Sailamon

“I’m not looking for trouble....”

Yet actually, he always is.

One will never hear these words from Sailamon, however, no matter how true they are. In fact, where one might encounter him is a difficult question to answer. The Southern Icefield is vast, and besides, he is not usually found in places that are thronging with people.

He is likelier to be found, instead, in the great, vast wilderness that few clans dare to call home. Out here, the land belongs to the ice itself. Here, dragons and Beastclans alike might rightly be considered intruders: The land is inhospitable, ever-changing as the ice and snow shift—hour after hour, each patch of terrain sculpted into new and alien landscapes. For most of the year, darkness reigns, the sun asleep below the horizon.

Out here, clans are few and far between: islands of civilization floating in a dark and merciless sea. They only rarely encounter each other, and meetings are not always peaceful. The coldest lands sometimes stoke the hottest tempers.

“Back off!” the dragons growl. It’s another cold and miserable day, and they’ve just found a school of Maren in their fishing grounds. “You think you can just swan in and steal from us like that?”

“You wyrms are the thieves! Our families have roamed these waters for generations. We have every right to be here!”

Tempers flaring, weapons rattling...In more prosperous lands, harmony might be an option. But out in such brutal terrain, it seems unthinkable.

Or does it?

The belligerents retreat to their shelters...and as they cluster in groups, grimly muttering about conflict and retribution, Sailamon appears. Or perhaps his presence is noticed is a better way to put it. Nobody ever actually sees Sailamon arrive.

“Friends, why all these harsh words?” His voice is soft, and perhaps a little sad. He blinks, and snowflakes fall gently from his blue eyes. “Can we not live and let live?”

The cries rage around him, a blizzard of anger and fear: They don’t belong here!—They’re stealing from us!—We need to feed our families!—We must defend our homes! Yet he sits, calm and unafraid. Snow drifts quietly from his eyes.

“You have a right to be here,” he responds. “You all do.”

Sailamon’s voice is as gentle as the accusations are loud. Perhaps this is why dragons and Beasts alike, instead of shouting him down, lean in closer to hear him better.

Their brains might not know it yet, but their hearts do—that he is correct, and the Southern Icefield is home to all those who desire to call it so. They are all alike, striving to survive in this frozen expanse. Should this not unite them? Why waste energy arguing when cooperation will make them strong?

It doesn’t happen overnight, but with Sailamon’s patient coaxing, eventually, it does: peace comes to the warring parties, and they lay down their weapons and put their grievances aside. The conflict that Sailamon addressed now seems like a bad dream.

When peace has been brokered and the clans are working together, that is when Sailamon leaves. Nobody sees him go either, and oftentimes, people wonder if he was a dream. But the sigh of falling snow, the peaceful hush he leaves behind, remind them that he was real. His words embed themselves deep inside their hearts, tamping down the fires of hatred and rage.

~ ~ ~
Such a strange dragon...if dragon he may be. There have of course been attempts to find out more about this benevolent Skydancer.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw...a Skydancer. I don’t remember—was he young? He seemed young. He stood up straight. His feathers were dark and glossy....But at the same time, he seemed old. He spoke with such gravity. His face...his eyes...”

Everybody remembers Sailamon’s eyes: pale as frost, but not cold, despite the snowflakes drifting from them. They’re soothing and steady, almost warm...

“Can you tell me what he was wearing? Was he dressed like a hunter, perhaps?”

“Maybe...an explorer?” Witnesses always struggle to remember. There’s the impression of heavy furs, but that’s not unusual; plenty of Skydancers bundle themselves up in furs. There are fleeting memories of sound: the faint clink of brass buckles, the rustle of turning pages, a warm drink sloshing in a canteen...

“Red. There was definitely a red mantle. It looked well worn. But still so warm...”

And there are those who say that Sailamon doesn’t always travel alone.

He has companions: a pair of small, sweet cats. They ride between his wings or curl atop his head. They purr comfortingly beside him—or beside those still beset by darker feelings. Like their master’s words, their presence is calming, and they help chase the darkness away.

“One was gray. Lovely little thing, just like a tiny, puffy storm cloud. And another one, as black as the night. How lovely they were, how soft. They nestled right up to me, purring all the while. And I knew when I heard them that everything would be all right....”

Do they have names? “Hans...and Piffle, he’s the gray one,” witnesses earnestly declare. But try though they might, they can’t remember how they knew these. Did Sailamon tell them, or did they hear these from someone else?

How do they even know Sailamon’s name?

As long as he keeps wandering the Icefield, the questions will keep coming. Whether they are answered to any satisfaction remains yet to be seen.

But one thing seems certain: Even in the most desolate reaches of the Icefield, when dragons and Beastclans alike face the darkness between and within themselves, he’ll be there. Sailamon is always looking for trouble...so that he can dispel it, and the dwellers of the Icefield will again know peace.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
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