Thorn

lore
Along the border between Light and Shadow territory lies the Bloodwood: a remote, strange swampland where most dragons refuse to venture. The Bloodwood gets its name from the red tinted water that fills its many ponds and streams, the result of minerals in the soil. Though the explanation for its odd colouration may be a natural one, the same cannot be said for the many disappearances and mysteries surrounding this stretch of land. Dragons from nearby towns and villages speak of curses and monsters, cautioning their young not to wander too close, and especially not after dark. More often than not, those who make their way into the Bloodwood never come back.

Many explanations have been offered over the years, of course. The unpredictable water levels, some say, can catch explorers off guard. Others suggest it is more simple: a lack of exploration has lead to a lack of accurate maps of the Bloodwood, and thus, it is easy to get lost out there in the wilderness--a self fulfilling prophecy.

Whatever the reason may be, there is one thing even the most skeptical dragons can agree on.

If you do find yourself, by whatever misfortune, within the Bloodwood--do not speak to anyone you might meet there. Whatever dwells there--and there is something there, of that everyone is certain--is not friendly. It, they say, drags its victims to their deaths in the red, murky waters of the swamp, never to be seen again.

Those brave enough to explore the Bloodwood anyway report many oddities, strange creatures and sounds. The worst of them, however, is something called the Well.

Nestled somewhere within the swamp's strange borders lies the ruins of an old village. Long forgotten to time, eroded by the acidic waters around it, very little remains of any of the houses there. But what does remain, standing sturdy on the edge of town, is a shrine. A shrine to who or what is lost to time, but the structure, an ugly thing hewn of some kind of black stone, has stood for easily a hundred years, and will likely remain a hundred more. It is fashioned clumsily, barely more than a pile of rock arranged in some crude imitation of a church. Inside it, lies the Well. That same ruddy water laps at the stone from a small pool. But this pool, unassuming and plain on its surface, is nothing like the shallow marshes around it.

This one goes deep, deep into the earth.

Deep enough that, according to the myths surrounding this nearly forgotten place, no one knows where it ends.

It simply...is.

The creature that calls the shrine home is old and strange. Ulthir, some called him, though he couldn't remember why. Not that it mattered.

The Bloodwood is his domain. He, a minor deity long forgotten along with so many others, has dwelled in that stark, alien wetland for longer than even the oldest of dragonkind can remember.

Most things, he'd come to accept over his long, long lifespan, did not matter. They could be forgotten.

The young, fiery Imperial who had found him one day was hard to forget. They'd wandered into the ruins of the old village, poked their head into the shrine. Ulthir had watched them, from deep in the pool.

They'd called his name.

Ulthir had asked theirs.

Thorn, they'd said.

Thorn.

Thorn, who was beautiful, and dangerous. Thorn, who had come to ask him for protection.

You see, they'd said, I've made enemies in high places, and know not where to turn. I grew up in Erilea just east of here, and we'd long told stories of the lord of the Bloodwood. So, lacking anywhere else to turn, I've come here.

A reasonable request, Ulthir supposed. Still, nothing in life is offered for free, and so he'd told Thorn as much.

Thorn had nodded sagely, like they'd expected the response. I'll serve you for the rest of my life. I will be your blade, wielded as you wish. They went on to explain that they were a talented warrior--descended from an ancient Imperial bloodline, skills honed in past years deep in the heart of Fire territory.

A fine blade indeed.

You will have my protection, Ulthir had promised. But when I call you, you must answer. You will protect this place, and tell me of your travels when you stray from it.

Your call will be heard, Thorn had promised in turn.

And so, Thorn became Ulthir's warrior, his champion. A champion he protected jealously, and who protected Ulthir's domain in turn, brought him offerings of stories and trinkets of the world beyond.

When their first child arrived, both had known, immediately, that she could not remain with them and live a happy life. The Bloodwood was no place for a child, and Thorn's travels were no better.

So it came to be that their firstborn was placed, silently, on the steps of a village family one night. She had nothing to identify her, nothing that would alert the superstitious townsfolk of her heritage. All she had was a strange rune, from an old dialect of the region, in the form of a birthmark on her back: One. The first of a new line, of Ulthir's line, a line which no one would remember.