdy log eating the last of her rationed meals from Trella, she pondered if there were anything else that would suit her better. She knew that she should have picked an easier weapon to wield, maybe an arming sword and a targe… What did all the real adventurers use? Swords, shields, bows, poleaxes, daggers… the Arcane Arts weren't an option for her, nor were the Divine. But as she looked at the massive greatsword, her greatsword, with the evening sunlight glistening on its dark steel… she could remember the feeling of each swing she had made, the hilt threatening to fly from her grasp with each momentous arc. She felt again each ponderous step and sidestep that she took under its weight, and the load of its worked metal on her hands, on her arms, on her back… she looked at it, and she realized that she liked it.

When she thought back to her earlier encounters she developed a fierce conviction that another weapon wouldn't have been the better path—just the easier one. She needed more strength, stamina, speed, knowledge of the enemy, better reflexes, timing, and more, she could see that so clearly. But most importantly, for just a couple gribbets, she simply needed better awareness, discipline, and tactics. And those were within her reach.

She had nobody to train her, but her determination did not waver, even after she failed the next quest and then the next. But she got better, and she knew it. On the day she forfeited that second quest, the grin that spread from one bunched cheek to the next would last long after she finally fell asleep for the night. She had killed an alglot, a mature one, though small. And it tasted good.

But she soon discovered that there was just little profit in adventuring at this low tier; materials were plentiful and competition fierce. After all, even a farmer with a pitchfork could get a lone gribbet if they were quick enough. Quickly running out of money, she resorted to eating anything she could scavenge, including attempting to cook some of the low-level monsters she managed to kill. She still steered clear of gribbets when she could, but the taste of alglots, garmals, and even surlok became familiar to her. She lived for several months this way, hunting monsters that wouldn't even bring any profit, for the sake of bare survival. For the rest of her life, the sensation of hunger will be one of the things she hates the most.

Luckily for her, she soon encountered a group of friendly but similarly inexperienced adventurers who were willing to party with her. And luckily for the lot of them, the first adventurer guild they came across—still trying to rebuild after the last Crusade—was not only willing to take them in, but had experienced trainers.

For the next few years, based out of that guild in the northern fringes of Manara, she managed to gain considerable worldly experience while maintaining her endless cheerfulness. She would often reminisce about her childhood, much of which was spent exploring the dense forests and creeks surrounding her home. And, just as she wanted, she missed her friends and family day after day. But she found herself well-adapted to her new life, and found a home in the community of the guild and particularly with her new friends. In her heart there was born a burning appetite for adventure, a blazing desire to explore the vast world. She wanted to see how far she could go as an adventurer, and perhaps to help those she encountered along the way.

In just five years, her party of six—including the same adventurers she had met on her way south—were officialized as B-Rank adventurers, the highest most people could expect to achieve without exceptional talent. They knew that none among them were particularly strong or powerful, but as a team, they excelled in most every task they were put to. It was rare, they were told, for a party to like each other so much, to be so cohesive and communicative both in and out of battle. It was rare, and something to be prized.

Between her party, her guildmates, the trainers, and even the guild's administrators, it's a wonder how much good the good-natured people of the world can work, just by doing their jobs well and caring for each other. Not everybody is made to be a hero, nor should they want to be. And living among these many non-heroes, this young woman from Trella truly blossomed. Her strength burgeoned, her spirit blazed, and her determination grew ever fiercer. Perhaps the biggest shame is that none of those people would ever know just how far their kindness and everyday virtue would impact the lives of others. At the very least though, It was apparent that her party had a bright future ahead of them.

But it wouldn't be long before that bright future would be made manifest in fire.

 • • •

In the first season of the one thousand five hundred fifty-seventh Year of Grace, a young dragon descended from the eastern Aldrim not far from the border of Geld and Manara. This event is not included among the records of verified dragon-sightings, despite the indisputable fact that a fair many towns and homesteads were razed without any other plausible explanation. This dragon's name would never be known, its description never to grace that ebony shelf in the venerated Skyfire Sect. The reason being that there was simply nobody left to report it.

But it did have a name.

 • • •

They were on their way back to the guild from a successful quest, taking a lunch at a small inn at a crossroads. They'd had only a few spoonsful of soup when a man ran in, panting and half-dressed. Propping himself against the doorframe, he finally managed to exhale a few intelligible words:

"Dragon…! Th—th' mountains… the village… in flames…!"

The party looked at each other. There was no telling whether this dragon was real, but one thing they could tell: this man's desperation was very real. In between hurried sips of lunch they tried to get the man to give them more information, but even when he calmed he had little else to say. He hadn't seen the dragon—just the fire from the sky.

But what he did manage to say was the name of his village, which was less than a half day away from the nearest town—and the home of the party's Chaplain.

They had already picked up their gear and were ready to leave the inn when the doorway was again blocked by a frantic, panting man.

"D—Dragon…!"

 • • •

Soon they were headed east at a brisk pace, and their pack lotch was unusually nervous, as if it knew they were leading it into unprecedented danger. Even a young dragon, a small one, would be classified as an Extreme-tier threat, requiring three to four parties minimum of the highest available ranking adventurers to combat. They told themselves that the least they could do was verify the threat and be on hand in case other parties would arrive to form an organized offensive.

An organized offensive… They looked at each other, every one of them struggling to believe that there could be any other high-tier adventurers within at least two days' journey. Meaning, it would take that long just to get the warning to them. Here, in the northeastern corner of Manara, there was little more than frontier towns and the stray peddler.

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They couldn't imagine any help arriving. But still they went.

They arrived at the Chaplain's hometown before sunset, mere minutes before the howling streams of fire crashed upon the eastern rooftops. Townsmen rushed out of their houses in confusion and panic. And when they did, the dragon landed upon them, burning and clawing and tearing them, letting none escape. It was tiny, for a dragon, little larger than a baravyrn, fitting snugly within the moderately-sized byroads; but its jaws were still large enough to neatly snap up half a man at once, which it now seemed to delight in doing.

But, within those alleyways, it could not turn. It didn't consider this a problem; there was nothing here that a swipe of the tail couldn't manage. Until six adventurers set upon it at once from every exposed angle. But even then, should it be concerned? There was little in this world that could pierce its mail of golden scales.

And yet, something did. More than one, and more than once. It raged, and roared, and then it commenced a delightful game of cat and mouse, taking to the skies and burning the pesky assailants out of one shelter only to chase them into another. Finally, it turned its baleful blaze upon the last intact structure within a kilometer. With glee it watched the storefront fall in upon itself, ready to relish the taste of its triumph.

But there was nothing inside. At first the dragon was merely bewildered; even its mythically keen senses could detect nothing. And then it was angry. But, for the most part, it had done what it came to accomplish. Snapping up a few more corpses to fuel its need for rampant growth, the dragon swept one more gaze across its brilliant conflagration. Sensing nothing, it took to the sky and fled to a nearby ridge, eager to digest the meal that bloated it from within the comfortable cavern it had spotted there.

Within the submerged stone hollow their Earth Mage had created for them, the adventurers' adrenaline was wearing off all at once. They dared not emerge yet, and came to the unspoken agreement that they would shelter in place for the night. Eventually, the Chaplain gave in to exhaustion and dropped the Divine Veil he'd held around their enclosure—which, incidentally, had blocked the dragon's spirit sight. The Guardian didn't last much longer either, and as the glimmering bubble of his Dauntless Aegis faded into darkness, the adventurers' body heat was once again perceptible by those above. The Earth Mage—with unusual finesse—formed two small tunnels to provide airflow, and they found that their burrow was not without a degree of comfort… the smallest degree of comfort, but enough that it would make all the difference in their outlook in the upcoming day.

In between the weeping of one party member or another, they each were ultimately dragged down into blank-minded sleep.

 • • •

They emerged in the gloomy pre-dawn to the still-smoking cinders of the once-lively town. The Chaplain's grief was spread among them as they looked at the blackened frames and piles of ash, and the scarce remains of the few townspeople who hadn't been fit into the dragon's belly. And, in turn, the Chaplain's will was buoyed by their collective determination. They each had their many private thoughts, staring at the carnage they had lived through. But as a group, a coherent feeling seemed to develop all at once: now was not the time to grieve.

They shared a certain exhilaration as they realized just how much they'd learned from the previous night. The Ranger asked, aren't dragons supposed to be weak to lightning? Then why is this one only weak to ice? Most likely something to do with its golden color, they all agreed. Was it just me, or was the dragon getting sluggish towards the end of the day? mused the Knight. It didn't look tired to me, responded the Earth Mage. But the Guardian was convinced—it wasn't tired, it was full. The Blackguard, the party leader, reported that its underside was indeed its weakest part, as the stories all say, along with its inner upper thighs. And with this dragon being especially young, that skin was notably soft and pliant—comparatively, anyways. Still tougher than anything he'd tried to pierce in his life, by a lot, he had to add.

Taking stock of their experiences, they concluded that they had three attacks among them that could reliably harm the dragon: a fully-charged ice-imbued power shot from the Ranger, if he could successfully hit the dragon's underside when it reared or swiveled; the Blackguard's costly and difficult Driven Shadows attack; and a well-angled, well-placed upwards power thrust by the Knight's prized greatsword, masterwork of the smith Tesmon.

One more thing, they realized—it was unlikely that any wound they inflicted on any single day would carry over to the next. The regenerative properties of a dragon were legendary for a reason. If they wanted to kill or drive off this beast, they would have to do it all in one day.

'Drive off'? the Guardian asked.

…

He received no response. Nor did anyone in the party speak as they gathered up their gear and made their way to the hillside where they'd hidden their supplies, their lotch having predictably broken its restraints and run off in terror the previous evening. By the time they were marching to the next town, still in silence, all of them knew they would be satisfied with nothing less than slaying a gold dragon. And, given the distance it could travel, their one day would have to be today.

They couldn't save that town. Nor the next one. But the dragon still couldn't kill them. No rational person in this world would ever believe that any six adventurers had done battle with a dragon, no matter its size, three times in the space of twenty-four hours… and lived. But they did.

There's nobody alive to tell the tale of the six adventurers who rallied the townsfolk, organizing those willing to fight and evacuating the rest. The first town burned, wholly, to the ground, and every single citizen defender lost their lives within a half hour. But the very last of them, a grizzled old man still mourning his daughters, let out a wheezing chuckle in place of his last breath—his glazing eyes were still watching when the dragon limped before it took to the skies. It could be said that the evacuees too played a vital role, as the time the dragon took to devour them all provided the adventurers with the necessary window of opportunity to make it to the next town.

And by the time that town burned, the dragon Ragnalos was angry. Infuriated. Insulted. And hurt. These lands were so ripe with life energy, and it had awakened at the perfect time… why couldn't it pin down these human thorn-bugs? It would take just a few decades of growth at this rate, and nothing within the Aldrim could stop it. But how could these adventurers disappear like that? More alarmingly, how could they hurt it so reliably?

Compared to its previous form, it felt like an infant. Regardless of its newly-attained golden composition, the pain it felt from the humans' attacks emphasized how weak it was at this stage of its evolution. It was still in a phase of rapid growth in mass and stature, and its body reflected that focus. More flexible skin, less developed scales, all easier for its body to scale up in sheer size. It was still years away from crucial stages of development where its energy could be diverted into maturing and thickening its natural defenses. And so it was all too eager to exploit these undefended frontier lands, consuming as many of these energy-dense humans as it could to accelerate its growth, gorging itself until it could hardly move. This strategy was only encouraged after the first day; its increased size was tangible and measurable, particularly so to a creature with a millennia-long lifespan.

Now swollen with the life energy of two towns worth of bodies, Ragnalos made its way back to the little crack in the cliffside to rest and digest. And it did so with malicious glee—it had formed something of a plan, one it would perfect with a brief morning survey of the lands. It knew just how to deal with humans who seemed intent on defending others.

But the adventurers had no intention of letting it live until morning. The Ranger's Tracking Shot was unerring, and the dragon's cliffside haunt was not too far for their exhausted bodies to reach. They'd fought two battles that day already, and marched as far as they ever had on a single day besides. The Chaplain's strongest spells of refreshment and rejuvenation could only go so far; they'd dropped their supplies to lighten their load just to make it here. But none of them had the space in their consciousness for a single doubt, a single regret. There was exhaustion and fear aplenty though, and they all shared it with each other with nervous gazes. But in each other's eyes they also saw the mirrors of their own determination, and after just a few minutes of quiet planning, they marched unflinchingly toward the cave in familiar formation.

 • • •

The bards have penned a multitude of songs about mankind's battles with dragons, many of them needlessly embellished. But simply looking at that cave from outside, one could watch one of those songs take place on the stones of its time-smoothed mouth, painted by the flames of a sorely wounded dragon and the silhouettes of six people—perhaps among the most valiant of this world.

Seconds after they entered the cave, the crashing of collapsing stone signaled the initial success of their plan and the beginning of combat, briefly trapping the dragon's front half before it even awoke. The roaring was immediate and surely deafening to anyone inside. Within a minute, smoke poured out from the ceiling of the cave, slipping upwards into the night clouds. Urgent shouting competed with the dragon's roars, both of them soon outdone by the thunder of more tumbling rock. After ten minutes, the screaming started, outdoing even the tremendous clatter that accompanied the collapse of nearly half the cavern. The screams stopped after three more minutes.

But the roaring continued.

Five more minutes, ten… it was only a growl now, but more vicious and hateful than ever…

Twenty minutes… thirty-five…

Almost a full hour after the fight began, the roaring escalated to a sudden crescendo, then faded back into a growl, a groan, and finally a sniveling whimper. And then it ceased for all eternity.

The smoke drifting from the cave was replaced by a trickle of steam—the steam from a dragon's boiling lifeblood.

Some time later, anyone still watching the now-quiet drama on the mouth of the cave would see a figure emerge, darker than the night-lit rock, steaming and as unrecognizable as the charred corpse they carried. The figure began to dig a hole in the soft parts of the earth just beyond the mouth of the cave, slowly and painfully, using mostly the snapped-off half of a shield as a shovel. Burdened by hunger, exhaustion, and injury, all unbearable, they rested often on the hard soil, lying as if dead for a time… But they never gave up digging. Hunger, hurt, weariness, hunger… But before dawn, the hole was just deep enough to cover the broken body of the party's leader.

The figure would then turn back to the black maw of that burned-out cavern. It stumbled over each and every loose stone and craggy ledge as it scuffled into the still-steaming dark. Over the next hour, the steam drifting from that darkness only increased, wafting gently from the cavern floor as it was flooded with spilt dragon-blood… A lot of it.

All of it.

A full rest later, the blood within the cave was only just beginning to cool. It dripped like viscous acid from the next human-shaped mass of char the figure carried out of that red-painted cavern. And they began to dig, one shallow hole and then the next…

It would take all of the next two days, but at their end, five neatly piled totems of stones would mark the resting places of five noble souls.

The figure would rest another day inside their gore-strewn lair before shouldering as much useful gear as they could carry and trudging aimlessly out from the shadows of the cave. Unwashed, blackened with cruor and char, and hardly recognizable as human, they kept walking—heading straight, always straight. The cave facing southeast, this figure would eventually find themselves in the shadowy Greenfells, where they would spend a few peaceful and recuperative months in the untouched depths of that ancient forest before leaving southwards again.

Seemingly by chance, they arrived in the kingdom of Tavar just as the last of the doomed Third Crusade was about to march. The Crusade's need for manpower was so great that neither the new arrival's motives nor their fighting ability were questioned before they were assigned to the rearmost battalion, one of the few that would escape the Cost.

In just two weeks, the Crusade would end. For the third time in fifty years, the remaining nations of the known world lost a full fifth of their able-bodied populations. But that figure survived that gruesome day. They would save many lives and meet many people, who would then in turn live to save more lives. And then that ever-bloodied, ever-burning figure—armed with that gift from the noble-hearted Tesmon—would continue to live, and continue to meet new people, and continue to save lives.

And in just two more years, they would become known across the entire modern world as—

Brimrose, the Blazing Maiden.