((I wrote this for one of my lore dragons and felt like sharing. I'm planning on writing a piece on Gaolers next; I'd love to hear what you think about this one, and what you'd like to see in a story about Gaolers.))
1 THE EMPEROR 1
LONG AGO, deep in the Sunbeam Ruins, there lived a great lair of dragons - so great, and so numerous, that they considered themselves a kingdom, and indeed, the crown jewel of societies which served the Lightweaver. Tundra, Fae, Guardian, Mirror - all lived in harmony in the lair of dragons known as the Citadel of the Lightweaver, hunting, gathering, and foraging together.
The leaders of this lair were a pair of Imperials, who, were their stories to be believed, hand-made by the Lightweaver herself. One day, the two Imperials rose to announce a joyous occasion - they had succeeded in producing three heirs, all boys, who would each have a chance to someday take the throne.
- - -
The three sons were born, and the kingdom rejoiced. As the boys grew up, their mother, playful and joyous, hid from them the order in which they were born, hoping to provide them with something more valuable than hierarchy. Each birthday became more competitive as the boys struggled to remain center of attention.
Gallan, strongest and bulkiest of the three, would bellow, "Greetings, to my birthday! Greetings!" tossing his horns in a bid to show off.
Not to be outdone, the most elegant of the three, Gellel, would slyly say, "I'm ever so glad you're here," to every guest he met. "Why, I never dreamed my birthday would garner such festivities!"
The scrawniest but brainiest of the three, Gollom, would smile sweetly into the faces of the elder dragons and murmur, "Oh, hello! Welcome to my birthday party!" blinking up round, pure eyes at them until they cooed. Once he lured them in, he began to speak his brain, while in every moment his swift-footed mind would be deciding just how to tilt his head, just where to place his claws, and just how to appear so he may come out on top.
Overall, birthdays were a dramatic and energetic affair, and it continued just the same until the three boys reached maturity. Upon that day, as their birthdays began, all three noticed at once that their mother had failed to appear.
- - -
That day, the joyous and ever-loved queen had died, missing her three sons by mere hours. The three-way birthday was immediately cancelled, and the three brothers, newly aware of their mortality as their mother was carted away to be buried in far off lands, began to worry for their father, whose scales were no longer shiny and whose fur no longer laid in thick curls.
Gallan was all too aware of his mortality. His battle instructor had caused him to shed blood far more than once, and he imagined death as that pain eternally. The fear tightened his chest and made his heart rush to keep the blood in his brain.
Gellel was equally worried. His most valuable weapon was his beauty; the ability to enchant others relied so very heavily upon his appearance. To see his father aging and his mother dead reminded him that beauty was fleeting, and soon, he too would be fading away, a greying face in the background - forgotten, as their mother had been during the party, for eternity.
Gollom's claws grasped at his scrawny wrists, so much like his mother's, and shuddered. Of the three brothers, he knew all too well, that he was the least healthy of them all. Were it to come down to a battle, well... he would be the first to go.
- - -
The King himself admitted to his sons he did not know which one was the eldest, and soon, the issue of heirdom came to bite them once again.
Each son considered the throne of treasure upon which their father rested and felt a great greed overcome them. That treasure, upon the moment their father died, would go to one, and only one, of the three brothers. Each began to plan, knowing that it was up to them to prepare for the day when, inevitably, the three of them dueled for the throne - which all three believed was rightfully theirs.
- - -
Gallan was the first to seek his ace in the coming battle, and travelled far to find a Serthis rumored to live at the edge of the forest, making bubbling brews and poisonous potions for those who passed her by. Upon finding she, he put on his most superior look and demanded, "Madam, you must make me a potion at once!"
(a pretentious prince, how... petty,) Thought the Serthis. A smile sneaking onto her face, she murmured, "What do you need, my prince?"
"A concoction which shall revive me upon my deathbed," Gallan declared. "No matter how many times I travel to the final rest. My brothers will surely attempt to kill me, and I wish to be prepared to rule, even if I must die for the throne."
A gleam appeared in the Serthis's eye. "Consider it done, my prince," the Serthis whispered, claws snatching out and stealing a hair from his chin. "return in three days, no more and no less, and I shall have it ready. But be warned, my prince; whether you survive it depends solely upon your own strength."
- - -
Gellel knew that he was perhaps the least violent of his brothers. While Gallan would take up sword and claw whenever he felt like it, and Gollom was equally as vicious. His looks caused others to stow their weapons in favour of more amicable activities, but his brothers had seen him at his worst, and hated him even at his best.
He would not be able to fight them himself, so he must be able to evade... evade, and send others after his brothers, perhaps even once he'd gotten the throne.
So, considering his options carefully, Gellel sought out a wise Maren known for his skills in alchemy, nigh-ageless compared to his brethren. He travelled past deserts and past blooming fire until at last he found the elderly Alchemist gathering fresh springwater to bring back to sea.
"What brings a dragon here?" The Maren asked blandly, unimpressed. "To kill me, perhaps?" He drew out his 's' with a dangerous tone.
"Not to kill, but to live," Gellel replied, curling in his claws and slanting his maw so his teeth would not show. "you have lived, far more than thine siblings and children, Ancient Maren. I beg you to share this secret with me."
The Maren studied him. "What Imperial," he asked, "could possibly want a longer life? I have many concoctions for that."
"Not longer," Gellel explained, his tongue licking out for just a moment. "I want to survive. Surely, with how long you have lived in so frail a body, you must have some secret to your survival. You fear me not, and as you said - so many dragons have tried to kill you."
The Maren's eyes narrowed, darkening with some unknown depth. "So be it, prince of the Lightweaver's Citadel," he declared. "I shall teach you how to shapeshift."
- - -
Gollom was, of the three, the weakest. He had inherited the frail body of their mother, her slender shoulders and thin wrists, so easy to break, removing his primary weapon. His claws were sharpened to a bleeding point, but there was no point in it when he could not garner the strength to make his enemy bleed.
So, after a long night entrenched in his books, Gollom set out for the far east, soon coming upon a Longneck who had once served in the sanctum. The longneck's elongated face was covered up by steel, and though he was near as thin for his species as Gollom was by Imperial standards, he exuded an aura of strength.
"Halt!" the butt of the Longneck's sword slammed into the dirt, sending up flurries of dust around his person. "What business have you here, farland prince?"
"Business with you, good sir!" Gollom replied, dipping his head with a crafty smile. "I wished to learn from you!"
The Longneck did not reply for a long and unsteady moment. Then, very slowly, his visor raised to reveal two gleaming, incredulous eyes. "And what would a dragon wish to learn from a Longneck?" he inquired, suspicion darkening his tone.
"Magic," Gollom licked his lips, tasting how the elements - every one - swayed around a being not meant to have an element at all. "All of it."
- - -
Over the three days to follow, the princeling brothers saw not hide nor hair of each other, increasing their relentless paranoia. Gallan fought day in and day out in the castle's barracks, challenging and defeating every soldier he came across. Gellel swam in the shallows and learned to make his body flow as water did. Gollom found himself with intense power at his fingertips, the elements at his beck and call.
Upon the third day, on the eve when the heir among them was to be chosen, the three brothers crept into the castle, each hoping to view the throne. The darkness shielded all three until they met in the middle.
(My brothers have conspired against me!) Gallan deduced, whipping his tail back and baring his teeth, invigorated by the potion's effects. (I must defeat them both before either can take what is mine!)
(Both at once?!) Thought Gellel, his panic causing him to rear back. (I must kill swiftly as the currents if I am to survive long enough to claim the throne!)
Gollom did not think. He instead began chanting, preparing the catastrophic spell which would end both his brothers in one fell swoop.
In that heartbeat, Gallan leaped forward, teeth gnashing. Gellel dodged towards Gollom, his face morphing into that of a vicious and unearthly visage, while Gollom merely continued to chant, stance shifting to face his brawling brethren.
A BANG! echoed through the castle, and all was silent. Not even the heartbeat of the three brothers could be heard, for they had lost it upon their death, their mangled corpses left to rot intermingled in the throne room.
- - -
"Which one is which?!" cried the King. "I must not only bury my sons, but show you which piece of them to bury?!" He glared at the cowering Coatl which was hiding behind the pile of rotting flesh and bone. "NEVER shall I tell you!" With that, the king brushed out of the room, overcome with emotion.
The Coatl stared down at the three bodies. With a hesitant hand, he gathered the remains with the aid of his assistants, and together they carried the whole lot to the grave designated for the heir.
- - -
The moonlight shone down upon the ground, eerie in its silence. The gravestone bore all three names of its occupants, but none had come to mourn them. A single crown, designed for an heir and laid down by their father, sat upon the grave at a crooked angle.
A rumbling began beneath the earth.
The thud-thud of a heartbeat could be heard for a mile in every direction as Gallan's musculature began to shift and gather itself. Rotting meat pulled away bones to shift them where it was guided, and the soft glow of earthen magic replaced the dirt while a blooming light rose above them.
Three heads rose in tandem. One was shaped in a grotesque expression; the next was peaceful and gorgeous; the third was weak, but strengthening, as he flexed their collective muscles, the six legs on either side shifting as if they were pretending to be four. The forelegs finally accepted they were no longer for walking, and soon, they were clawing at the ground, pulling up the mishmashed body, made of muscle and bone and tightly-pulled skin. Three shoulders - one bulging with strength, the next smooth with care, the third crackling with illness - shifted to make the final pull, gathering their collected body upon the moon-kissed land.
(This is bliss,) thought the three brothers, (for now I am an Emperor, the King of kings...)
The Emperor was hungry. It roared, six wings flapping in tandem, the resulting gale causing the abandoned crown to tip over, rolling - dipping - then falling down into the grave below.
LONG AGO, deep in the Sunbeam Ruins, there lived a great lair of dragons - so great, and so numerous, that they considered themselves a kingdom, and indeed, the crown jewel of societies which served the Lightweaver. Tundra, Fae, Guardian, Mirror - all lived in harmony in the lair of dragons known as the Citadel of the Lightweaver, hunting, gathering, and foraging together.
The leaders of this lair were a pair of Imperials, who, were their stories to be believed, hand-made by the Lightweaver herself. One day, the two Imperials rose to announce a joyous occasion - they had succeeded in producing three heirs, all boys, who would each have a chance to someday take the throne.
- - -
The three sons were born, and the kingdom rejoiced. As the boys grew up, their mother, playful and joyous, hid from them the order in which they were born, hoping to provide them with something more valuable than hierarchy. Each birthday became more competitive as the boys struggled to remain center of attention.
Gallan, strongest and bulkiest of the three, would bellow, "Greetings, to my birthday! Greetings!" tossing his horns in a bid to show off.
Not to be outdone, the most elegant of the three, Gellel, would slyly say, "I'm ever so glad you're here," to every guest he met. "Why, I never dreamed my birthday would garner such festivities!"
The scrawniest but brainiest of the three, Gollom, would smile sweetly into the faces of the elder dragons and murmur, "Oh, hello! Welcome to my birthday party!" blinking up round, pure eyes at them until they cooed. Once he lured them in, he began to speak his brain, while in every moment his swift-footed mind would be deciding just how to tilt his head, just where to place his claws, and just how to appear so he may come out on top.
Overall, birthdays were a dramatic and energetic affair, and it continued just the same until the three boys reached maturity. Upon that day, as their birthdays began, all three noticed at once that their mother had failed to appear.
- - -
That day, the joyous and ever-loved queen had died, missing her three sons by mere hours. The three-way birthday was immediately cancelled, and the three brothers, newly aware of their mortality as their mother was carted away to be buried in far off lands, began to worry for their father, whose scales were no longer shiny and whose fur no longer laid in thick curls.
Gallan was all too aware of his mortality. His battle instructor had caused him to shed blood far more than once, and he imagined death as that pain eternally. The fear tightened his chest and made his heart rush to keep the blood in his brain.
Gellel was equally worried. His most valuable weapon was his beauty; the ability to enchant others relied so very heavily upon his appearance. To see his father aging and his mother dead reminded him that beauty was fleeting, and soon, he too would be fading away, a greying face in the background - forgotten, as their mother had been during the party, for eternity.
Gollom's claws grasped at his scrawny wrists, so much like his mother's, and shuddered. Of the three brothers, he knew all too well, that he was the least healthy of them all. Were it to come down to a battle, well... he would be the first to go.
- - -
The King himself admitted to his sons he did not know which one was the eldest, and soon, the issue of heirdom came to bite them once again.
Each son considered the throne of treasure upon which their father rested and felt a great greed overcome them. That treasure, upon the moment their father died, would go to one, and only one, of the three brothers. Each began to plan, knowing that it was up to them to prepare for the day when, inevitably, the three of them dueled for the throne - which all three believed was rightfully theirs.
- - -
Gallan was the first to seek his ace in the coming battle, and travelled far to find a Serthis rumored to live at the edge of the forest, making bubbling brews and poisonous potions for those who passed her by. Upon finding she, he put on his most superior look and demanded, "Madam, you must make me a potion at once!"
(a pretentious prince, how... petty,) Thought the Serthis. A smile sneaking onto her face, she murmured, "What do you need, my prince?"
"A concoction which shall revive me upon my deathbed," Gallan declared. "No matter how many times I travel to the final rest. My brothers will surely attempt to kill me, and I wish to be prepared to rule, even if I must die for the throne."
A gleam appeared in the Serthis's eye. "Consider it done, my prince," the Serthis whispered, claws snatching out and stealing a hair from his chin. "return in three days, no more and no less, and I shall have it ready. But be warned, my prince; whether you survive it depends solely upon your own strength."
- - -
Gellel knew that he was perhaps the least violent of his brothers. While Gallan would take up sword and claw whenever he felt like it, and Gollom was equally as vicious. His looks caused others to stow their weapons in favour of more amicable activities, but his brothers had seen him at his worst, and hated him even at his best.
He would not be able to fight them himself, so he must be able to evade... evade, and send others after his brothers, perhaps even once he'd gotten the throne.
So, considering his options carefully, Gellel sought out a wise Maren known for his skills in alchemy, nigh-ageless compared to his brethren. He travelled past deserts and past blooming fire until at last he found the elderly Alchemist gathering fresh springwater to bring back to sea.
"What brings a dragon here?" The Maren asked blandly, unimpressed. "To kill me, perhaps?" He drew out his 's' with a dangerous tone.
"Not to kill, but to live," Gellel replied, curling in his claws and slanting his maw so his teeth would not show. "you have lived, far more than thine siblings and children, Ancient Maren. I beg you to share this secret with me."
The Maren studied him. "What Imperial," he asked, "could possibly want a longer life? I have many concoctions for that."
"Not longer," Gellel explained, his tongue licking out for just a moment. "I want to survive. Surely, with how long you have lived in so frail a body, you must have some secret to your survival. You fear me not, and as you said - so many dragons have tried to kill you."
The Maren's eyes narrowed, darkening with some unknown depth. "So be it, prince of the Lightweaver's Citadel," he declared. "I shall teach you how to shapeshift."
- - -
Gollom was, of the three, the weakest. He had inherited the frail body of their mother, her slender shoulders and thin wrists, so easy to break, removing his primary weapon. His claws were sharpened to a bleeding point, but there was no point in it when he could not garner the strength to make his enemy bleed.
So, after a long night entrenched in his books, Gollom set out for the far east, soon coming upon a Longneck who had once served in the sanctum. The longneck's elongated face was covered up by steel, and though he was near as thin for his species as Gollom was by Imperial standards, he exuded an aura of strength.
"Halt!" the butt of the Longneck's sword slammed into the dirt, sending up flurries of dust around his person. "What business have you here, farland prince?"
"Business with you, good sir!" Gollom replied, dipping his head with a crafty smile. "I wished to learn from you!"
The Longneck did not reply for a long and unsteady moment. Then, very slowly, his visor raised to reveal two gleaming, incredulous eyes. "And what would a dragon wish to learn from a Longneck?" he inquired, suspicion darkening his tone.
"Magic," Gollom licked his lips, tasting how the elements - every one - swayed around a being not meant to have an element at all. "All of it."
- - -
Over the three days to follow, the princeling brothers saw not hide nor hair of each other, increasing their relentless paranoia. Gallan fought day in and day out in the castle's barracks, challenging and defeating every soldier he came across. Gellel swam in the shallows and learned to make his body flow as water did. Gollom found himself with intense power at his fingertips, the elements at his beck and call.
Upon the third day, on the eve when the heir among them was to be chosen, the three brothers crept into the castle, each hoping to view the throne. The darkness shielded all three until they met in the middle.
(My brothers have conspired against me!) Gallan deduced, whipping his tail back and baring his teeth, invigorated by the potion's effects. (I must defeat them both before either can take what is mine!)
(Both at once?!) Thought Gellel, his panic causing him to rear back. (I must kill swiftly as the currents if I am to survive long enough to claim the throne!)
Gollom did not think. He instead began chanting, preparing the catastrophic spell which would end both his brothers in one fell swoop.
In that heartbeat, Gallan leaped forward, teeth gnashing. Gellel dodged towards Gollom, his face morphing into that of a vicious and unearthly visage, while Gollom merely continued to chant, stance shifting to face his brawling brethren.
A BANG! echoed through the castle, and all was silent. Not even the heartbeat of the three brothers could be heard, for they had lost it upon their death, their mangled corpses left to rot intermingled in the throne room.
- - -
"Which one is which?!" cried the King. "I must not only bury my sons, but show you which piece of them to bury?!" He glared at the cowering Coatl which was hiding behind the pile of rotting flesh and bone. "NEVER shall I tell you!" With that, the king brushed out of the room, overcome with emotion.
The Coatl stared down at the three bodies. With a hesitant hand, he gathered the remains with the aid of his assistants, and together they carried the whole lot to the grave designated for the heir.
- - -
The moonlight shone down upon the ground, eerie in its silence. The gravestone bore all three names of its occupants, but none had come to mourn them. A single crown, designed for an heir and laid down by their father, sat upon the grave at a crooked angle.
A rumbling began beneath the earth.
The thud-thud of a heartbeat could be heard for a mile in every direction as Gallan's musculature began to shift and gather itself. Rotting meat pulled away bones to shift them where it was guided, and the soft glow of earthen magic replaced the dirt while a blooming light rose above them.
Three heads rose in tandem. One was shaped in a grotesque expression; the next was peaceful and gorgeous; the third was weak, but strengthening, as he flexed their collective muscles, the six legs on either side shifting as if they were pretending to be four. The forelegs finally accepted they were no longer for walking, and soon, they were clawing at the ground, pulling up the mishmashed body, made of muscle and bone and tightly-pulled skin. Three shoulders - one bulging with strength, the next smooth with care, the third crackling with illness - shifted to make the final pull, gathering their collected body upon the moon-kissed land.
(This is bliss,) thought the three brothers, (for now I am an Emperor, the King of kings...)
The Emperor was hungry. It roared, six wings flapping in tandem, the resulting gale causing the abandoned crown to tip over, rolling - dipping - then falling down into the grave below.
       
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