In my clan's lore, my progen Ancalagon lost her front legs to an Emperor Dragon. This is a bit of backstory for her, and how that all went down. Also, depending on the feedback, I might start a writing shop for bios and whatnot. Enjoy! <3
NOTE: I've separated my updates/chapters with Windsinger icons for convenience.
Rated T for some gore
They met upon the borders of the Ashfall Waste and the Windswept Plateau by the sea, where the flowing grass faded to charred stone, and waves lapped upon both. And there they fought. Dragons of wind and flame clashed, spitting fire and spiraling high into the sky to plummet like stones, locked in screaming tangles of claws and teeth and pumping wings.
But that was past. Ancalagon the Rushing Jaws stood breathing heavily upon the grass, staring at the half-dozen dead Imperials that lay stretched upon the scorched earth. Some were her clanmates, some were not. The great female Guardian counted the dead, and noted the differing colors among the glassy eyes. Plague, earth, fire, wind, arcane and shadow. Now the two sides, having beaten each other to a standstill, gazed in horror at the mass of Imperials that lay dead. The mighty dragons were surrounded by scores of other lesser breeds, but no one minded them.
For the Imperials were moving.
Choking, heaving, gagging, the blood of their wounds hardly dried, the beasts writhed and twitched in a mass of feathers and scales. Their bodies seemed to morph, and though no one could later say how, they suddenly possessed one body. And yet where the neck extended, it forked into six mighty heads, wild eyes of all flights rolling in all directions. Enormous wings beat from its huge shoulders as the heads jerked and snapped, each trying to go a separate direction and drag the body with it.
Ancalagon stared, along with the rest of the fire and wind dragons, their conflict forgotten as the behemoth rose, towering over even the great Guardian dragons, its twelve eyes rolling and six jaws gaping and spilling saliva.
The Emperor Dragon flamed.
All six of its heads exploded in all directions, its powerful forelegs bracing on the scorched earth as fire erupted from its belly. Ancalagon launched herself to the sky, the screams of dragons not so lucky ringing in her ears as she propelled herself heavenward.
“Ancalagon.”
The Rushing Jaws heard the monotone voice by her ear, and knew its owner was the Fae Quaxo, the tiny dragon wedged securely behind the frills of her head. Ancalagon hovered some thirty meters above the Emperor as it vomited its flame, her clanmates all about her. Though fire could not kill a dragon—save that which came from the Flamecaller’s children— the furnace of the Emperor was many times hotter with the combined elements of fallen Imperials.
“Quaxo,” Ancalagon rasped, “Fly north to the Cloudsong. Find our Father. Tell him we need him.”
“The Windsinger is taking a holiday at the Wyrmwound.” Quaxo reminded her. “It may be some time before he arrives.”
Ancalagon cursed. “Harpy’s claws! Go anyway, and take Windwaker with you. You are one of the Plaguebringer’s children, but he was created on these steppes. He will be our mouthpiece. Go!”
Quaxo vanished, as the Emperor wreaked its carnage below.
Finally, its inner furnace momentarily spent, the Emperor licked back the remaining sparks of its fire. Its six heads turned this way and that, before settling its gazes on the grassy steppes that stretched into the distance.
No, Ancalagon thought suddenly. The Zephyr Steppes were home to thousands of families, with hatchlings and nests everywhere. To set an Emperor loose there would be to bring about carnage such as Sornieth had not seen in millennia.
The Rushing Jaws folded her wings tightly to her sides, and dove. She streaked towards the shambling mass of dragons, dodging fleeing fire and wind clan members. A firestorm billowing in her gullet, Ancalagon rushed upon the Emperor and spilled forth her flames.
The monster screamed as the inferno roared over it, though it was more in annoyance than pain. Two of its heads snapped at her, but Ancalagon whisked out of the way. She had to keep it occupied until the Windsinger arrived. The Father of Gales would desolate this horror.
Ancalagon glanced up and saw Windwaker the Skydancer streaking into the distance, a tiny dark splotch that must have been Quaxo clinging to his neck. Good, they were on their way. May the winds be at their backs, the Rushing Jaws thought, before dodging another snap and losing all time to think.
The sun was dipping towards the horizon, and Ancalagon knew she was tiring. Most of the other dragons had fled save for a few of Ancalagon’s clanmates, who tried valiantly to help her. The black guardian could feel herself being pushed back however. The Emperor seemed to have an infinite amount of energy, and it belched fire while other heads shot out to grab her. The Rushing Jaws had not gone without her scores though—both of the plague eyes and one arcane eye were now bloody sockets, courtesy of the claws of Ancalagon. But this had seemed to only enrage the beast.
Finally, Ancalagon was not fast enough. Two heads roared forth, mighty jaws closing on both of the she-drake’s forelegs. Ancalagon screamed, powerful wings beating uselessly as teeth crunched through scale and bone. In her flailing, one footclaw snagged the throat of the head holding her right leg, tearing a gaping hole in the soft neck scales.
The Emperor’s scream was enough to shatter the ears of the Rushing Jaws, its four free heads coiling and shrieking in shared pain. It released Ancalagon, spraying blood as it writhed.
Ancalagon landed heavily on her side in the grass, hardly able to see through the lancing agony that coursed white-hot through her veins. She tried to move her forelegs, but couldn't. The Emperor hacked and screamed, the head Ancalagon had slashed pouring blood from the gaping wound in its throat. But it seemed more enraged than anything. Twelve eyes turned berserk gazes upon her, driving back even her remaining clanmates in fear. The Rushing Jaws let the coming darkness sweep towards her, and prepared for the end.
Then the Windsinger arrived, dragging a hurricane in his wake.
All Ancalagon saw was a green streak, before the gale fairly blinded her with a wave of wind and shredded grass. The Emperor shrieked in surprise, and the Rushing Jaws blinked through the fog of grass and fiery pain to see the spectacle.
The Windsinger had wrapped his long body about the chest and necks of the Emperor dragon, crushing the heads together and binding them like steel cables. The heads bellowed and spilled fire, but the Patriarch of the Cloudsong was impervious. He turned his gaze to the sky and spiraled upwards, the behemoth gripped tightly in his sinewy coils.
Ancalagon could only watch as they rose higher and higher over the sea, the remnants of her clan gaping with her at the might of the Windsinger.
Finally, when they were little more than a speck in the evening sky, the Windsinger made his move. He loosened his hold on the Emperor, but before the beast could snap at him, the deity whipped savagely about and flung the monster seaward with incredible strength. The Emperor screamed as it fell, and the sea rose up to meet it.
The children of the Tidelord, having watched the exchange in silence, rose from the deep and exerted their power over the sea. Watery tendrils wrapped about the Emperor to drag it down in an explosion of foam and bubbles, vanishing beneath the surface and into the teeth of the deep. The Emperor was no more.
Ancalagon ran out of strength to hold her head up and let it drop to the grass, relief piercing the lances of pain that coursed through her chest. The steppes were safe.
The Windsinger returned to dry land, landing on the trampled grass with a soft breeze. He gazed upon Ancalagon. Where her forelegs had been were two mangled and bloodied lacerations. Not even stumps remained.
The Father of Gales approached his kin, his green gaze sad. His voice was like music, a lilting tone that inspired a sense of adventure in any who heard it.
“My sister, my daughter,” He said, placing one powerful claw on the heaving breast of the Rushing Jaws, “You have done well.”
Ancalagon, too weak to move, rolled her eyes towards her Father.
“I wish to die,” She rasped through labored breaths. “It hurts so much…Father, take the pain away! Please!”
The Windsinger took his daughter’s face in gentle claws, lifting her weary head to meet his ancient gaze. Though his eyes were ever-laughing, they also held millennia of sorrow and tragedy.
“Dearest Rushing Jaws,” He said, so softly that none of the other dragons who had gathered nearby could hear, “Those who wish to die often find that they have simply not discovered how to live.”
Ancalagon’s labored breathing slowed under the gaze of the Windsinger, staring into untold eons of joy and sorrow and birth and death.
“Can you show them, daughter?” Breathed the Father of Gales. The Rushing Jaws nodded weakly, and the deity smiled.
The smile of the Windsinger was a joyous thing to behold, like the fleeting breeze on a spring morning. He laid Ancalagon’s head back upon the grass, and passed a claw over her obsidian brow. The she-drake’s eyes fluttered, then closed. Her breathing deepened into slumber, as the Windsinger turned to the remnants of her clan.
“She will recover in time,” He told them. “See to it that she is well cared-for. I cannot give her legs back, however I can make her recovery as painless as possible. Her hardship is far from over, but I believe she will be a wiser dragon for it.”
With that, the Father of Gales took to the sky, leaving Ancalagon’s gaping clanmates to watch as he slithered through the air and into the North, vanishing into the evening clouds.
The weeks passed, and turned into months. Ancalagon, though she spent the majority of the process comatose, slowly healed. Her chest was heavily bandaged, the soft white cloth a stark contrast to her obsidian scales. Often the Rushing Jaws would thrash in fevered dreams, requiring her mate Hailstorm to hold her down as the Skydancer healer, Ravaonna, administered a strong sedative. The great white Guardian hardly left his mate’s side, instead choosing to curl by her at night, a futile guard against the night terrors that plagued his beloved.
At last, a slit of flaming green pierced the obsidian face. Hailstorm perked awake at the following groan, and immediately barked for Ravaonna. As the Skydancer arrived he sat back anxiously, watching the first stirrings like an expectant father watches the eggshell crack away.
Ancalagon blinked bleary eyes, too weak still to do more than roll them about to observe. She passed over the two dragons disinterestedly, and Ravaonna’s cave, the walls adorned with birdskulls, beads, feathers, and various other paraphernalia.
“Why am I here?” She rasped, her voice crackling through weeks of disuse. “Ravaonna, Hailstorm, what are you staring—“
As she spoke, the Guardian tried to tuck her forelegs under her to rise, but found that she could only get her haunches off the ground. Her chest remained firmly planted on the soft grass, the only response being shots of pain as she put pressure on the still-healing wounds.
The scream of the Rushing Jaws echoed through the heights of the Reedcleft Ascent, sending nearby harpies to the sky in a flurry of startled feathers and causing hatchlings of neighboring clans to set up a wail.
“Ancalagon, calm down!” Hailstorm cried, though his voice was lost in the wordless shrieks of the female Guardian as her footclaws tore at the stone, trying in vain to push herself upright, her great wings beating furiously and coals spilling from her jaws. Hailstorm pushed Ravaonna behind him to keep the Skydancer from being singed by the flames that spilled onto the floor, scorching the nest.
“Viserion! Monarch!” Bellowed the white Guardian over the terrible screams, “I need your help!”
The two male Imperials appeared from their dens, squeezing into the now quite crowded cave. Together the three drakes managed to trap Ancalagon on her back, Viserion and Monarch pinning her wings to the ground while Hailstorm caught her flailing legs.
“Ancalagon, please!” Hailstorm cried, “Calm down! You’re safe!”
The Rushing Jaws rolled wild eyes, almost choking on the panicked blaze that clogged her throat. With a great effort she swallowed back the flame, only coughing up a few flickers and embers as her breast heaved with exertion.
“Hailstorm,” She rasped, as though only just realizing he was there. “I…I lost my legs! What will I do without my legs?”
“Hush now,” Her mate soothed as the Rushing Jaws threatened to go into hysterics again. “It will be alright. Your clanmates are here to help.”
Viserion and Monarch lifted their weight from the she-drake’s wings, allowing her to roll onto her side once more.
“How will I walk?” She muttered to no one in particular, “How will I fight?”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Hailstorm assured her, as Ravaonna came forth with a sleeping draught. “For now, you rest.”
The Rushing Jaws lapsed into stony silence, taking the medicine without a word. The three male drakes fetched piles of soft grass to replace the burned nest, and Ancalagon sank into a drugged slumber, dreaming of many-headed terrors.
The moons passed, spring turned to summer, and Ravaonna’s cave grew increasingly stuffy. Ancalagon grew so restless that, despite the healer’s protests, the obsidian Guardian pushed her way out of the curtain of trailing grass and vines and into the midmorning sun. It was not at all a graceful affair—the she-drake attempted to use her wings as surrogate forelegs, but the appendages were weak after months of disuse, and the Rushing Jaws ended up scooting herself from the den on her stomach, pushing herself with her back claws and praying that no one would be about to witness her in this undignified state.
“Ancalagon.” Came a voice that, had its owner not been of Fae descent, might have been joyful. “I am glad to see you are out.”
“Quaxo,” The Rushing Jaws acknowledged, though she was preoccupied with attempting to balance herself on her wings, the leathery membrane bunching between bony fingers as the she-drake tried to emulate the solidity of forelegs with less-than-nimble appendages.
The green-speckled Fae perched on one of Ancalagon’s horns as she wobbled her way to the cliff edge, and flopped down to stare over the vast grassy sea far below, which stretched to the horizon in a verdant expanse of wind and wonder. To the southwest lay an ever-present cloudbank, the leftovers of a long-forgotten quarrel between the Windsinger and the Icewarden. The storm swirled in a permanent cycle, and the few clans brave or foolish enough to make their homes there were hard-pressed to keep from being swept away.
“Will I ever fly again?” She muttered half to herself, gazing down to the rapids far below, where harpies flitted between rocky crevasses and peered from crooked nests.
“I am certain you will.” Quaxo said. “The Swiftwings of old managed, and I am sure you will as well.”
Ancalagon made a wordless rumble, unconvinced.
“Might I remind you that you saved the Zephyr Steppes.” The Fae said after a few moments of silence. “That is no small feat—and from an Emperor Dragon no less, a beast only heard of in legend.”
“Aye, but it took my legs.” Ancalagon growled sullenly. “I do not care that I wounded the beast—I could not kill it, Father had to do that. And now I will never function the same way again.”
“Perhaps not,” Quaxo agreed. “But you will not relearn anything by staring into the distance like some forlorn poet. I shall fetch Viserion, and we will go to the Zephyr Steppes. You will learn to fly anew.”
-ooo-
The Lightweaver drifted high above Sornieth, having taken a brief holiday from her watch over the East. To anyone on the ground, the Lady of Light was a mere golden speck, high above the clouds as she conversed with the Lordly Sun in a language no normal dragon could ever hope to understand.
The deity turned her glowing gaze this way and that over the earth, blinking slowly whenever a cloud passed to obscure her vision as her great wings beat languidly on warm updrafts. She gazed upon the Wyrmwound, and saw the lords of gale and pestilence conversing, though she did not bother to listen in. Terribly rude, eavesdropping.
The Lightweaver set her brilliant eye upon the Tangled Wood where her sister, cursing the brightness, snarled up at her as shadows spilled from her lips. The deity took no mind to this, instead setting her gaze upon the steppes of the merry wind folk.
The laugh of the Lightweaver was indiscernible to mortal ears, so glorious was the sound. But the deity did indeed laugh long and loud at what she saw.
“This is stupid!” Bellowed Ancalagon. “Quaxo, this was your idea! Just let me get my claws on you!”
The Fae was a tiny green streak as he zipped through the tall grass of the Zephyr Steppes, pursued by—albeit quite awkwardly—the Rushing Jaws, who in turn fled from a small hoard of hatchlings.
“Ancalagon, it’s not as though they’re a pack of rabid Hainu.” Quaxo protested, streaking into an abandoned badger sett and losing both the gazes of the Lady of Light and Ancalagon, the latter of which shambled to a halt in exhaustion.
“I’ll get you for this,” The obsidian drake growled, sitting back on her haunches to rest her wings as she was swarmed by young dragons of all types, peppering her with questions.
“Wow, how did you lose your legs?”
“That is so cool! You’re just like the Swiftwings Mum tells stories about!”
“Does it hurt? How do you fight?”
“Did you kill the thing that did that?”
Ancalagon was saved from the torment by Viserion, who circled overhead before backwinging powerfully to land heavily in the grass, the small gale created by the Imperial’s mighty wings bowling some of the smaller hatchlings right over. The young dragons gaped at the white and gold dragon, most of whom had never seen a beast so large in all their brief lives.
The Lightweaver nodded to herself in appreciation of the glimmers of brightness thrown from the Imperial’s long body with each movement, the white of his feathers crackled by gold. The reserved Viserion folded his wings neatly by his sides, his masked Harpy companion fluttering down to perch upon his antlers and preen her ruffled feathers.
“I trust none of you have been bothering my friend, have you?” He growled in mock severity. “For if you have, I may just eat you up! You’d be hardly more than a mouthful to me!”
He accentuated this threat with a drawing back of his lips, showing off his fangs. The Lady of Light chuckled as the hatchlings scattered, squealing in terror to hide behind the bulk of Ancalagon, the wonder of her missing legs forgotten.
“Thank you, Viserion.” The Rushing Jaws sighed. “Now you lot, off with you. We have business to attend to.”
The small crowd of hatchlings looked reluctant to abandon these two new marvels, but Viserion spread his wings threateningly. Before he could even snarl, the only remaining signs of the hatchlings were a few blades of grass drifting to the earth in their wake.
“Thank the Windsinger they’re gone,” Ancalagon grumbled. “Irksome little insects.”
“Now, now, Ancalagon,” Chided Quaxo, who had emerged from his hiding place now that the she-drake had forgotten her pursuit of him, “Do not be too harsh on the little ones. Annoying as they may be, all dragons were once hatchlings. It is in their nature to ask questions.”
The Rushing Jaws grunted, unconvinced. “No matter. Let’s just get this over with before anyone else shows up to witness my humiliation.”
“Use your feet to push yourself. Wildclaw flight, though they prefer ground movement, works on the same principle.”
“Yes, but Wildclaws have those ridiculous legs at least as long as the rest of their body. And how am I supposed to keep from slamming my face into the ground without my wings to balance?”
“You’ll be flapping them, Ancalagon. I believe that you will learn best by doing, and not by talking.”
The she-drake shook her head crossly, but took Quaxo’s advise. The trio had relocated to what had likely once been a stream, but had long since dried up, leaving the residual ditch to carpet with grass. Viserion was positioned on one side, Ancalagon and Quaxo on the other, the space between them perhaps thirty meters—a fitting training ground for the Rushing Jaws.
“Now, get a running start,” Quaxo instructed, “and take off like a bird would.”
“Yes, yes,” The obsidian Guardian snapped. “I’m not a hatchling.”
With that Ancalagon began an awkward run, a curious hopskip as she shredded grass with her wingbeats and huffed with exertion.
“That it!” Viserion called encouragement, “Now glide over the ditch!”
The Rushing Jaws launched herself from the bank, her back legs clawing at the air and spreading her wings to their fullest extent. She did not quite make it to the far bank—instead coming to a flailing, ungraceful landing a little over halfway across—but the effort encouraged her slightly.
“Not bad,” Quaxo remarked as he fluttered down to join her. Ancalagon pushed herself upright, shaking grass from her horns, and scrabbled awkwardly up the bank.
“I still think this will never work,” The Rushing Jaws grumbled. “My back legs seem so clunky and unbalanced now, weighing me down.”
“I am sure they do.” Quaxo replied, perching on his clanmate’s horns. “But you will not get any better by complaining.”
Ancalagon muttered something indiscernible, but turned and spread her wings once more.
-ooo-
The sun was dipping towards the horizon, as Ancalagon ploughed into the grass at the bottom of the streambed for the umpteenth time, wings flailing in frustration.
“This is worthless!” She bellowed, her powerful back claws tearing at the earth as coals spilled from her lips. “I’m making a fool of myself, and I’ll never learn to fly! I should go to the Observatory and spend the rest of my life with my nose in a book—at least then I’ll have some use!”
“Ancalagon!” Viserion said fiercely, “You are not worthless. You will—“
He slithered down the bank as he said this, only to jump back as the she-drake’s back claws swiped at his face. The sudden movement dislodged his Harpy from his antlers, who chattered in annoyance. Viserion growled in irritation, and lunged forwards, catching Ancalagon in her throes and trapping her on her back.
“Ancalagon, you are acting like a child.” The Imperial said sternly, as the female Guardian spilled flames and bellowed in anger. “You have been trying for all of one afternoon. You cannot expect to get better so quickly—the Cloudsong was not built in a day, and neither shall you learn to fly. Please, I want to help.”
The Rushing Jaws glared up at him, her great breast heaving with exertion and her eyes rimmed with flames. Then she sagged, allowing her head to fall to the grass as the fire in her breast dimmed.
“Let’s go home,” Viserion said, relieved that his clanmate was too exhausted to flame further. Ancalagon clamored onto his back in stony silence, Quaxo nestling himself in the soft mane between the Imperial’s ears.
The Cloudsong slithered through the heavens, two lanterns setting the eyes of the Windsinger’s visage aglow in the twilight as the trio flew back to the Reedcleft Ascent. The Shadowbinder’s children peeked from their twisted lairs and crooked dens as the Lightweaver returned to her demesne, and the night world passed by the three curious dragons, watching and wondering.
“I hear your breath…there is no need for stealth. Who is there?”
Ancalagon silently swore as she shambled from her observation place in a patch of bamboo. The she-drake Ghost was pure white from tailtip to snout, her blue eyes so pale they nearly matched her scales. She was also blind. Born into darkness, the pretty, elegant Guardian let little bother her, and though she was hardly the most elderly dragon in Clan Cliffbard, she was often sought out for advise.
Ancalagon settled beside the white Guardian, on the grassy shore of a small pond. Surrounded by overshadowing bamboo and the occasional gnarled tree, one could almost forget that they sat on a massive pillar of stone surrounded by hundreds of meters of open air.
“Is that you, Ancalagon?” Ghost inquired, her agile claws feeling the obsidian dragon’s face, her pale eyes fixed on a point just above Ancalagon’s head.
“I want to talk to you about my legs.” The Rushing Jaws said, sucking up her dignity to admit her trouble. “You have something that keeps you from living a normal life, how do you do it?”
The snowy Guardian moved her gentle claws down to the masses of scar tissue where Ancalagon’s forelegs had once been, and her fixed gaze turned sad.
“I was born blind, so my advice may not be the best for a sudden event.” Ghost cautioned. “But I will do what I can. You lost your legs quite suddenly and under extreme circumstances, thus not allowing you to fully process what had happened until well on your way to healing. Ravaonna and Hailstorm will testify that you often thrashed and screamed in fevered dreams as you healed.”
Ancalagon grumbled at this, embarrassed that others had witnessed her in such a vulnerable and humiliating state, but Ghost just smiled.
“Your clanmates are here to help, Ancalagon. You may reach out to them at any time, as you did me. Take it one day at a time, you will relearn how to live. It will not be easy, and you will never know the life you did before, but you can make the best of the time you are given.”
The Rushing Jaws considered this. She had made little progress learning to fly again, though it was better than nothing. She grew weary less frequently after several weeks of using her wings as surrogate forelegs, and was able to move herself to and from the various locations within the clan’s pillar with relative ease.
“Whatever the Windsinger told you that day by the sea,” Ghost reminded her, “I believe you should take it to heart. I am a child of the Icewarden, but if they are anything like one another, their advice should not be ignored.”
Ancalagon sighed, gazing at her reflection in the sun-dappled pool.
“I suppose you are right.” The Rushing Jaws admitted. “I have not been terribly patient with myself, so learning to fly again has been a tortuous endeavor. But I will do as you say—take things one day at a time, and if that means taking a few steps back every now and then, so be it.”
Ghost smiled, her dexterous claws gently feeling the relaxation in her clanmate’s facial muscles. “Good. That’s more like it—the wind folk have a reputation among the other flights as being annoyingly optimistic, but why should that ever be a bad thing?”
Ancalagon chuckled as she heaved herself upright. “Thank you, Ghost. I think I will go practice now that I do not feel so frustrated.”
“Come back anytime.” The snowy she-drake called as the Rushing Jaws shambled from the clearing.
Feeling slightly more optimistic, Ancalagon made her way to the edge of the massive pillar that made up the lair of Clan Cliffbard. The Reedcleft Ascent consisted of hundreds—if not thousands—of massive stone columns, varying in height, but getting progressively taller the further north one went. Between these pillars was hundreds of meters of open air, while far below rapids swept from the Tidelord’s domain to empty into the Starfall Sea and the fjords of the Southern Icefield.
Ancalagon peered over the edge, studying the Harpies that flitted to and fro amongst the crags. Clan Cliffbard shared an uneasy alliance with the avian Beastclan, but the Rushing Jaws had taken to observing their habits, now that she possessed the same number of limbs as them. The Harpies were mostly bipedal—in the rare moments they traveled on solid grounds at all—but their gait was a curious hop, and Ancalagon could not see herself walking on two legs like a Wildclaw.
“Well,” The Rushing Jaws murmured to herself, mulling over Ghost’s words in her mind, “Go big or go home.”
The obsidian drake shuffled back several dozen meters, then beating her great wings to keep herself upright, pelted across the grass, her claws tearing at the turf as she huffed with exertion. Ancalagon reached the edge of the cliff, and flung herself into the void without a backward look.
The night is dark and full of terrors...
