Zanconne

Zanconne was born in the Ashfall Waste, and lived there for most of his life. His family was on the wealthier side, and they were well-off for much of his childhood, which was peaceful, despite the rising tensions. He learned much about flamecraft and forgery, but Zanconne’s best skills were in physical combat and the political arena. From a young age, his father had ensured he had the education needed to survive the complicated politics of the area, and soon began to take him to court when he’d reached maturity, becoming increasingly reliant on his son as an advisor. Zanconne adapted quickly, and along with his father, joined the growing faction of dragons advocating conflict for the sake of conquering. They were among the most outspoken of the group, and Zanconne especially was aching to prove himself in battle. He was infinitely more focused on that than things like romance, but this didn’t stop him from having a few flings when he was of age- even during the war. When things came to a head, they started small, with an attack on a neighboring clan, but as alliances got dragged into it, the conflict spiraled and snowballed. This wasn’t exactly surprising to Zanconne, even if it made each individual clash part of a much more complicated scheme. That was the kind of thing he enjoyed.

He and his family- along with the same warmongering faction- were on the front lines most of the time, if not all of it. He and his father quickly made names for themselves as the cornerstone of their clan’s war efforts, and it painted a target on both their backs. Dragons aiming at both crippling their clan, and enacting revenge, began to act overtly against them. While his father seemed to falter under that pressure, Zanconne embraced it, and carried out his own regime designed to deal with any threats. The need for revenge would, of course, largely be eliminated if the enemy clans were completely slaughtered. It was on his orders that three whole clans vanished from Sorneith, and a dozen more only lived on in the form of survivors who had long fled the region to escape the war. It would have cemented him in a place of respect, had members of his own clan been content to keep their horror to themselves. Little by little, they began to defect, slipping away into the dead of night and seemingly vanishing with their families into thin air. Zanconne tried to stop this, and this is what drew the line for even the most loyal of his allies- they refused to turn on dragons that were from their own clan, even if their erstwhile leader tried to brand them as traitors. If they wanted to go, they should be able to in peace, and it would mean more food and resources for the rest of them. Zanconne’s popularity quickly diminished, especially as their enemies began to close in, seemingly sensing the divisions and weakness. It wasn’t long before his clan was under siege, and with everyone already against him, there was nothing he could do but surrender. He would have fought to the bitter end.

But it wasn’t over for him yet- there were peace treaties to be made, with the traitors spearheading the effort. New alliances were forged, stronger than before, with the unspoken promise that this would never happen again. Zanconne found himself on trial along with his father, and a few other members of their core group, but he faced the worst punishment by far for his actions. They were put under an enforced house arrest, but Zanconne was meant to live in the middle of neutral territory, far away from the other clans. He wouldn’t be allowed to return, or cause trouble like this again. Well-aware that there were many who would rather see him dead, he accepted his punishment gracefully.

They provided him a lair in a place where the wildlife was relatively plentiful, with fresh water close by and the stone warm beneath his feet. It would be paradise for anyone deliberately seeking to avoid even the faintest trapping of civilization; he didn’t see another living dragon for the first four months he had been there. He knew they were around, of course; they would be fools not to enforce his isolation, and he’d receive some kind of correspondence otherwise. But he never saw them, and the loneliness wore on him more than he would have liked to admit. Zanconne preferred to think of himself as planning new opportunities for when he left (they couldn’t leave him here forever, nor could they track him if he wanted to go), and above the company of others, but this was proved wrong when he saw another dragon for the first time. Two things were immediately apparent- one, that the dragon had sought him out deliberately; and two, that this dragon was related to him in some way. The resemblance was undeniable.

The full story came out in bits and pieces, as they sized each other up. Zanconne learned it over the course of a few days; his son would tell him parts of it after they ate dinner, with the fire still crackling merrily at the mouth of the cave. He had been born five months after the war had started, with his mother among the first to leave. She had been worried, about raising a son in that place, and had foreseen that it would get much, much worse. So she had left with a few others, flying across the Lightning territory to the Sunbeam Ruins. They had family there, he explained; that was who had brought him up and taken them in. It went unspoken that they didn’t have very much family left here- the casualties had been great on both sides. Apollo waited for an apology, but silence prevailed; this would be a running theme. He spoke of his childhood, too, emphasizing that he had never needed a father. Zanconne thought that it had been more idyllic than his own, and that he never would have let his son grow up with such lax supervision. He also thought that for someone who didn’t need a father, the youngling had dedicated quite a lot of effort to finding him, but he didn’t point that out. In a rare show of pure diplomacy, he simply asked what Apollo was doing here. His son only replied that he wanted to see just how terrible Zanconne was. That stung, more than it should. No more was said that night, and though the youngling went to sleep when the moon rose, Zanconne lay awake, thinking about his legacy. It was a shock to know that he had a son- and even more of one to realize that he wanted said son to have something good to say about him. That he wanted a legacy that wasn’t tarnished with blood.

And so began a concerted effort on Zanconne’s part to get to know the kid, to play the father that wasn’t needed and that he didn’t know how to be. It was rough, awkward going at first, but the fact that Apollo hadn’t left yet meant something. Or, he at least wanted it to. He met less resistance than he expected, and was always careful to steer the topic away from his past- Zanconne still thought that he had done the right thing, but he could admit that he had gone about it the wrong way. A comforting lie, to anyone who wanted to believe in his rehabilitation. Slowly, they began to warm to each other, and as the months passed, even enjoyed each other’s company. He learned a little more about his son’s life- that Apollo greatly preferred the Sunbeam Ruins, that he was a scholar at heart, that he wanted to know the truth behind all creation. All of those lofty goals that Zanconne would have derided in another dragon, but with his son, he offered careful encouragement and showed interest. It was genuine, too.

It never occurred to him that he’d have to leave.

Nearly a year passed, before the topic was brought up. Zanconne had quickly realized that his son was a dragon grown, but nothing had really driven it home until he mentioned that he would need to be going. Zanconne knew that the younger dragon couldn’t- wouldn’t- stay forever, but he had thought they’d have longer. It made things tense, especially when he offered to go along, and his son visibly hesitated. Things went quiet, after that, but Zanconne was persistent. He kept dropping hints that he wouldn’t mind going, offered a few tidbits that suggested he probably wasn’t that notorious outside of the Ashfall Waste. Two weeks later, and Apollo was the one to suggest that perhaps he could come with him- they lived in a very small village in the ruins, but his plan was to go to the capital city. It wasn’t likely that anyone would recognize his face among millions there. Zanconne readily agreed, and within a week, they were off. He didn’t even bother leaving a note; they’d left him there to rot, after all.

The trip wasn’t eventful- they travelled mostly by night, until they had left the Ashfall Waste, and flying through the Light territory was easier than he could have expected. Zanconne settled into the city awfully easily, though it was a culture shock to see this many dragons, and such little conflict. The only issue was the distance that seemed to erupt between them on their arrival; before, there had been some semblance of equality, but now, Zanconne was extremely aware that Apollo was the one pulling most of their combined weight. He resented that, but never said it, instead pouring more effort to keeping their lair clean, making sure food was readily available. It didn’t help that the city was boring- there was very little of what interested him in this place of scholars, and Zanconne soon found himself chafing within his confines. He began to take trips outside, visiting more remote places, just enjoying the feeling of the sun against his wings as he flew. And the solitude- it was strange, that he had grown to miss it in such confined, loud quarters. He wouldn’t have said that there was anything wrong if he was asked, though. His son was busy with his studies- and those weren’t anything of interest to Zanconne, just strange abstractions and theories about ancient history, not even of this Age. And Zanconne was enjoying his forays into abandoned ruins, even if the narrow alleys of the city weren’t to his taste.

That’s why it came as such a shock to come home, and find his son waiting for him, uncharacteristically solemn. That’s why his initial reaction to the news was anger, instead of acceptance, and why it never really changed from that. He didn’t understand how Apollo could say he was being chosen to serve the Lightweaver, that he would be enlightened with such a straight face. With the face of someone who actually believed it. Things escalated from there, to say the least- it ended in a fight, something they’d never had before. Zanconne would forever regret what he said that night, and regret leaving in a hurry, unable to bear looking at the other dragon anymore. He would never get the chance to say what he really thought, either; he never managed to say how proud he was, that his son had found his own path, and had stuck to it no matter what. But he had been hurt, deeper than he could ever admit, by what he saw as abandonment. More than that, he knew that he would never be able to convince Apollo not to accept it. It wasn’t the ending either of them wanted, but when he came back in the morning, Apollo was gone. Zanconne didn’t go to the ceremony, and his son didn’t come back, even when day turned to night, and then day again.

He didn’t leave the city yet- not because his son was coming back, but because he didn’t know where he would go. He briefly considered returning to the Waste, to his old clan. They might not have welcomed him with open arms, but he was sure that they could be persuaded otherwise. But he never went through with it- there was nothing for him there, and he refused to live a life on others’ charity, where he should act grateful and humble for them barely tolerating him. The thought still lingered in the back of his mind, only to be dispelled for good when he caught sight of a poster in the marketplace- one which had his likeness on it. He hadn’t been the most conspicuous here, but he left that very night, stealing away on a shipment to the Tangled Wood. It had been an easy decision to make, in the end; they were still hunting him, and any territory bordering the Waste was a bad idea. The Tangled Wood was the best place to disappear without going to the remote corners of the world.

And so he came to Penumbra, curled up as small as he could make himself in the cargo hold of a ship. He still hurt from the loss, but the clever, cunning part of him knew that it was a new opportunity. A new start. He knew the dragon he could have been, if he had stayed with his son, and that part of him rejected it as weak, useless. That Zanconne would never be able to change anything, would never leave a lasting legacy or fight for what he believed in. And that was no dragon he wanted to be. Zanconne swore that he would build a place for himself- with tooth and claw, and blood if need be. He would make a legacy that didn’t rely on anything as flimsy as bloodlines, and he would be remembered, above all else.

This coalesced in the core of him, when he slunk off the ship in Penumbra, prowling from the docks to the narrow alleys of the city itself. It was, he decided, his kind of place. And so he waited, watched and listened, biding his time and gathering information. He learned about the Tsarinas who ruled this clan, picked apart what he could of their habits, their personalities. And, as he kept looking, he kept finding dragons who disagreed with them. Not many were in the clan, to be sure, but there were those outside it who had long been watching the territory, waiting to see what would happen. They were cowards in the end, who wouldn’t make a move on their own, but Zanconne was more than willing to provide them motivation and leadership to do it. It proved more difficult than he originally anticipated, not dissimilar to herding cats- and his skills were rusty, too. But he slowly managed to win them over to his side, convince them that a slow attack was best. Things needed to be destabilized, for the transition of power to be easy- and this time, he made sure they knew who would be holding that power. Of course he promised them ample rewards and riches, but every single dragon under him knew that it wouldn’t be any of them on the throne. The ones who didn’t like that idea, who were most likely to do something about it- well, accidents could happen easily enough. Just as accidents could happen to the Tsarinas.

He set his underlings to ambushing trading shipments, to stealing and spreading discontent and rumour through the city. It was slow, painstaking work, and difficult to restrain the more overzealous dragons who wanted something to happen immediately. But he managed it. In fact, it was going perfectly- up until the actual assassination plan. Things were nearing their peak in the clan; the dragons were hungry, confused, and wary. Some had ventured into the surrounding woods to hunt for food, but Zanconne ensured that they never returned- unless, of course, they were interested in a position of some power for themselves. He’d waited until they had sufficient numbers before he struck, choosing the Winter Solstice for his plans. The Tsarinas would be addressing the clan, no doubt to reassure them with useless platitudes and sincere words to move their hearts and restore blind faith. And that would be the perfect time to strike- before they could speak, but in full view of everyone around. They would know then who the real leader was.

Zanconne himself was in the gathered crowd, his dragons dispersed throughout, and more of them lurking in the shadows and side streets, or on rooftops. The rest would be where the Tsarinas lived, the seat of power. It would be seized easily, on a night like this. Zanconne crept forward, and just as Vedma began to speak, he launched himself right at her, claws out and teeth bared in a snarl. He could see the surprise in her eyes- right until Rhea slammed into his side. The square had erupted into chaos around them, but as he tussled with the Tsarinas, holding them off, he soon realized that it was his side that was losing. He had not been afraid in a long, long time, but he vaguely recognized it as the feeling turning his paws numb and settling cold and heavy in his belly. He couldn’t flee, not with the guards closing in around him, and Zanconne realized with horror that he’d miscalculated. He had lost. He didn’t think that they would put up a fight, didn’t think that they were capable of it. They were peacetime leaders, meant to be gentle and kind, skilled in diplomacy but not combat. But as Vedma pressed her claws into his throat, and stared down at him with a cold, cold gaze, before declaring he was to be locked away in the dungeon, he realized that he’d been wrong.

This, of course, just made them worthy adversaries.

He made sure they saw his smile as he was taken away, his fangs gleaming in the dim moonlight. He would be back.