Seeking

The little ones had many stories about where dragons would choose to make their home. Some said that they dwelt in the heart of great mountains, which erupted with a fury that would match their flames itself. Others thought it only sensical that beasts as majestic as dragons lived in the fine ice palaces of the outer ring, where they could relax with the natural warmth of their bodies in conditions that would spell doom for all other life. And yet more thought that they secreted away in misty forests, where they slept beside enchanted springs to feast upon the abundance of mana around them.

The little ones were foolishly naïve.

Where in the sky did the dragons call home?

Simple.

Wherever they pleased.

After all, who would tell a dragon where it could lay down its nest?

Where Dranamogh pleased to roost was upon her favorite rock, on the peak of nice, warm little mountain with just enough humidity for a light fog some mornings, that let her wake to the soft and chilling dew every once in a while. Though, to call it a peak would not technically be true. Back when she’d first found this nice little roost it had held a mighty peak, where the little ones stacked their logs and stones on it.

Dranamogh thought the mountain was a lovely place to get a good view of the sunset. The humans hadn’t put up much protest. Rocks and dung could only withstand so much. After the annoying little screams stopped, Dranamogh carved the peak off the mountain and made a nice little plateau to lounge on, and relaxed.

For a dragon of Dranamogh’s age, marking the passage of time was like counting blades of grass in the field. The little ones cared for it, wiling about their ways, dying off and then multiplying over and over. It was with a curious eye that Dranamogh watched them work. At first, they had tried to drive her off.

The little ones were stupid that way.

The occasional swarm of little ones would come trumpeting up the mountain, clanging metal and waving flames, ruining more than a few good naps. But after several dozen winters the forest of ruined swords and broken spears littering the mountainside stopped growing and Dranamogh could finally rest in peace.

Still, she kept a watchful eye on them. A great long while after they had stopped coming to assail her, they eventually made their way back to her mountain again.

But this time, they knew better, coming no further than the base. They kept building, making settlements the way the little ones did. This settlement was ringed by a wall, made of large wooden beams sewn together and dug deep into the ground. Dranamogh had seen many little ones make such structures, usually they were the ones calling themselves humans. Like dragons, the little ones quarreled with one another, but rather than fight with their strength they huddled behind these walls to repel their foes. Dranamogh supposed there was a certain amount of sense in the ways of the little ones. With no wings to fly, they were stuck upon their islands, and could only attack from the ground.

Such walls would do naught to an attack from the air, of course, but Dranamogh knew none of the little ones were particularly clever.

As one settlement rose up at the base of the mountain, so did more follow. Her mountain retained its green, the little ones not daring to tread, but past it she watched as more and more forests disappeared across countless years, replaced by structures and walls of growing size and strength.

Dranamogh admired the little ones, who her kin dismissed as pathetic vermin. As stupid as they may have been, they were quite good at building things.

And killing. That was something else they were quite good at. After all, the more structures that arose, so too did increase the size and frequency of the skirmishes where one group of little ones charged the settlement of another, and either slaughtered those who dwelled within it or were slaughtered in turn by those they attacked.

Oh, yes, the little ones were very good at killing, knowing how to do little else. At times, to amuse herself, Dranamogh came up with stories. Why one settlement was attacking another. That one had stolen another’s prey, or one of this one’s hatchlings had wandered into that one’s territory. She missed stories. As relaxing as her time here was, she still missed her kin and the great tales they would tell, boasting about their kills or skirmishes with other dragons. As lovely as her mountain was, she was starting to get dreadfully bored. But were she to leave, then the little ones would begin to spread.

She was content to let them live in their settlements while she watched, so long as they didn’t set foot on her mountain. She had grown fond of the place, particularly the animals dwelling within it. The water of the springs was also quite quenching, and sometimes she would seek solace in the shade, curling up and listening to the wind blowing through the trees.

The little ones would ruin that, so she had taken care to show them. One of the little ones had been bold, and had chosen to begin building its home slightly higher up the mountain than the other huts in his settlement. They were unaware, of course, that a dragon’s eyes were a mighty thing, and Dranamogh could see the entire mountainside with a swing of her head. It had scarcely cut down the first tree when it was snatched up in her claws, its broken form flung into the dirt for all to see.

The mountain was hers. She couldn’t just leave it.

Dranamogh was feeling restless, so she decided to remind them of that. One of the settlements had just fought off another, and the scent of blood was in the air. This was the time they were at their wildest. She stretched her wings, and with a mighty flap took to the sky.

As she flew past the small clusters of buildings, loud sounds came from below, a dull ringing from large bells and shouts of panic. Nothing had changed in her time on the mountain, the little ones still feared her, as they rightly should. But Dranamogh didn’t pay them any mind. They knew better than to challenge her.

Still, there would be the occasional little one to ignore her rules. Those were the particularly foolish and stupid. Some would come boasting that they could slay her and claim glory, others came in search of a great treasure she supposedly held. And many came saying they just wanted to see her, a real, live dragon in all her black-scaled glory.

They all burned the same in the end, though.

But one day, there came one who was different. It carried no axe to cut down trees, no bow or arrow to hunt, none of the tools the little ones used at all. Just a cloak, wrapped around its small figure. Dranamogh watched it from her perch. Perhaps it was one of the ones who just wanted a look at a dragon. Well, Dranamogh would make sure it got a good look before she dealt with it. She curled up beside the spring in the center of her plateau, and rested her head against a rock, pretending to sleep. All the while watching the little one continue to climb the mountain.

The sun passed overhead eight times before the little one finally reached Dranamogh, and just in time. Dranamogh was getting bored of waiting.

She was just about ready let out a roar that would send any of them running away screaming when the little one called out to her.

“Excuse me? Dragon?” It whispered with the human words. “Are you sleeping?”

Curious. The little ones seldom spoke to her, and when they did it was usually to call her a beast or boast about how her head would be hung from some place or another. Dranamogh raised her head and looked down at the little one.

It had pale flesh and stringy brown hair, like every other little one in this area. Its eyes were sunken with fear, and it was tiny. Dranamogh could have snatched it up in her claw and popped it into her mouth, if she had the taste for it.

“What brings you to my mountain, little one?” Dranamogh bellowed. The little one froze, its eyes widening.

“You… You can talk?” It asked, as if it had not just tried to speak to her. Clearly, it had not expected Dranamogh to speak back.

“Of course I can talk,” Dranamogh rumbled. Indeed, it had been many ages since she had conversed with a little one directly, preferring the language of dragons to the guttural squeaking of the little ones, but no matter. “Take pride, little one, you are the first to speak to me in over 15 of your lifetimes.” Dranamogh wasn’t sure if that was true, but it sounded impressive enough.

“Good, I’m glad you can talk,” it sighed, falling to its knees. It looked… relieved. “The others in my village said that you were a wild beast. But if you can talk, then-“

“THEY WHAT?!” Dranamogh roared, blowing black flames from her nostrils. She was not offended, of course, but it amused her to frighten the little ones. “THEN I SHALL SHOW THEM A WILD BEAST!”

The terror in the little one’s eyes made her want to laugh.

“No, please, forgiveness, great one, I know they didn’t mean any offense!” The little one pleaded for the lives of its fellows, as if Dranamogh could even guess which settlement it had come from in the first place.

“It matters not,” she snorted, settling back down, resting her chin upon her claws. “Speak, little one, tell me what compels you to come before me, and fills you with the presumption that you might call out to me?”

The little one looked at Dranamogh in confusion, and Dranamogh was forced to remember that they weren’t so bright.

“Why have you come?” She growled, the dim look in the little one’s eyes lighting up.

“Oh!” It said. “Because… I seek your help, great one.”

Dranamogh blinked in surprise. The little ones sought her help? For what purpose? No, it mattered not. “Foolish, you’ve thrown your life away for nothing. I hold no interest in your squabbles.”

“No, it’s not like that,” it pleaded, quite presumptuous for a little one. “Please! My village, there’s a disease! And it’s legend that the spring at the peak of the mountain, your spring, can heal any ailment! My husband and son have caught it, and I can’t just do nothing!”

Ah. So that was the story now? Slay the dragon, claim the spring, heal all ills. The last time it was a mountain of gold she guarded, the story seemed to change whenever she turned her head.

“Then you are indeed a fool, because the water of this spring flows down this river, and from this river you little ones draw your own water, do you not?” Dranamogh asked. “And so, this spring can no more heal your sicknesses than the river can.”

“…No…” The little one whispered, shaking its head in disbelief. “Then… Then what of you, oh great one?”

Dranamogh raised her eyebrow. “What of me?” She asked.

“There are so many stories about you in my village,” it explained. “How you destroyed the greatest castle of man with a single fiery breath, how you cleared this plateau with a single beat of your wings, or that you’ve repelled entire armies with a swipe of your tail, surely one as great and powerful as you must know some trick or treasure to aid us!?”

It was true, Dranamogh had lived a long life and learned a great many things, and among them were a great number of magic spells. Not only could she have cured the disease with but a wave of her claw, she could have taught the little one how to do it itself.

But Dranamogh had no interest in such things. What was of far more interest was this little one that was so desperate that it had climbed a mountain none who set foot on lived to speak of, just to ask a dragon for aid.

Dranamogh wondered if this little one held any other surprises.

“Indeed... I know a great many things," Dranamogh boasted. "And yes, I can give you the knowledge you seek to save your village."

The little one's face lit up with joy and it rose to its feet. "Really? Oh, thank you great one!"

Dranamogh snorted, and a wave of fire rolled over the little one's head, disappearing in the sky.

"Presumptuous little one!" Dranamogh roared. "You come to me seeking knowledge… but what do you offer in return?” She asked. “Knowledge is power, little one, and power cannot be gained without a price. A fair bargain, in respect for your bravery to come before me today.”

The little one turned white. “I… I do not have anything to offer, but the cloak on my back! I spent the gold my husband saved up on healers and medicine, and I-I… our village might pay, perhaps, but…”

Dranamogh shook her head. “I have no use for baubles and shiny rocks.” She spread her wings wide and stood up on her hind legs to hold out her claws. “So tell me, little one, what is it you think is worth the power to save your village?”

Dranamogh was curious what the little one had to offer.

“Everything,” it whispered. “Please, oh great one! If you grant me your aid, then I shall give you everything I have!”

Dranamogh sighed. Truly, the little ones were foolish. Only good for building and killing. “If you were to offer me everything, then that would mean your life and the life of your village. And of what worth would the knowledge I grant you be then?”

She opened her mouth wide, showing the little one rows of sharp fangs. “A pity. If knowledge is what you desire, then you must offer knowledge of your own. But I see you have none to give. Certainly none that could compare to the power you seek.” The fire began to rise from her stomach, her mouth starting to glow.

“Wait, wait, please!” The little one pleaded. “I-I can offer you knowledge! What is it you want to know? Name it, and I will tell you!”

Intrigued once more, Dranamogh closed her mouth and gazed curiously at it. “Do you mean to tell me you think you possess knowledge that I lack? How curious. Very well, little one, then allow me to test this knowledge of yours.”

The little one opened its mouth again, but Dranamogh tired of its words. “I shall ask you a question. If your answer is clever, then I shall hear what knowledge it is you think can compare to the power I shall grant you. But if not…” She doubted the little one was clever enough to know it was being threatened.

“I won’t fail, I’ll answer your question,” the little one insisted.

Dranamogh smiled. As foolish as they were, there was a certain animal courage she couldn’t help but admire in these little ones.

“Very well. I am not alive, but I give life. Love, laughter, beauty, and strife. I can give you either truth or lie, but when none hear me is when I die. I hold no worth when I am alone, but when you meet me you make me your own. With as many shapes as stars in the sky, I am born of your thoughts, what am I?”

The little one sat down on a rock and thought. It thought and thought and thought. Then it looked to Dranamogh, and she could see the spark of knowledge in its eyes.

“You’re a story,” it whispered.

Dranamogh smiled. “Yes, little one. A story. Tell me a story. A story to sate the whims of a dragon, a story I have never heard in my countless years, and I will give you the knowledge you seek.”

The little one smiled a crooked smile. “I’m a songstress in my village,” it told her. “I know a great many stories. Which would you like to hear first?”

Dranamogh waved her claw, lounging back on her favorite rock. “Whichever you prefer,” she said, watching the sun set on the horizon.