“You might think your sojourn silly now, but in a hundred and fifty years, you’ll be so grateful to have come along!” Chattered old Sylas, the method of communication he exclusively used. Chattering. Never speaking, never whispering, not even shouting. Only ever a constant stream of words running over each other like water from a geyser.
Peregrim simply nodded his head and turned to feign tightening a knot on one of the basket handles. Of course there wasn’t much for him to do at this point. Sylas had been running the young man ragged since dawn prepping the balloon for launch, so much so that he hadn’t had a chance to check his phone all day.
No texts. He had been hoping for an update on Rev and Carly’s most recent ceremony, but no such luck. All he had was the transcript from the Moon Witch’s most recent soothsaying. His eyes were drawn to the last section.
“Red balloons.” That an entire civilization followed her words like gospel was flabberghasting.
Shaking his head, a lock of brown hair came loose from his bun, draping for a sharply pointed ear. Peregrim slid it back along his head, pauing to touch the tip of his delicately. For now, it was the only proof of his race to speak of, and the teenager wasn’t yet certain whether he loved it for that fact, or hated it. Looking out over the crag filled earth below, full of jagged rocks intent on blockading all life from thriving and scraggly plants giving them the middle finger. His eyes were not nearly as sharp as they would be in the centuries to come, but Peregrim could still make out of the creatures following suit. Cicadas clung to tree bark, birds hid in boughs and lizards skittered under the very boulders that wished to make life impossible.
A pointless task, life always found a way.
An errant gust of reminded Peregrim that the opposite held equally as true. Death was equally pernicious and perhaps even more ravenous.
Sprawling against the side of the basket, he shot a glare up at the foul balloon taking him to his doom. The blue leather seemed to laugh at him as it rippled with the wind. Whether it popped or remained aloft, the end would be the same, as far as Peregrim was concerned.
“Oy! Get away from the edge before you topple us all!” Sylas chattered, his tone the same as ever. “You young ‘uns are all the same, throwing your weight around like it ain’t the daftest thing you could do. I had a nephew once who took a whole slice of pie and-”
Peregrim turned to look down at his blathering uncle, fighting to keep the annoyance from his face. He had quickly realized that the best strategy with the old elf was to simply ignore what he was saying. It was easier than one might have thought, because Sylas always spoke in the same monotone voice.
Though, the natural high pitch of that voice made it hard to take anything he said seriously. Though his uncle was called “old Sylas” he wasn’t even a thousand years old yet. He was simply the oldest of three brothers, all named “Sylas.” Given his relative youth, Sylas was still several inches tall, able to contend with all but the largest of Peregrim’s fingers. Eventually, he would be as small as the smallest of microobes, and would then join the glorious viral crusade.
Peregrim rolled his eyes. “Glorious” was one way of describing it. Idiotic was another. To give up all thejoys and wonders of modern life to live in a sea of bacteria held no interest to the young elf. He had met so many fantastic people, made glorious friends, and due to his blood he was expected to give all that up.
Sylas strutted about the small tabled fastened to the center of the basket, which was large enough for sixteen broad shouldered men to stand in comfortably. Hundreds of elves, all centuries old, were crammed within. The layers of the wicker basket had been turned into strata for various shelves and inlaid houses to be constructed. It was a veritable village, “the crossing void” as it was called in elvish. Sylas was the mayor of the little basket town, and as such, his little table held a little mansion, three floors tall and spanning dozens of inches in width. Atop it was a great tower (relative to the miniscule size of it all) from which Sylas could captain the vessel.
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“Could” being the operative word as so far on the voyage, he had simply commanded his beleaguered nephew to perform all necessary tasks for him. Towering above the crowd at seven and a half feet tall, Peregrim regarded the occupants with disdain. Why should he have to be relegated to manual labor simply because of his enormous advantage in size.\?
(And why should fate be so cruel as to take that size away from him in time,r educing him to as pathetic as these tiny wretches.)
Frowning in frustration, Peregrim let out a loud huff and whipped around to look out across the mountainous desert. A shadow of massive pine trees could be seen rising in the distance, towering over the shrubbery and cactus that had laid claim to the land beyond the forest. This momentous sight, a vision of greenery and red desert clashing, was completely lost on Peregrim, who only saw more dirt and leaves. None of that was as interesting to him as the looming silhouette stepping through the pine trees as if they were nothing more than grass on a poorly tended lawn.
Rethau’Gir the desert wyrm, was awake.
“Uuuuuuncle!” Peregrim managed to sputter out.
“What is it lad? I haven’t heard you cry out like that since that time you knocked over that Wendigo’s whiskey at old Yaga’s bar and grill out in the Dakotas! You remember! I never wanted to go out that way to begin with, but your parents were so insistent on going on an adventure into the unknown and you know how your father loves to eat so after our flight-” Sylas happily chattered away, focus on arranging a tiny coffee table set up at the center of the table he stood upon.
“Not the time! I thought you said Rethau’Gir was sleeping!” Peregrim practically shrieked, lost in fright as he looked upon the stupidly large beast moving towards them. It’s long, sinuous body, snakelike in its scales and wriggling motions, twisted for miles, the distant lengths of it hidden from view by the evening sun’s light reflecting off its golden scales. Every step brought the one-time empire crusher closer to the balloon, but at an eerily slow pace, given the puny nature of its legs.
Peregrim scoffed at himself. Puny? Each leg was easily half a kilometer in length. The rest of its body simply made that seem miniscule by comparison.
“Calm down now.” Chided Sylas, his tone changing for the first time in 12 hours. His face took on a serious expression as he clambered across a series of ropes and walkways to reach Peregrim. “I know you’re bored, but don’t you going making jokes up there! Our fair home lender has only been sleeping for fifty years, and you should know as well as anyone that that’s hardly even a nap for him. Our venerable dragon, Lord Rethau’Gir will certainly be asleep for at least- Holy hell spawn of Gandlerock, he’s awake!”
Only Sylas could make a momentous sight like this seem like a chore. “Yes uncle.” Peregrim said with a sigh. “And he’s coming this way… Should we run?”
“Unless you mean right at his gaping maw, we will do no such thing! This is the greatest honor of the last century, and you better bow so long your eyebrows scrape the wicker!”
Peregrim’s eyes flicked down to the wicker basket, every layer of which was covered in tiny elven houses and shanties. He didn’t think that display of respect would be particularly appreciated by the inhabitants.
“Stop standing around and get the offering plates from the storage area!” Sylas shouted, earning a blanch of surprise from not only Peregrim but the surrounding elven crew members as well.
“Yes!” Peregrim said, unconsciously casting his eyes upward to not look at his demanding, if tiny, uncle. “Right away… sir!” He turned to follow the command.
“YOU SHALL DO NO SUCH THING!” Boomed a thunderous voice from behind Peregrim. Though still miles away, Rethau’Gir’s eyes bored into Peregrim’s spine with such intensity as to force the young elf to his knees.
“I SEE A NEW CHARGE HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO LIVE AMONGST THE CITY OF MY SCALES. THIS IS WELL, FOR THERE IS MUCH TO DO AND LITTLE TIME. WE CANNOT WASTE ANY ON CEREMONY. LAND YOUR VESSEL, DEAR SYLAS, AND WE SHALL BE ON OUR WAY.” The air reverberated with the Wyrm’s every word.
“You heard him lads! Let’s get moving!” Now it was Sylas’ turn to sputter, the words choking tears streaming from his pinprick sized eyes. Whether it was humiliation or ecstasy, Peregrim could not know.
Even as the crew of tiny elves set about on ropes and paddles, vainly hoping to increase the balloon’s speed by even the smallest of degrees, Peregrim’s shirt pulled taut across his back, tugging itself toward Rethau’Gir. A high-pitched scream of alarm was followed by half a dozen more as tiny elves were sucked from the safety of their Basket village, inexorably pulled toward the gaping maw of Rethau’Gir. Just as Sylas had hoped. Sylas is insane, but not as insane as this dragon. He’s breathing us in!
A cry of terror the likes of which Peregrim had never heard ripped from his own lungs as he faced his doom; A black pit lined with razor sharp, boulder sized fangs. Mere moments before that catastrophe could strike, however, the pull seized. The leather balloon screeched as it ran along the side of Rethau’Gir’s scaly hide.
“Well, they died in service to the most revered.” Sylas said sadly, looking down at the earth where his crew members had fallen. “Now, time to settle you into your home for the month!” He finished chipperly.
Peregrim was speechless, the world seemed to be spinning around him. As the balloon pulled into what looked like a port position on the dragon’s spine, Peregrim looked up in despair, only to have that despair turn to confusion. The blue balloon that had carried them in was no more. What now held them aloft was glimmering red.
Fuckin’ moon witch. Peregrim Leapt from the basket, ignoring his uncles calls for help unloading as he stumbled into the elven city of Rethau’Gir. As the ground beneath his feet quaked with the dragon’s movement, the young elf couldn’t help but feel a terrified elation at what lay ahead.