Mountain

Mountain

"Even stone is a living thing. Once it was the world's heartblood, burning molten in its core, and even though it has cooled and still it remembers."




There was once a sculptor in Dragonhome whose statues were said to be so exquisite that those who saw them would pay any price to possess them. However, he refused all gold and gems, instead dedicating his statues to the Earthshaker, and placing them in remote spots, winding caves and high crags. One day, he began to carve a statue of a dragon. He had worked with stone long enough that he was not being poetic when he said it spoke to him as though it were a living thing, and it seemed to him as though he heard a whisper of what it wanted to be. It seemed to flinch as he raised his chisel to begin chipping away at it, as though it feared the pain of a misplaced strike. And when he laid his ear against it, he almost thought he heard a heartbeat, as slow and steady as the earth's pulse.

Stone harvested in Dragonhome, where the land shivers under the footsteps of the deity, is the finest and most sought after, and he had not made his success by failing to listen to it. Every strike of the hammer and stroke of the chisel was careful, as he sought for the statue he knew was buried inside the block of stone, the one the stone itself wished to be. He had never worked so slowly or carefully before, but he had never worked on stone that seemed to shiver when he struck it too hard. Slowly a shape began to emerge, the curve of a snout, the arc of a crest, roughly carved, and gradually refined. He had made sure to carve the head first, or perhaps simply to free it from the surrounding stone. He thought that maybe it if could see what he was doing, it wouldn't feel the need to fear his touch. When the head was finished, he set in it a pair of gleaming sapphire to be its eyes.

The sculptor soon set aside his other projects in favor of this single statue. He talked to it while he worked. “See,” he would say, “this lump here is your shoulder, and when I'm done, I'll start on your wings. Won't it be a pain to carve every single feather? You really are a troublesome statue, but at least you'll be a handsome one.” The statue never answered, but he almost felts as though it might. He certainly felt as though the glimmering sapphire eyes shone like those of a real dragon, and watched his every move. The sculptor was no longer a young dragon, and he had never had any children, so he half-jokingly began to call the statue his child. Some of his friends worried about him (while his rivals whispered spitefully that the old fellow had finally lost it and started talking to stones) but he didn't pay them any heed. Every night, when he laid down his tools, he would give the half carved block of stone an affectionate pat and tell it goodnight, and that he would continue in the morning.

When he woke up again, he would bid the statue good morning, cheerfully scolding it for never telling him good morning back. It was the quietest child he had ever seen, he would tell it, but he supposed it was also the most well-behaved, so those traits must balance each other out. Every day, a little bit more of the dragon emerged from the stone. The one morning, no one bid the statue a good day, or worked on it. The old sculptor had fallen sick, and was in bed being tended to. He told his friends that one of them should go tell the statue he was ill, but he would be better and working on it again soon enough. But none of them went, thinking that he was just too sick to know what he was saying. And besides, what point was there in talking to a statue? Meanwhile the sculptor fretted. One night, he rose from his bed and went, coughing and shivering, to his workshop, picking up his hammer and chisel in shaking paws. “I'm not young anymore,” he told it between coughs, “and it would be a shame if I got sick and died without finishing you.” All that remained of the statue was its tail. Because his paws shook, the carving wasn't quite so fine, the lines rough and some of them hastily chipped away.

Before he could free the last curl of the tail, a wracking cough overtook him, the tools dropping from his shaking paws as he bent double, coughing and wheezing. But before he could fall, he heard a wrenching crack of breaking stone, and felt strong paws holding him firmly. He was lifted up as though he was a young hatchling, and carried back to his bed. The same paws, strong but gentle, held a cup of tea up for him to drink, and stoked the fire to warm the room. Glimmering in the firelight, the sculptor recognized the same sapphire eyes that had watched him work. The next morning, when the sculptor's friends returned to check on him, they found someone already at his bedside taking care of him. It was a coatl the color of stone, whose eyes were the exact blue of sapphire, and whose tail seemed strangely rough, with a jagged fan of darker brown feathers at the end that looked curiously like shards of broken stone. Some of them even thought they had seen an earth sprite, one of the earthshaker's messengers, assisting him.

Despite the sculptor's dire predictions, he recovered from his illness, tended to by the once-statue he called his child. He named the coatl Mountain, since he was as strong and silent as one. And of course the first thing he did was to teach Mountain how to carve as well as he himself did. Mountain took to it with silent enthusiasm, handling the stone as though it was an old friend, one that would whisper words only he could hear. And when the time was right, he bid his adopted father a fond farewell, and set out towards a destination he couldn't name, but felt nonetheless. The feeling brought him to a small clan in the Windswept Plateau, one that welcomed the quiet dragon and offered him a home, with the same feeling of kindness he had received from his own adopted father. He rarely speaks, showing his appreciation by nodding along or smiling knowingly, but when he does his voice is low and rough, like stone would sound if it could talk. Although he is surprisingly strong, with a stone-like grip and the ability to hit like a rockslide, he is always gentle and avoids fights or violence if he can. He carves things for the clan, using the flight's native jade and white granite. Everything from sturdy stone bowls and tables to delicate and beautiful jewelry, he does his best to fulfill any request one of the clan makes him.

Mountain's mate is Deathdealer, a wildclaw of imposing appearance and surprisingly caring demeanor. She is the clan's doctor, who came upon them by chance and found a welcome the same as he had. Like him, she too has her imperfections. A dangerous disease, one that she caught while she was trying to heal the clan afflicted with it, ravaged her appearance. Mountain, all too aware of his own unfinished imperfections and the odd deformation where he wrenched his tail from the rock so that he would be free to help his father, felt sympathy for her the moment he saw her. Like him, she wasn't ashamed of the way she looked, but saw it as the marks life had left on her. His own first few days of life had been spent looking after someone who was ill, and he admired her dedication, making sure that those like his father would live to carve many more sculptures, or do whatever else it was that they loved. He would offer to help her, patiently grinding herbs and medicines to a fine powder, carrying her bags as she went to and from patients, or lending her his strength when a patient needed to hold still for a painful bonesetting. Their courtship was a quiet, reserved affair, but the two of them are often together, and every so often they will leave together to visit the Earth region, and an elderly sculptor who lives there.