Tristan

Tristan picked idly at a small fleck of moss under one of his foreclaws, his brow furrowed in irritation. She was late again. It was almost three months since he had begun courting Lartania, a brilliantly hued Coatl from a neighbouring clan with mulberry whorls that complimented his own scales. This was the longest relationship the glistening Imperial had had since leaving his own clan, long enough that some of the older dragons— mostly Euron—had begun to tease him about finally settling down. Tristan let them, mostly because he didn’t want Lartania to hear rumours of him denying their relationship. Not that that seemed likely to last much longer.

Tristan waited for another half hour, fingering the delicate pearl bracelet she had given him two weeks before. He didn’t know why Lartania was avoiding him, but he was pretty sure she was. With a final glace across the deep, brackish water of the boggy inlet that separated their two clans’ territories, he pushed himself off the soggy eastern bank of the Driftwood drag, his leathery wings pushing away the stagnant air as he cast about for some sign of the Heart Tree. His sense of direction was good and the tree itself was massive, but the ever-present mists of his homeland made getting anywhere in a hurry a searing pain. The gentle ripples and cries of distant creatures no longer sounded romantic as the Drag fell away beneath him: instead, they almost seemed to be laughing.

As the shadows dropped away, he realized he’d forgotten the carefully wrapped gift he’d brought to the meeting spot. The material for the silky scarf, a twin to the one he wore, had cost him a small fortune, and he seriously considered going back for it. Sear it, he thought, turning his long neck away from the gloom beneath him. If she wants to make a fashion statement, she’ll have to learn to show up for her appointments first. He thrust himself upward again, his leathery wings straining with the force of his motion, and then he was out.

He hung for a minute as he always did, suspended between the purplish mists and the clear blue sky. Sunlight warmed his wings, and he felt his frustration fade just slightly. He had only ever known a few other Imperials, all of those members of Shadow clans, but he had learned from a young age that they weren’t supposed to enjoy the sunlight. Still, he did. Something about it soothed his worries in a way that the Shadowbinder’s priests never had, and as he hung there the endless blue sky seemed to call him away to the east. Then the moment passed, and as gravity began to reassert itself he regretfully turned his lithe form toward the dark, distant shape he knew to be the mist-wrapped branches of the Heart Tree.

It was far sooner than he would have liked that Tristan arrived home. As he descended into the mists his gloom returned in full, and he crashed through the Wispwillow Grove’s dense canopy with far less care than he usually took. Lasha, draped as usual in an eclectic collection of twigs and vines, shot him a glare as he brushed tatters of moss from his wings, but he ignored her. Searing nosy woods witch, he thought, striding away from her and the carefully tended rows of fungus she called a garden before she could say anything. Can’t she see I’m not in the mood?

Tristan stormed into the lair’s main cavern, scattering a cloud of young Faes like glittering butterflies. They waved their fins at him in what he could only guess was annoyance, but a gust of air as he lashed his tail sent them scurrying for cover. The main cavern had been dug out from the earth beneath the Heart Tree’s roots, and the lack of wooden walls made it one of the few places in the lair where fire could be safely used as a light source. Basins of burning oil stood on stone pedestals around the cavern, but the black earth and ever-present glowing lichen still gave the space an eerie feel. The Heart Tree’s roots, each several times larger than a normal tree trunk, thrust down from the ceiling and into the cavern floor like pillars, their sides bearing the initials and cryptic carved messages of a thousand idle claws. The clan leaders were always talking about cleaning up the graffiti, but they never did. They, like Tristan, could see the clan’s history unfolding on the roots, every gouge and lopsided symbol meaning something to the dragons that had left them.

Tristan stopped by one particular root, easily finding the carved heart with the letters T and L carved into it. His powerful foreclaw obliterated the heart in one swing, and removed a sizable chunk of the root’s bark besides. Tristan hastily dropped the bark, not wanting to earn himself a scolding from Lasha or one of the other conservationists. He hurried away from the root, trying not to look guilty, and found himself moving as if by instinct toward a warmly glowing cave mouth off the main cavern.

The Hole in the Stone was the clan’s most popular pub. Euron, the proprietor, had been one of the first dragons to join the clan, but he didn’t have any Moondust’s stern authority or Lasha’s almost fanatical dedication. Instead, the portly Tundra seemed satisfied to serve up everything from tossed greens to deep fried eels for the dragons who walked through his door, doling out gossip and words of encouragement in almost equal measure. Tristan knew the woolly little dragon had spent a fortune designing his establishment, but he considered it well worth it. The pub’s walls and low vaulted ceilings were lined with bricks of pale sandstone that Euron and whoever happened to be working for him at the time kept scraped free of lichen, with wide granite hearths and polished oaken floors that never showed a hint of dirt. The resulting network of caves and nooks were the only place in the entire lair where the gloom and damp of the Tangled Wood were completely absent, and dragons of all sizes could come together happily.

Euron must have seen something in the dusky Imperial’s face as he entered, for he expertly maneuvered his bulky form out from behind the crowded bar and wordlessly guided Tristan into one of the smaller back rooms. Here the din of the front cave was muffled enough to be little more than a hum and only a few dragons sat at tables along the walls, lost in thought or working on projects that Tristan didn’t bother to try to get a glimpse of. Euron led him to a large booth at the back, which Tristan knew was built to be comfortable for Imperials. There were only a few like it in the establishment, and he was glad this one was empty.

Euron’s ever-present dishcloth whisked away a few errant smears on the tabletop, then the Tundra bustled back into the front room. He returned a few minutes later with a clay mug of mulled Fireflower cider, the plants’ sharp tang complimented by Euron’s secret concoction of spices. Tristan’s snout was more delicate than most Imperials’, but he was still glad of the wide mug as he lifted it to his lips.

“Do you want to talk about it son?” Euron asked, in the same kindly voice Tristan had been hearing since he first joined the clan.

He shook his head and went back to his cider. Not yet, he thought, and the Tundra seemed to accept his wordless response. As the other dragon left, Tristan wondered what he should do next. Travel, maybe. He had been born to an ancient light clan at the edge of the Hewn City, and when he reached adulthood had moved farther into the gloom that bordered the Lightweaver's region rather than seek his fortune elsewhere as so many of his breed did. Yes, he mused, it might be good to see a bit of the world. Maybe even travel to the Sunbeam Ruins proper. It would be nice to see the sun again.

Smiling to himself for the first time that day, Tristan settled back in his seat. The cider and the glowing hearth had chased away the Shadowbinder’s damp chill, and Euron’s gentle understanding had soothed him even more than he’d expected. Idly, he noticed the pearl bracelet was still on his wrist. He touched it gently, but did not remove it.