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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
13.27 m
Wingspan
20.67 m
Weight
7166.6 kg
Genetics
Steel
Metallic
Metallic
Twilight
Blend
Blend
Vermilion
Firefly
Firefly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Guardian
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
8
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
8
MND
6
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
NOT FOR SALE, TRADE, OR LENDING
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The Storyteller's Charge
"Stay away from Grandsire's labs!" —for as long as Janus could remember, the warning had been spoken in his clan. The words made Grandsire seem like a fearsome beast of legend, his labs the lair of diabolical fiends.
But Janus had never known Grandsire to be anything but warm and accommodating. In a clan comprised largely of Guardians—many of whom were warriors, and his relatives and descendants besides—he stood out. He had been a tremendous fighter in his youth, but had put all that aside to study magic, particularly its applications on the battlefield.
This was why hatchlings were discouraged from visiting Grandsire's labs: No matter how kind he was, his experiments did have some danger to them. Janus had been obedient at first, but something about the labs had drawn him in. It wasn't just the element of danger, which more rakish dragons found attractive—there was something specific in there that seemed to call to him.
And so, one day, Grandsire stepped into his study, closing the door carefully behind him...and there was little Janus, staring as if spellbound, at a large wooden chest on the nearby shelf.
The immediate look on the hatchling's face was one of panic, but Grandsire just laughed. He took the chest down and opened it. Inside were papers upon papers. Janus was too young to read them, but he found himself drawn to the parchments, the diagrams and maps. He picked up each sheet in wonder, feeling the crispness between his talons.
"But what is it?" he chirped, holding up a letter. Grandsire looked at it, and for a moment, his craggy face, his bright eyes, softened with distant memories.
And then he smiled, warm and cheerful again. "A story, my boy. Let's see...Shall I tell you this old tale?"
Janus crowed in delight. He settled more comfortably upon the floor, his tail curling around the chest of letters. By the time his father, Ouran, came looking for him, he had heard Grandsire's tale, plus several more. Ouran's expression was apologetic, but Grandsire waved him off, chuckling warmly.
"It was no trouble at all! He had the good sense to stay put....We had a fun little storytelling session."
"What about?" Ouran asked—he'd noticed the chest on the floor. Grandsire's answering smile was faint. "Mostly bygone things."
Janus said goodbye and followed his father home. That had gone better than he'd anticipated; he'd thought he would get scolded.
He wasn't entirely off the hook yet, however. In their den, as he was lifted into his nest, his father said, "I'm glad you had a pleasant time, but it won't do to bother Grandsire while he's working."
"But he wasn't working!" Janus protested. "He opened the box, and I saw all the papers, and heard so many stories!"
He babbled eagerly about old friends and far-off places, mages and warriors and mysteries. Ouran's concerned expression slowly faded, till he was smiling indulgently again.
"I suppose it was OK. But don't bother Grandsire again, all right?"
"I won't!" Janus answered earnestly, snuggling down into his blankets. His father bade him good night and lumbered off, and the hatchling found himself mulling over the day's events. It had been a very interesting day; despite what the adults had said, Grandsire hadn't seemed to mind his company. He'd even kindly told him all those stories....The beautiful wooden box loomed large in Janus' mind. There was something about it...
Over the next few months, Janus found himself drawn back to the labs. Grandsire made sure the doors and windows were closed, but paused when he saw Janus outside, peering curiously at the stone walls.
"I ought not to encourage him," he thought—yet he couldn't help inviting his grandchild inside and offering him snacks and tea. Other hatchlings had approached him before, intrigued by the work that went on in the labs. He guessed that this was why Janus was visiting, and so he made a few carefully-phrased observations about his experiments. The tiny Guardian didn't seem interested in these, however.
"Shall we try a story, then?" he ventured—and sure enough, Janus' golden eyes lit up. "Yes, please! A story!" he cried.
When Ouran came to pick him up later, they didn't leave immediately. Instead, the two older Guardians conferred together for a long moment, occasionally shooting thoughtful glances back at him. Janus wondered about this, but he also knew not to push his luck, and so he didn't ask his father as they headed home.
He made efforts to stay away, but the strange, siren call of Grandsire's stories kept whispering in his ears. He'd heard only a fraction of what was in that trunk. He had to know more...
When Janus returned to the labs a few days later, he didn't pause to wonder why the door was unlocked. He went straight to Grandsire's study, where the box of stories was. But even though it was in its usual spot on the shelf, something about it seemed...different. He was positive it looked the same as ever, but...
"Can I help you, grandson?" Grandsire rumbled as he entered the room. Janus looked at the chest, and then back at him again.
"A story?" he peeped. Grandsire gave him an amused look. "Yes? Where are the stories, Janus?"
"They're...not here. Did you hide them?" The little Guardian started nosing at the lower shelves, peering suspiciously at the books.
He jumped as Grandsire let out a loud, delighted laugh. “I see! And at such a young age, too...Most Guardians are already grown by the time the Search makes itself known to them."
Janus had heard the term before. He didn't fully understand its import yet, but it sent a thrill of excitement through his scales. "The...Search?"
Ouran arrived soon after. He sat down beside Grandsire, and the two great Guardians gave Janus a simplified explanation of the Search...and the Charge.
"It looks like you've found yours already!" Grandsire chuckled. He proffered his papers, now in a smaller box, which the hatchling eagerly pounced on.
After a few seconds, however, Janus looked up in puzzlement. "The others?"
Grandsire's laugh was just a bit rueful this time. Ouran's frills flattened. “Janus, I think it's best if you get just these for now—"
"But I need all of them!"
Ouran grunted in surprise. Rather gruffly, he said, "I understand. But Grandsire needs his notes, too."
"These should be OK, though." Grandsire gently pushed the smaller box towards Janus again. He smoothed back the hatchling's frills with a chipped, iron-gray claw. "You can come play with the others in the afternoons, when I'm done working. When my work is complete, then I shall be happy to give them to you."
"Really?" Young, eager Janus didn't even pause to think about when that might be—all that mattered was that it would happen.
"Of course! But for now, I need them. So many stories...records, studies...I need to learn more about magic, you see, from old friends and other researchers. But someday...yes, definitely someday..."
As Grandsire had promised, Janus was allowed into the lab to make sure his Charge—that extensive collection of letters and notes—was still in good condition. Grandsire did give him more notes he no longer had any need for, and engaged the services of scribes and artists to copy the others, so that Janus could have the originals.
"That idea seems to be working," Grandsire muttered as he and Ouran watched Janus dig through his newest batch of papers. "There are worse Charges to be had, I suppose."
He and Ouran exchanged looks of understanding. Janus hadn't asked about their Charges yet, though they knew it was only a matter of time. Most young Guardians did get curious, eventually.
And sometimes, old Guardians did, too: "But Grandsire, what do you think it is that Janus...?"
"Judging by the fact that he seems as happy with the copies as he is with the originals, I would say that his Charge is actually the information written on them. Still, I believe the notes are necessary: Information is fragile, easily forgotten or altered by time or our own memories. Written records preserve things more accurately...preserve the truth of something..."
"Perhaps once he's older and we can talk with him more easily, we'll understand."
The conversation hovered just on the edge of Janus' hearing, but he didn't pay it much mind; his collection of notes was growing. He didn't understand what was written on them yet, but the strange, silent force that drove him to seek these notes out also assured him that he'd have the truth of it someday. "Yes. Just like Papa and Grandsire, I'm a Light dragon! I'll protect the truth! Someday when I'm bigger. Someday..."
That longed-for someday never came for Grandsire. The old drake continued his research, and one evening, a miscalculation—a word spoken at the wrong time, perhaps, or too much of a certain ingredient—resulted in the destruction of his labs. Janus had just gone to sleep when it happened: a tremendous explosion, so loud it seemed the very planet was shattering. He didn't even realize he was screaming until the sound died away. Only then did he become aware that his father was crouched next to him, shielding him protectively with one wing.
"What happened?" he cried—and heard the same question echoed by many different voices, as his clanmates all demanded to know the same thing: "What happened?—Where was that?—Is anybody hurt?—Where's Grandsire?"
Panic and confusion ensued then, as the clan's remaining leaders rallied and organized rescue efforts. Janus and Ouran lived far enough from the blast that they were in no danger, but the hatchling was quickly handed over to a caretaker while Ouran and other adults went to aid their clanmates.
A cold, bleak dawn broke the next day, as the dragons trudged over to where their children were waiting. Janus saw his father stride out of the fog; he ran over and looked up into the larger Guardian's face. Ouran looked gravely back, and the hatchling's heart sank.
Grandsire had perished in the blast. While much of his labs remained standing, the clan's mages judged them to be contaminated with harmful magics, and had warded these for everyone's protection. Janus could see the labs' remains at the edge of the lair: There was a dome of delicate golden light, oddly beautiful in the bleak, faint sunshine. Beneath it, however, the stones of the laboratories glowed with ugly, sullen colors, dull greens and yellows and blues.
"What happened?" he gasped. He'd asked the question earlier, but Ouran knew that he needed a different answer this time: "Whatever went wrong has also sunk into the stones and the ground. The mages will have to clean it up thoroughly before it's safe again."
"Will we have to go away?"
"No," Ouran said, "but we shouldn't go anywhere near it."
Janus was about to ask more questions, but he stopped, his frills quivering in shock: A small knot of mages was gathered nearby, and he'd just heard some very alarming words from them.
"...severely contaminated...too difficult to cleanse...will have to be destroyed..."
"No!" Janus let out a piercing scream. The mages turned in astonishment as the little Guardian thundered up to them.
"You can't! My Charge is in there! My Charge!"
The mage at the front sighed. "Janus, listen to me—" she began, but Janus wouldn't have it. He kept screaming while the mages looked gravely on and other dragons shrank away. His father tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Eventually, he was picked up and borne away.
He didn't struggle, because he knew that the mages were right. The labs...Just looking at them turned his stomach. There was something wrong about the way they glowed like that, something awful and dangerous. "Stay away from Grandsire's labs!" —the warning had never rung truer.
But more than that, the certainty of losing his Charge left an icy, heavy feeling in his chest. He couldn't scream anymore; he could barely breathe. All he could do was tremble as his father carried him away.
"It will be all right, Janus." Ouran sounded brave and firm, but couldn't hide the grief in his own eyes. "We'll talk to the scribes; they'll have copies...Perhaps someday you'll find...It will be all right. Everything will be fine...."
It took a long time for the mages to complete their work. In a clan founded by Guardians, populated mostly by Guardians, the purposeful destruction of one's Charge was a matter of utmost gravity.
"But he's so young," some of the mages objected. "Surely this can't be his Charge. Surely he'll go on a real Search and find..."
"But Grandsire confirmed it....He ran some tests, didn't he? The recognition of one's Charge runs deeper than instinct. We all know this. We know..."
Regardless of where they stood on that matter, however, they all agreed on one thing: The enchantments had to be dispelled, and the only way to do that was by totally destroying the labs. Even Grandsire's body could not be recovered.
The mages focused their magic on the dome. It grew brighter, more opaque, as it shrank. The stones and wood cracked audibly beneath it as the structures buckled...and then there was a final, muffled crash as the dome imploded. It left a scorched black crater and wisps of smoke, which were swiftly blown away by the wind.
Janus felt sick when he saw it. Like the others, he'd held onto some small hope that maybe he had been wrong and his grandfather's records weren't his Charge. But now...
The days that followed were dark and dismal. The clan struggled to adjust to the loss of their progenitor; Janus struggled with his own bereavement. He remembered the wooden chest, the feel of the papers against his paws. But more than that, he remembered—
"A story, dear boy. Shall I tell you...?"
Ouran did not talk about this much with him—not that Janus wanted to. But it was enough for him to be nearby, always on hand to tend to his son. Janus stuck close to him whenever he went out on errands, and they very carefully avoided going near the blast site.
Months passed, and the seasons turned. One autumn day, Ouran noticed how his son was looking nervously towards where the labs had been. It was a sorrowful, anxious look...but still he tried.
"It looks quite different now, I've heard," he said gently. And Janus, understanding the unspoken question, gave a small nod.
Soon the two of them were standing on the edge of what had been the blast site. The crater was now overgrown with lush grass, the blades golden with the arrival of autumn. From among them rose a short, roughly carved marble column. Glowing runes danced in the air above it: a brief explanation of the site and its significance to the clan.
"It looks so...clean."
Ouran nodded towards the marble column. "Grandsire would've liked that. He was a big believer in recording things. When I was your age, he already had plenty of notes, whole stacks of them."
"About...his work?"
"All kinds of things—and people. He traveled a lot when he was younger, learned and studied with many other dragons. They were always excited to share their stories with him. Some of them helped him with his research...but most letters, I think, he kept because he wanted to remember those times and people as he grew older."
"And who was...Grandsire's Charge?"
"I never knew them," Ouran admitted quietly. "They were gone long before I was born. I always thought...maybe his research was because..."
He glanced back at the plaque and sighed.
"The loss of a Charge is...always difficult..." And then, realizing he'd spoken aloud, he quickly added, "We could visit Grandsire's scribes. I'm sure some of them still have—"
"No. Umm...let's go home."
"All right, then."
The two of them headed back to the den together. They were nearly at the entrance when Janus piped up again: "Papa? Will you tell me more stories...about Grandsire?"
Ouran's face relaxed in a smile. "Of course. Let's write them down. We'll talk about them together, and someday, you'll be able to read and write stories of your own..."
"Yes, thank you. I'd like that."
Just as the seasons turned, so too did the years. Janus learned to write down his father's stories, and the stories other clanmates shared with him. At first he was interested only in tales about his grandfather—but as time passed, he began writing about his father, his clanmates, even strangers...
He never did find all the notes that Grandsire had promised to him. His Charge was gone forever. But then again, there were things—and people—more important than Charges....
And he did go on a search eventually, though not to find a new Charge.
Many years later—another lair. It was in another clan of Light, but the chamber was under the ground, the air chilly and dark. Janus remained optimistic, though. He looked into the pool of water before him, and bubbles fountained up from it as a tremendous white Imperial emerged, pale lights shining along his metal-bound hide.
"You’re our...new writer?"
"Scribe, sir, and storyteller." Janus ducked his head modestly. "Raised and trained in Light, too."
"Very well." The Imperial flopped onto the icy black floor. He yawned hugely, clearly eager to go back to sleep. "Go ahead."
"Sir?"
"Let's hear what you can do. You are a storyteller, yes?"
Janus' mind flitted over the possible responses. He remembered his now-aged father seeing him off, and the even older face of Grandsire from distant memories. A box of records, an encouraging voice. You can do it, Janus.
"And what kind of story would you like to hear, Master Regius? Shall I tell you...an old tale?"
The End
Note: This story was originally written for the Mistral Jamboree '22 Story Contest. It was submitted under the category "Objects of Power", where it won first prize.
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