Wyldewood was not the sort of place that anyone visited expecting adventure, or even drama for that matter. Only the Hound & Tooth, the local public house, experienced any of the latter, and only infrequently. There was a certain expectation in the village, understood even by passers-by, that this was a place of peace where generous meals and fireside chats thawed even the coldest of hearts and brought them 'round to understanding. In fact, the Kingdom of Westmoria as a whole could be said to be an outlier in a world all-too-frequently engaged in violence of one sort or another. Even crime, though it existed even in such a peaceful land, was a rarity.
From Dawnhaven in the east to the terraced farms of Eldergrove, which sat on the slopes of Mount Thorn on the western border, Westmoria was a land of civility and kinship. Nestled between the warring nations of Highmoria and Rül the mountain ranges that ringed its borders had always provided a natural barrier that spared it from becoming entangled in such nasty business. It was also, save for the lands of the Ahn, which lied far to the east and across the sea, said to be the only place on Asteron free of the black. There was no dark magic in Westmoria, at least not within the living memory of at least three or four generations.
Situated in a valley between rolling hills the village of Wyldewood had no shortage of natural resources, nor natural beauty. A crystal-clear, albeit small and slow moving, river wound its way through the village and under the many charming wooden bridges that had been built over it. On all sides it was flanked by a verdant forest that climbed the slopes of the surrounding mountains until it met rock and could go no further. The town's chief export was timber, but it was far more renowned for its hospitality; not that it was ever flooded with visitors at any one time. It did serve as a waypoint for a steady stream of travelers though. During the day the busiest men in the village were the brewer and the baker. Both of them coming to rest at the end of the day, sitting upon the brewer's porch and sharing the fruits of their labors, as old friends did.
Once night fell however, the mantle, that of busiest folks in the village, fell to the tavern owner and his wife. He was a soft-spoken man who enjoyed hard work but had little skill in playing host. Thankfully for his business what he lacked in charm his wife made up for in abundance. A plump woman, in stark contrast to the bony frame of her husband, she was a boisterous and welcoming woman, albeit frequently drunk. It was true a blessing that no villagers had built their homes within earshot of the tavern, for more so than her patrons Emira could be heard laughing or encouraging others to sing along with her at all hours of the night. No one faulted her for her exuberance however, for Wyldewood was not such a place. It was clear to all that she and her husband liked bringing joy, as well as full bellies and the fuzzy warmth of strong drink, into the lives of locals and passers-through alike.
The warm light and sound of laughter spilling from the tavern's interior welcomed all on cold nights, as did the smell of freshly cooked food. It was on a notably cold night near the end of autumn that Aethon Faehr and his adopted brother and his closest friend, Orik, strode into the establishment. Both were terribly hungry and thirsted for strong drink after a long work day of felling timber. The two remarked to one another as they entered that it sounded like a particularly raucous evening. They hung their no-longer-necessary coats, for the tavern was bathed in warmth from its fire as well as the heat of bodies. They looked around and noted that it was indeed much more busy than usual. That was quite a feat for an already popular establishment.
It appeared as if several bands of travelers were passing through at the same time and that many of the regulars from the village had also come out to greet them and share stories. Local gossip was never in short supply for sure, but news of happenings in faraway lands was an even more prized commodity. Few would miss the opportunity to hear it. The inn was quite a sight to see. The entire place hummed with an energy that could nearly be felt in the bones.
In one corner sat a group of durgs playing cards. Their style of dress indicated that they'd come down from a hold in the eastern mountains. Some pounded the table, demanding more drink, while others laughed heartily in the peculiar braying way that durgs laughed. Another group, this one composed of bird-like Pyrn, their long feathers sun-bleached and tattered from hard lives at sea, looked as though they were having some kind of drinking competition. In the center of the room men were crowded around the table of a large man who was sloshing a mug about in the air and singing loudly. He gave off the air of a knight. At the bar a lady furling was spinning and rocking side-to-side on her stool in time with the song. The mug she held was half her size and by the glassy look in her eyes Aethon reckoned it hadn’t been her first.
A couple of fae’ri flitted about next to her occasionally stopping to take sips from their mugs. Aethon mused that it must be very cheap for fae’ri folk to get properly drunk. Even a single mug would easily last them the entire night. Leaned up against the back wall, drooling and passed out, was a bog ork with a dozen or so empty mugs on his table. At yet another table a group of halfkins had apparently, by the truly heroic pile of dishes in front of them, eaten nearly everything in the inn. They sat, smiling and swaying to the song, their bellies so full that most had unbuttoned their trousers. Aethon caught Orik stealing glances at the durgs as they passed their table. He'd lived in Wyldewood since Aethon's father found him wandering alone in the forest as a small pup and he'd never spent any meaningful time with his own kind. Secretly Aethon worried that his adopted brother would someday leave the village to seek them out.
Nearing the bar the two smiled and waved at some locals they recognized. The overly drunk lady furling must have thought they were waving at her, as she waved back and nearly fell off of her stool in the process. Luckily for her, she managed to grab onto the bar to steady herself before that happened. Oddly neither the tavern owner nor his wife were anywhere to be seen. How peculiar. To the best of Aethon's recollection he'd never seen Mr. Fenrick leave the bar unattended in all of the years that he'd frequented the establishment. The man was fastidious to a fault and overly cautious; never leaving his spirits unguarded in the presence of his sometimes-mischievous patrons. He also wasn't one to leave them without proper service either. As to Ms. Emira it was unheard of for her to miss out on a raucous song.
Orik thought to call out to see if either of them had made a quick run to the storeroom but decided it would do no good anyway, as the clamor of the inn would drown out his voice. Then, from the back, emerged the unlikeliest sight; a tarn dragon carrying a cask of mead under each arm. It was the tallest, and certainly the fattest, dragon that either of them had ever seen. It was a rusty red color with a mustard-colored belly and appeared to have far more muscle than any tarn either of them had seen before. Tarn were peculiar and fairly rare creatures. They were slightly taller than a man on average but were usually lithe things with a build that made them not as strong as one. This one however was massive, easily more than two heads taller than most men and quite portly. Aethon mused that there was absolutely no way this dragon could fly with such a bulk. The two watched as the dragon set down the casks at the far end of the bar, tapped them, then walked over to where they were sitting as the song was coming to its natural end.
"Welcome to the Hound & Tooth." The big dragon said in a deep throaty tone. The brothers were surprised that it sounded like a male. They knew that female tarn dragons were slightly larger and had reasoned, rightly so, that there was no way this particular one was male. "What'll it be boys?" They could not place his accent either.
Aethon and Orik looked at one another questioningly before Aethon spoke. "Two pints of the house’s best ale...but first uh...do you mind my asking who you are and where the mister and missus Fenrick have gone? It's unlike them to not be here."
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The dragon breathed a deep laugh and answered, "They've traveled to Bern's Hollow to tend to her ailing sister. As to who I am, do I detect a bit of suspicion in your voices?"
"Possibly." Orik said flatly.
The large dragon leaned in uncomfortably close. Orik could feel its breath on his fur. "Is it because you don't trust dragons? Is it because of preconceived notions...prejudice one might say?"
Aethon thought to intervene but had no retort. He'd never met a tarn dragon before but despite the difference between species he thought he detected a slight hint of joviality. He was correct. The dragon took in a deep breath and cracked a grin as he let it out. "My proper name's Rignaleon of Ondest Fahl, but everyone just calls me Riggs. You boys are locals I take it? You look like locals."
Aethon wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult. In the end he thought it best to let it go.
It was Orik that asked, "Kind of odd though wouldn’t you say, them leaving suddenly and you showing up? Never seen a dragon tending bar before."
Again Riggs' expression turned serious and he leaned in even closer, "Why little durg? Do you suggest that I gobbled up in the innkeeper and his wife in their sleep so that I could take possession of this humble establishment?"
Orik swallowed hard, looking away from the dragon's intense stare. After a moment Riggs roared into a laugh so hard it shook his considerable belly. As he poured their drinks he explained that he and Mr. Fenrick had served together in the War of the Lost Legions and that they'd remained in touch ever since. This suggested that Mr. Fenrick was not, as they'd always presumed, a native of Wyldewood. If he'd fought in the war then he was most likely from the southern regions of Highmoria. This made sense, as most of the dragon fahls were also in that region.
From Riggs they learned that Mr. Fenrick’s given name was Dureon, and that they’d also gone to the military academy together. After the war they’d remained friends and apparently Riggs used to visit the village fairly regularly. That had been decades ago though. Aethon thought it odd that no one had ever mentioned the "fat dragon" that used to come to town now and again. He reasoned that at the time Riggs had not yet gotten fat. Still he’d never heard anyone mentioned any dragon visiting the village before. The drinks continued to flow as they talked, Riggs more than keeping pace with them. Despite their initial reservations about him he came across as very genuine, and they could see why the Fenricks would have asked him to manage the tavern in their absence. Despite his portliness he was agile and moved quickly to fill orders, coming back to Aethon and Orik in between to continue their conversation.
Without warning there was a commotion from behind them that caused the brothers to spin around toward it. Aethon nearly fell over; not taking into account the five or so drinks he'd had in a relatively short span of time. Orik, with his lower center of gravity, didn't have that problem. The overly drunk furling however, did. She toppled off of her stool, her mug shattering on the floor. No one noticed though, because the boisterous knight that had been singing only moments before had flipped his table onto its side and was now shouting angrily at several of the men that had been sitting with him. Mind you shouting was not unheard of in a tavern, but the flipping of tables was highly frowned upon by polite society.
Riggs leapt over the bar, nearly knocking Aethon over in the process and coming very close to treading on the furling who was now lying face down on the floor. In his hand he held a peculiar looking wooden rod. It looked very much like the top-half of a wizard's walking stick.
"Liars and backstabbers, every last one of you!" the knight proclaimed, his speech a bit slurred. "I see that my trust was misplaced but now you will taste my wrath at the end of a blade!"
Riggs' heavy footsteps pounded the tavern's dusty floorboards as he crossed the distance from the bar to the table at a pace that seemed unlikely for his bulk. He placed a firm grip onto the knight's pauldron. It was blue for the color of the Highmorian Guard. This surprised the knight and he spun about, staring at the height at which he expected to meet the gaze of a man. Instead he found himself staring at the chest of a highly irritated tarn dragon.
"Stand down soldier." Riggs warned.
"Unhand me beast!" he shouted as he looked up to see the creature glowering down at him.
He went for a hidden blade, one that he'd neglected to deposit at the front door, which was was a huge social faux-pas. The moment that it cleared his leather chest-plate Riggs' tail met it and sent it clattering to the floor.
"I'll only tell you once more," Riggs growled, "as Field Commander Rignaleon of the Highmorian Guard's second legion I order you to stand down immediately."
"I slay dragons, not take orders from them." the knight spat angrily.
"That answer…” Riggs stated flatly, his lip curling into a snarl, “was incorrect." He lifted the wooden rod and jammed it against the soldier's neck, causing the man to flail about uncontrollably in the big dragon's grasp. Riggs followed it up with a headbutt that sent the knight tumbling backwards into a table. Its dishes flipped into the air as the halfkins that were seated at it threw themselves to the floor to avoid being crushed by the heavy human. The crash roused the ork at the back wall as well as the drunken furling. Then the entire tavern went silent.
"Get this out of here." Riggs grumbled at the other men as he gestured toward the knight. As his heavy feet pounded toward the bar he called out, "Don't let this fool disturb your merriment friends. A round of drinks for everyone, on the house!" At that the entire place erupted into cheer. The drunken furling smiled and cooed; her eyes still glassy. The ork pounded his table in excitement, and the halfkins ran after Riggs asking that in lieu of free drinks he replace their meals.
It was a half-past the middle of the night when Aethon and Orik stumbled out of the front door. They'd stayed out far too late. Aethon in particular had imbibed more drinks than he could remember ever having had in one evening. The night had been spent listening to Riggs' war stories and, at one point, participating in a drinking contest with several of the durgs. That last act in particular had been a poor choice. Leaning against one of the Hound & Tooth's posts Aethon was breathing heavy, creating large clouds of vapor in the cold night air. He was doing everything within his power to not be sick. Orik chuckled, which did nothing at all to make his brother feel any better. The chuckle, however, caused Orik to have to choke back his own sick. This made Aethon laugh heartily and forget about his own situation for a moment.
As Aethon tried to collect himself, truly not wanting to leave a mess that poor Riggs would have to clean up in the morning, there came a gasping sound from around the corner. Lying there, half sitting up against an empty cask, was the knight that had been ejected from the inn several hours earlier. He was taking short sharp breaths and clutching two different wounds in his abdomen which were bleeding profusely. The pool of blood surrounding him turned Orik's stomach and he had to take a step back. It took a moment for the knight to notice them, but when he did his vacant stare turned to Aethon and beckoned him forward. He was mouthing something undecipherable. Aethon had no idea what he could possibly do to help the man, but instinctually he knelt by his side. The knight, whom had been loud and braggadocios earlier in the evening, now seemed weak and something in his eyes betrayed a profound sadness.
It was apparent that some of the men he'd been arguing with had done this to him and that they’d left him here to die. Beside the two stab wounds he also appeared to be bleeding from the back of his head, blood smearing against the wall which he was propped against. His face, no longer strong and handsome, was bruised and bloodied. Again, he mouthed something. Even without the din of the tavern in the background he was simply too weak for it to be audible. Aethon leaned closer, putting his ear to the man's mouth.
"They took the ring." the man gasped into Aethon's ear, then attempted a small laugh. "They were fools. It was not the source of the power. Bring this magic to Aslon, atop Thorn mountain. You will find him at Lannon's Keep. Only he can give it to another champion. I pray one far worthier than I."
The knight placed his hand over Aethon's and a bright circle of runes, orange-red like dragonfire, glowed on the back of his hand. "Sigillum...Arcani...Luminis." he whispered. The circles pass through his hand and into Aethon’s before he expired. With a stunned look on his face Aethon turned to Orik, who watched the color drain from his brother's already pale face as he collapsed next to the dead knight. Orik approached to help him but was taken aback by the sight of the knight's body shriveling before his very eyes into a dried husk, as if he’d been dead and buried for months. The husk crumbled in on itself and in moments there was nothing remaining save for clothes and ash.
Bursting through the tavern's front door carrying his brother, Orik called out for the big dragon behind the bar."
"Riggs!"