Creative Corner

[img]https://imgur.com/xXXCmUs.jpg[/img] [center] [color=#D4AC0D][font = Papyrus] [size=7][b] Table of Contents [/b] [/size][/center] [left][font = Papyrus] [size=5]Children of the Day[/size]

Prologue


Sunset was coming. The world was bathed in an orangey-gold, and the Sunbeam Ruins were still and solemn. No breeze ruffled the grass, no birds paid their last respects to the dying day, no shouts of joy as hatchlings played. Only silence. Deadly, deafening silence.

The library of the Dayfire Forum, usually sparkling white, now glowed like old embers to mourn the departing sun. Shadows grew from the feet of the library shelves, filled from top to bottom with books and scrolls. In the central area, illuminated by a determined bolt of sunlight, an old dragon was lying.

The aging clan leader shifted stiffly, cold despite the best attempts of the last sunlight. He rested his chin on a soft cushion, and his shallow breathing ruffled the pages of a nearby book. A half-written scroll lay open at his talons.

So much knowledge. So much more to discover. So much more to learn!

The Imperial’s claws itched to continue writing, to scrawl out every last word he could before it was time. The great lightsworn sages relied on his work. Every sliver of truth uncovered here in the Dayfire Forum was as much a weapon as the Fire Flight’s swords against the mysterious, unnamed threat that threatened the dragon world. What would happen if there was no one to carry on his precious task? What if a great revelation was just behind the horizon, waiting to burst forth and reveal exactly what was to be done? Feebly, he reached for his quill.

“Save your strength, m’lord.” A soft furry paw pressed his talons away from the inkwell. “Your son will be here soon.”

The ancient Imperial smiled up at his long time friend. Kotocachi was co-founder of the Dayfire Clan, as well as its healer. She had been a faithful subject and a wise friend for many years. The Tundra dragon carried a tray with a steaming china cup, which she offered to her leader.

“Here is your tea. It should help with your cough.”

“Thank you.” The aged dragon accepted the cup and swallowed the warm, amber liquid within. It battled the chill that assaulted him from within and without. Still, he would not be persuaded to leave the Forum for his cozy den. There was still much to do, and time was running out.

The heavy tread of a Guardian dragon announced the arrival of Phaerion, Kotocachi’s mate.

“He’s here, Staerkhan” the clan founder rumbled. “We came as quickly as we could.”

Behind him came a glimmering Imperial carrying a basket in his mouth. Something glowed brilliantly from within, driving the shadows back with tremendous force. Phaerion looked on alertly as the younger Imperial approached the old sage and placed the basket on the ground.

“Inconel.” The word was a raspy whisper.

The other Imperial bowed his head respectfully. “Father.” No emotion showed on Inconel’s face, but a tiny tremor in his voice betrayed his grief. If his father’s summons were this urgent, the end was very, very close.

The Staerkhan’s orange scales crackled and crunched as he lifted his head. His unkempt mane shuddered as he peered into the basket.

“These are yours?” It was closer to a statement than a question.

“Yes,” Inconel replied.

“Let me see.”

One by one, Inconel gingerly took the eggs out of the basket. His father turned each one in his weathered talons, inspecting them with a broad smile. Staerkhan’s golden eyes were searching, as though he was looking past the shining shell to peer at the dragon inside. The eggs thrummed at his touch, lighting up his face like miniature suns. After he’d held each one, the old dragon brush a claw lightly over the second egg he’d held.

“This one,” he said with satisfied resolve. “This one will be leader in my place.”

He held up the egg, which gleamed with bolstered earnest. Energy seemed to converge, revolving around the unborn dragon and its grandfather. The other dragons could feel it. They held their breath, sensing what was coming.

Staerkhan’s expression became distant, almost otherworldly. In a deep voice, he uttered his blessing over the egg.

The words were strong, clear, and cracked with power, so different from the croaky old voice of an ancient Imperial. Silence tense with anticipation followed, then faded as Staerkhan placed the egg back in its basket.

“Put them back with the others, now, son,” he croaked to Inconel. “They should not remain outside their nest for long.”

Inconel nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“Go, then. May Lightweaver bless you and all your children.”

As Inconel disappeared with his eggs, Phaerion stepped forward.

“Shall I escort you to your den, old friend?” he said to Staerkhan.

“No, thank you, Phaerion.” Staerkhan sighed wearily. “I would like to spend the night here.”

Phaerion glanced at his mate, who shook her head. The old Imperial was too weak and tired to risk moving him. “Shall we stay with you?” he asked instead.

“That is most generous, Lightbrother,” Staerkhan said, using the Dayfire term of affection to other clanmates. “But I will manage.”

Phaerion didn’t argue any further. He and Kotocachi quietly withdrew from the library, on their way back to the dens for the night.

When he was finally alone, a wave of peace washed over Staerkhan. He felt warm and content.

I’ve seen it now, he thought quietly. I know my tribe will be in good talons. I’m ready now, Lightweaver.

In his mind, he heard the answer, gold and gentle.

Come, my son.

Staerkhan exhaled in a final, tranquil gust. No intake of breath followed this time. On the horizon, the last sliver of sun sank behind the horizon, and the world surrendered to the night.

Chapter 1



A dragon the color of a newborn sun struggled against his opponent. Teeth sank into the softer flesh at his knee, tearing a screech of pain from his throat. He rolled, trying to smash his attacker loose, but the battle-hardened Banescale had already let go and was striking at his wing joints instead.

Symedar flung out his wings. Pale white scales shimmered against a sky-blue backdrop, like stars that had refused to wait for nightfall to appear. He beat his wings, feeling a jolt of satisfaction whenever one smashed onto his opponent’s head. His pleasure was immediately replaced by stabs of pain where the Banescale’s horns had connected with him.

The weight on his shoulder shifted, and the smaller dragon rolled Symedar over with startling ease. The golden Imperial felt a strong talon smash down on his throat, pressing him into the golden grass. Symedar thrashed, trying to get free, but he was still young and inexperienced. His lungs sobbed for air, and the blood roared in his ears like a thousand angry foo.

Lightweaver, help me! Symedar thought fiercely. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sun to swoop down from the sky and rescue him. But the sun remained where it was and no glowing deity came racing to his rescue. It was hopeless. He gave up struggling and tapped his rival's leg twice.

“You lose, Glowstick,” a voice hissed in his ear. A moment later, the pressure on his throat lifted.

Symedar rolled onto his belly, gasping in the life-giving air. He wasn’t built for this. He should be at the Dayfire Forum, studying his grandfather’s scrolls or reading his books. He didn't like being smashed into the ground and called derogatory names. As his head cleared, he turned his neck to glare at his instructor.

The mighty Zanjeer, he thought bitterly. Known throughout Sorienth as one of the best battle instructors of all time.

Most of Zanjeer’s backstory was a mystery to Symedar. He’d heard Phaerion say that the Banescale had been driven from his birthplace in the Molten Scar, accompanied only by his mate, Kizou. Kizou had later died in a battle, and Zanjeer had made his living as a ruthless mercenary before settling with the Dayfire Clan as an instructor for young warriors. Why the clan had ever taken him on, Symedar could only guess. Zanjeer's methods were harsh, and usually ended with a trip to Kotocachi's grotto to ease the pain.

He had almost recovered his breath when Zanjeer slammed his foot down hard on Symedar’s tail.

“We’re not finished, here,” the Banescale snarled. He flicked his snout towards the sky. “Up. Now.”

Symedar caught a groan before it escaped his throat. Aerial combat with Zanjeer was even worse than fighting on the ground. Imperial dragons were powerful fliers, capable of staying aloft for weeks on end. But Banescales were built for aerial combat, and Zanjeer was even more merciless in the sky. He darted around the bigger Imperial, slashing and biting with the skill and agility of a harpy assassin. Symedar tried desperately to fight back, but his claws only swiped through thin, sunlit air.

It seemed like ages, ages, before Zanjeer finally knocked his pupil to the ground. Symedar again felt the stabbing jolt of helplessness as huge talons pinned him down. Again he tapped out.

“Most impressive,” Zanjeer snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “In all your reading, you haven’t picked up one helpful battle tip? What are you wasting your time on?”

The Banescale didn’t really want an answer. He gave Symedar’s side a contemptuous kick before striding off. “Another failure for you, Glowstick.”

As before, Symedar did not get up immediately. He sprawled there in the grass, panting and trying to assess the damage he’d taken. I’m grateful for these scales, he thought. Jairrus says dragons with the crystal gene have some of the hardest scales in the known world.

Jairrus was the other battle instructor of the Dayfire Clan. Symedar actually liked training with him. Rather than belittling his students and beating them senseless, Jairrus took his pupils on “field trips” to different parts of Sorienth. They would spend days camping, first studying their opponents, then attacking. That is how Symedar had learned about the different Beastclans, and he’d feverishly taken notes to write in a book later.

“Oh my goodness! Are you alright? Are you okay? What happened?!”

Something big and fluffy tromped up to Symedar. Symedar opened his eyes to stare into the comically concerned face of an Obelisk dragon.

“I’m fine, Whistler,” Symedar said, slowly getting to his feet.

Whistler either wasn't convinced or didn't hear, because he went on talking as if Symedar hadn't spoken. "That looks bad. You should get Kotocachi to take care of it. She's in her grotto. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, thank you." If he hadn't just been violently thrashed by his irritable teacher, he might have enjoyed the Obelisk's company. Right now, however, he just wanted to be left alone.

Whistler watched him trudge away with a deflated expression, which made Symedar feel even worse. Caring for the dragons of the clan was one of his responsibilities, or soon-to-be responsibilities anyway. It was common knowledge that he, Symedar, was expected to lead the clan one day. It had been the dying wishes of his grandfather.

A grandfather I have never met. Symedar stared up at the sky, where the sun gleamed joyfully in the blue dome of the world. Staerkhan died well before I hatched. He didn't even know me. How could he have known that I would make a better leader than the next dragon?

Symedar had wondered about this since the day he'd learned of his future. When he reasoned it through, he could only chalk it up to revelation from the Lightweaver. Staerkhan had been a very enlightened individual with mysterious powers. Whatever reason he had for naming Symedar as his successor, it had to be a good one.

If I become half the leader that Grandfather was, I will consider my life a success.

The scratches on his underbelly stung, putting an end to his thoughts. However grand his destiny would be, today he was just Symedar, failure at fighting with the clawmarks to prove it.

I should go see Kotocachi.

Chapter 2

The rich, green smells of medicinal herbs filled the grotto. Bottles of powder, dried plants, and amber-colored fluids lined the wall, serving as both healing agents and beautiful decorations. Kotocachi, the Dayfire Clan matron and healer, crushed some leaves with a mortar and pestle for her patient.

"Burdock root and broadleaf plantain to prevent infection," she murmured as her deft talons worked. "Turmeric will stop the bleeding."

Despite the aches and stings of his wounds, Symedar was impressed. Not only did the motherly Tundra know all these herbs by name, she also remembered their uses as easily as her own name. Kotocachi could also differentiate each herb by its scent alone, which explained why most of the jars were unlabelled. She had only begun labelling her supply recently.

"Bring the chamomile, Truth," Kotocachi said, her pestle missing not a beat. "It will help soothe the muscles."

I wish I had such an excellent memory, Symedar thought. If my mental resources were half as acute as hers, I would have memorized most of the scrolls in the Forum by now.

He waited in the center of the single room on a comfortable rug, which seemed like an imprudent choice for the floor of a healer's hut. To his right, a large mauve Guardian sorted through the numerous jars until she found what Kotocachi had requested. This was Truth, Kotocachi's apprentice and the reason that most of the herbs were now labelled.

"This might sting a little bit," Kotocachi said as she applied a poultice to Symdedar's scratches. He might have found her matter-of-fact tone amusing if the words weren't so painfully true. He bit his lip to keep from wincing.

"Poor little Symedar," a condescending voice snickered from the doorway. "Squirming about a few little nicks."

Don't show your annoyance. Symedar was determined to be a quintessential imperial: majestic, stoic, and absolutely unflappable. He was successful around most of his clanmates, but Vihaan was one dragon that could make Symedar lose his temper. One snarky statement, one contemptuous look, and Symedar was instantly annoyed. That wasn't a promising leadership trait.

"We don't even have healers in the Scarred Wasteland," Vihaan continued self-importantly. "Plague dragons don't need any help from stupid plants. We can survive anything."

"Stop it, Vihaan," Truth snapped. "You've never been to the Scarred Wasteland."

"Neither have you, dainty-claws."

Symedar felt tempted to side with Truth. Nothing in life irked him more than a dragon who knew nothing about something and pretended he knew everything about it. He didn't mind the boasting or the embellished tales of greatness he'd heard from other plague dragons. What Vihaan was doing was absolutely distasteful.

"Manners, please, Truth," Kotocachi broke in, implementing the voice she used with squabbling hatchlings. "As for you, Vihaan, my hut is a peaceful place and I will stand for no disruptions. You may either make yourself useful or leave."

Vihaan snorted his most snide snort and slithered away. Clearly he’d rather be goving dragons wounds instead of healing them.

With the Mirror gone, Symedar finally had a chance to relax. He felt the warm, gooey poultice slowly drowning the sting in his scratches. The whole hut smelled like fresh flowers and breakfast in the forest.

This it the kind of life I want. Quiet, peaceful, warm… give me a few of my scrolls and it would be perfect.

His claws itched to get back to the Dayfire Forum, the clutter of shimmering ruins that the Lightweaver had designated as part of the clan’s territory. Symedar wanted to finish reading Rish Sunspark’s A Treatise on Light Magic, the first book his grandfather Staerkhan had read. Progress had been slow, of course, because Symedar insisted on feverishly taking notes in his owlcat journal. It was worth it, though; the more he read, the more he would learn. The more he learned, the better suited he would be to lead the clan one day.

“I almost forgot, Symedar,” Kotocachi said presently. “Phaerion returned from the Beacon today. He wishes to speak to you at the Forum before sunset.”

“Really?” This time, Symedar could not keep the emotion out of his voice. The Beacon of the Radiant Eye was where dragons went to speak with the most powerful, most important dragons of the Sunbeam Ruins… or to the Lightweaver herself. Phaerion only ever went once or twice in a year, and sometimes two years would pass between visits. This had once been Staerkhan’s duty, but as acting clan leader, the task fell to Phaerion.

Until the day that I’m ready to step up and rule, Symedar thought. Then it will be my duty, and mine alone.

The biggest scratch on his shoulder twitched. The low, groaning pain of the cut seemed to mutter, “long way to go, long way to go” with each heartbeat. When would he be ready? Zanjeer seemed to think that he would never be suited for any role higher than a cowering bookworm. Phaerion would always smile at the question and say, “Not yet, son. You’ll know when the time comes,” until Symedar stopped asking.

But maybe… just maybe… today was the day.

Chapter 3

The Sunbeam Ruins are home to many edifices, marvelous in their ancient, broken-down way. Some dragons had renovated the old marble structures, turning them into living spaces, apothecaries, libraries, schools… but Staerkhan, the chief of the Dayfire Clan, had seen it fit to leave the Dayfire Forum in its natural state. It was a perfectly sound structure - an architect from the Crystalspine Reaches had assured them of that - despite the holes in its roof and sides. And the scrolls, the books! There were so many, stacked on the ancient wooden shelves, piled on marble tables, hidden in clever cubbies that only opened if you pulled in just the right place…

It was heaven to a dragon like Symedar. He passed through the Forum courtyard, weaving between the forest of columns that supported nothing but the open sky. He inhaled, taking in the scent of old paper, which was already filtering through the doorway of the great building.

It must have been a library, he concluded. It must have been. A library, with writings from the Second Age.