Apollo

The Desert Prince

Between the Snowsquall Tundra and the Cloudscrape Crags lies a wide swath of land unofficially recognized as the Province of Págosankan--the combined territories of seven clans, protected under and ruled over by the noble dragons of Clan Frostfire. No one is entirely sure when exactly they came to the barely-hospitable lands of the Icewarden, but it is a well-known fact to the denizens of Págosankan that the Frostfire clan originally hailed from the very heartlands of the Ashfall Wastes, sycophants to the Flameforger herself before they were banished for a reason known to none but themselves.

The dragons of Clan Frostfire are a living contradiction, each one of a conflicting and dual nature. Though their eyes each bear the deathly-pale blue hue of the frozen flatlands, and they present themselves as staunch and cold as any true child of the Icewarden should be--cool and collected, logical and aloof--the embers of their heritage still burn fiercely within, a whirlwind of emotional and passionate motivational nature just barely kept in check by calm and thoughtful organizational nurture.

Apollo is no different. The young prince had quite emotional and passionate motivation in his desire to leave the kingdom, and he was very calm and thoughtful as he organized his escape.

It was a dire time to be of Frostfire blood. Though they had once, in generations past, prided themselves in their loyalty to one another, tension and distrust now strained between most every one of them, underscored with whispered plots and calculating gazes.

It came to a head when the leader of the clan and High Queen of Págosankan had been found at the topmost tower of the Frostfire Fortress, eyes unseeing as she lie on her back with a bloody glasglow smile carved out of her throat and her heart removed and impaled on a nearby decorative ice spike, just for good measure. Assassinated in cold blood, yet the killer had been invested enough in the murder to defile the body.

They all knew it was one of them. But who? Was it one of her siblings, in line for the throne? Or one of her own children, not yet old enough to ascend to the throne themselves, but having enough years to know which of their relatives would pave the best path for their rule? Perhaps an assassin sent by the traitorous and scorned former King, caught dealing with agents of the Shade?

The small kingdom began to fall and divide. Brothers-in-blood became suspicious and wary of one another, forming secret alliances forged in paranoia. The Lords of the province--leaders of the other six clans--were forced to choose sides in the many-faceted conflict... or perish. The bonds of family that had lasted for generations were disintegrating like so many pieces of soggy parchment.

Apollo knew he had a target on his back, as both a suspect in the murder, and a potential victim of the next one. Even though he was still only in his drakeling years, he was still the eldest, and the throne was his by birthright when he came of age.

He wanted to find his mother's muderer more than anyone could know.

But he knew he couldn't do that if he were dead, either. And he knew that, whatever the result of the conflict should be, that the throne was and would always be his by birthright, and that he would return to take it when he was strong enough and the dust had settled. Perhaps then, the killer's identity would be known.

So the prince left before the war truly broke out. Stole away in the night like a thief, with the warmest clothing he could find, a pantry's worth of food and a treasure chest of gold both shoved into an enchanted satchel on his back, the guards in his path successfully bribed (or distracted by the bribed guards,) and no clue where he was going. Away from Págosankan was all he knew.

Far, far away.

He was approaching the border of the province when, back in the castle, a dark form slipped silently into his unoccupied room, a cloth soaked in an almond-smelling liquid in one hand and a steel dagger in the other. When they discovered their intended taget nowhere to be found, they let out a silent snarl, feeling cheated. But they were nothing if not resourceful.

The next day, a castle servant discovered the scene--the room all a mess, with broken pottery and fallen shelves everywhere, spatters of blood covering every other surface. The assassin hadn't liked cutting their own forearm for it, but it was far better than their employer cutting off their head if they found out that they'd failed.

Alas, young Apollo, though he knew well the dangers of power and politics, didn't anticipate the dangers of the world outside--thieves, for instance. While they were kind enough to leave him with his life, they made off with his very pricey winter garb and his sack of food and valuables, leaving him with little else to protect him from the winter but his thin coat of fur and feathers.

The paths of the snow-stacked Tundra were barren, the coldest snap of winter having been broken in weeks ago, accompanied by long, dark nights and gloomy, grey days. To say travelers were scarce would be an understatement.

The runaway prince survived off bark and berries for days, holing up in snow dugouts by the side of the beaten path where he wrapped himself in frostbitten wings to keep warm for the night. Eventually, he hoped, he'd come across a town, or someone with spare clothes. His fingers and toes were taking longer and longer to regain feeling after he woke up, and his stomach was keening sharply for something green.

He thought, one night--as he lay by the side of the road, lacking the energy to even push some snow into a windbreak, cold and apathetic stars twinkling above--that he saw the distant light of a caravan lantern, and maybe heard the sound of steps and hoofbeats approaching nearer, but as he stopped shivering and his eyes began to flutter shut, he wrote it off as just another hallucination this godsforsaken desert of snow had conjured up for him.

* * *

When he awoke, Apollo was absolutely certain he had died and gone straight to hell.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but black. He could hear and feel a deep rumbling in his chest, and he felt an unbearably heavy weight bearing down on him from behind, bones on the verge of collapse. All around him, the air was murky and humid and, in direct contrast to the living hell of ice and snow he'd been in earlier, swelteringly hot.

And it reeked.

He began thrashing as much as his tired muscles would allow, not willing to let this just happen without some sort of the resistance. If this was to be his afterlife, he'd claw whoever was down here with him until they let him out! Bite them, beat them with his wings, make them sor--!

And then he yelped as the weight lifted and the light of day pierced his eyes, a welcome breeze of cool, crisp air wafting over him.

"'Ey, boss! Kid's a-woke up!" he heard from above, and the rumbling slowed, then stopped.

The stench was still present.

He looked up weakly, squinting as his eyes adjusted, and he saw what else but the face of a fluffy Tundra grinning down at him.

"We was shore yew was a goner there, kid!" he barked happily, before getting all the way up and scooting over to the side of the cart. Apollo looked down, to the source of the stench and humid heat.

Him and the tundra were lying on what appeared to be compost--ripe for the growing, by the smell of it. The drakeling looked back away from it before he could let himself identify whatever it was wriggling in it, trying to hold back the bark and berries that threatened to make a reappearance.

He shuddered and his strength left him again, minor adrenaline rush spent. With no little amount of effort, Apollo managed to sidle back up to the tundra before collapsing, not wanting to spend any more quality time with the rotting refuse they were lying upon.

The unnamed dragon stretched out a wing to cover him. "What's a li'l 'ol thing like yew doin' way out here anyhow, no clothes 'r nuthin'?" he asked. "Don't'cher parents worry?"

A small pang of sadness hit him at the mention of family, but Apollo pushed it aside. He managed only a grunt--no, definitely not a squeak--in reply as he listened to someone up front unbuckle something and then drop something heavy and wooden with a thunk. Their footsteps came around the caravan, and then the head of a centaur popped in through the back canvas.

"Ha!" they said happily, scarf covering their mouth and muffling them a little, their ears perking forward as the corners of their eyes scrunched up from a hidden smile. "Ah knew yew wasn't dead! Joey 'ere's a good blanket, eh?" They snorted, then pulled down the scarf, revealing a buck-toothed and lopsided smile, face dotted with freckles and a white piebald splotch. "Sorry 'bout dumpin' ya on th' compost, tho, but'cha was frozen most-way ta death, 'n this stuff gets real hot, what with all the bacteria 'n rot growin' in it, so it seemed a good idea." They pulled a face and wrinkled their nose. "Might wanna nice long bath later though, kid."

Apollo let out a groan. "Where... are we?" he managed to croak after a second.

"Bout half a keelo-meter from the ferry o'er ta the Windswept Plateau, mah good skydancer!" The centaur cocked their head. "What's yer name, anyhow?"

He thought about it for a second... would it be safe to tell them?

He looked between their goofy grins, both pointed directly at him, and decided he was probably in little danger here.

"Apollo."

A strange paw, with five digits and no pads or scales, just brown-and-white piebald skin and flat, useless fingernails, was thrust out at him, and it took him a second before he remembered his manners and hesitantly reached out to shake it. He'd never met a centaur in real life before; they were just as strange as he'd been told. Not nearly as mean or vicious as he'd been told, though.

"Ah'm Merrianne!" said the centaur, her eyes twinkling as she shook the prince's small paw in her own (comparitively) large hand. "'N ya alredy met Joey 'ere."

"Hi!"

Apollo nodded his head, thinking. "The... Winswept Plateau?"

Joey nodded, the fur of his mane brushing against Apollo's face. "Eeyup."

"Y'see, kid," Merrianne started, leaning against the side of the caravan, "Mah herd's been makin' fertilizer that'd make th' Gladekeeper green... well, greener, with envy fer generations! People pay a lot fer this stuff! Ah help make it 'n deliver it, 'n mah bud Joey 'ere helps me out. His sniffer can tell when this stuff's juuuust right!"

Joey smirked proudly, and Apollo pulled a face at the reminder that he was sitting in, what in all honesty, was probably not mostly mud. At least he was getting used to the smell, and it really was warm. Though, he wasn't sure if his fur would be stained after this or not.

"So," Merrianne continued, "Y'know, we just got done deliverin' ta these folks what grow their food in a nice big greenhouse o'er yonder, 'n now we're makin' a delivery o'er ta this cute li'l clan by the Crecendo in the Plains, right around where we live. They got a real purdy garden!"

Her expression grew thoughful. "An', y'know, there's a right ton 'a skydancers there--Ah reckon they might take a shine ta ya!"

Apollo nodded thoughtfully. That... sounded nice. He'd try not to get his hopes up too much, but it was worth a shot.

"Yeah," he said, a small smile flashing across his muzzle. It could be good.

They stayed in comfortable silence for a moment before he spoke again. "Can I get out of the poo pile now?"

* * *

And so it went--Apollo and his newfound friends traveled over the sea and to the bamboo-lined plains of the Windsinger's domain (after some food and medical attention, of course.) The young dragon had never seen such greenery, and the merchants simply smiled at his wonder, showing him how the bamboo whistled if you blew at its top just right and surprising him with the sight of thousands of kites dotting the sky in a rainbow of shapes and colors. He ran around and flew, feeling a freedom he'd never experienced before, and by the time they made it to the home of clan Willow Tree, he was absolutely ecstatic, rushing up to meet everyone.

Merrianne was right--they did indeed take a shine to him and, over time, the desire for his throne back home simply appealed less and less to him. He's not aware that the citizens of Págosankan pray for freedom under the heavy-handed, tyrannical reign of their new 'King', and he's not about to go looking into it.

Perhaps someday, that destiny will find him, but for now, he's content to live his lackadaisical life in clan Willow Tree, looking forward to the company of his family and the occasional visits of two particularly stinky merchants.

Bio by Pangur (#70219)




Art by NaettleLeaf (#76222)


Art by FANATTIC (#85762)


Art by Lunibear (#26911)