Chapter 224: The Dragon and the Earth

Thank you to my beta reader and editor, GlassThreads!

Toren Daen

I touched down beside Jotilda Shintstone, graceful as a falling feather. Many of the dwarves around me shied away slightly as I rolled my shoulders, giving me wary glances and uncertain looks.

That was something I'd quickly discovered once I'd ascended to the white core. The mages of Dicathen viewed magical flight with an air of reverence and awe: after all, it was the marker that someone had reached the pinnacle of power in their world. To see an Alacryan so casually flitting about was a quiet reminder of my true strength.

"Olfred won't be joining us tonight," I said with a sigh. "He's holed up in the Undercroft, like you guessed. And even if he did, I'm not sure he'd be the inspirational image you need."

Jotilda, at least, took my entrance without much staring and gawking. The elder had too much personal experience with me to be shocked by this.

"That man's a coward," she snorted, clearly uncaring of listening ears around. "Just because Rahdeas is a dimwit now, he refuses to do anything. Some Lance he is, refusing to act for his people."

From the subtle murmuring of the dwarven nobility around us, I knew they'd caught Elder Shintstone's words. She didn't seem to care, the hard lines of her face deepening as she leveled a gaze across the milling partygoers.

The setup on Burim's docks was much the same as within the cavern. Drooping ribbons charted pathways from a dozen lampposts, creating beautiful interweaves of color. Small fires danced in raised torchlight, and more than a dozen stalls were arrayed all along the streets with colorful confections and what I assumed were party games. Familiar music drifted into the air–the sound of drums and hope. There weren't nearly as many mages about as I'd grown accustomed to in Alacrya, but still, the ambient mana was rippling with anticipation and enjoyment.

It wasn't just dwarves here–though they were the majority. A few humans and elves could be spotted standing head and shoulders taller than the rest of the celebrators, their faces showing none of the wear and tear I'd grown accustomed to whenever I interacted with these hardy folk.

I let out a sigh as I stood beside Elder Shintstone, my eyes tracking Aurora's Vessel Form far in the sky as she wheeled about, enjoying the freedom of the skies. And it hit me all at once why this felt so strange. Why it felt so incongruous to stand here amidst these celebrations.

I found myself focusing on a dwarven child—not much older than eight or nine—as they sat, enraptured by a mage's grand performance. Small sculptures of clay and stone shifted and weaved in animated gestures as the dwarf's grand voice bellowed out, telling the child some grand tale of heroism. The child giggled with glee as one of the clay figures stuck up a tiny little sword.

It doesn't feel like these people are at war, I realized. It's almost like the East Fiachran cookfires back in Alacrya, where the people were able to put down their burdens for the shortest time.

"I'm going to take a look at the festivities," I said, beginning to stroll away from Elder Shinstone as a nostalgic sense of fondness settled in my stomach. "If you need me, I shouldn't be too hard to spot."

As I strolled through the festivities, I allowed myself to relax slightly. Where I'd normally get very mixed reactions from everyone I passed, the infectious energy suffusing the air seemed to banish much of the outright hostility I normally received.

And something drew my eye. That very same puppetmaster—who had made small clay golems holding shields and swinging swords to entertain the children—met my eye as he completed his show. I blinked in surprise as he smiled widely, revealing a few gaps in his teeth.

"Aye, Spellsong!" he called unabashedly, raising a meaty hand. "Come here, lad! I've got an offer for ya!"

If I were a normal mage, the puppetmaster's call wouldn't have been audible over the din of people and the flow of foot traffic. And yet this man seemed to expect that; his eyes squinted slightly as he recognized that I'd been able to hear and understand him clearly.

Intrigued by this dwarf's blatant call—and apparent utter lack of fear—I changed my course. As I approached, I got a better look at him, and I realized he might not be a dwarf at all. He had ever-so-slightly pointed ears, but his build reminded me more of a human than the stocky frame of most of the earthen folk.

"Just the man I wanted to see!" the gap-toothed puppeteer said proudly, puffing out his chest in front of his little stage as I approached. "I've been lookin' for some help allll night tonight, and you seem like just the man for the job!"

I smirked, amused by the dwarf's attitude. It was notably different than… well, basically everything. "A few things, friend," I said leisurely, "one, I don't know what help you're looking for, so I'm not sure I can even assist. And two, do you know who I am?" I finished, my brow raised slightly.

"See, I knew I had the right man! Askin' about the job insteada' immediately tellin' me to shove off. That's what I like to see!" the dwarf laughed, his mood infectious and positively radiating over his intent. How could a person be so happy? "And of course, I know who ya' are. Spellsong! Toren Daen! Can't step out ma own front door without hearin' about ya! Always flittin' about like a hummingbird and trying to help people."

I tilted my head. "Well, it appears my reputation precedes me, but I don't know who you are."

The dwarf tapped a hand against his chest, bowing with surprising grace. "Bartholomew Morg, half-dwarf and puppet master by trade. And ma job is to spread stories."

"Stories?" I asked, noting his emphasis on the word. "What kind of stories, Bartholomew?"

"Any kind at all!" Bartholomew replied. "That's tells us we're alive: stories! Been in the craft since I was a wee child, and my pa before that, and his before that. Can't ever seem to escape puppeteering in my family, human blood or not. And call me Barth: all ma friends do!"

I observed the man's stage more closely as I approached, noting strange fluctuations of mana. I'd assumed it was made of pure clay at first, but now that I looked closer, I recognized that it was actually extremely fine grains of sand–and from the composition, likely extremely mana conductive.

Probably what allowed this man to make so many detailed puppets at a moment's notice.

"Well, Barth," I said, looking at the little stage, "what exactly do you need me for?"

Barth smiled again, his intent radiating anticipation. "Well, I'm usually not one to pry, but I've noticed that you've gone around askin' for folk tales and stories from people. That's the kinda thing that really catches my interest, so I've been waitin' here for you with an offer: you help me make my performances a little more flashy for the crowd, and I'll tell a story I know you've never heard before."

I raised a hand to my chin, actively considering the proposal. I had been asking about dwarven folktales and legends, but I hadn't gotten too far yet. I was surprised to find that there weren't a lot of fairy tales or storytelling in Darvish culture. Those I asked seemed to think it a waste of time. An attempt to cover up the truth and scrub away the cold, hard reality of the world.

But Barth was right: stories were what made us feel alive. And this random half-dwarf had unwittingly dangled perhaps the best bait I'd ever seen right before my eyes.

My smile grew to match the gap-toothed storyteller's. "How flashy do you want it?"

—

Not long after, I was lounging behind the miniature stage with my hands behind my head, watching as Barth prepared his final bits. I watched with appreciation as he messed with a few covert reagents, before shifting them inside his long sleeves with a sleight of hand that would've boggled my mind were I not a mage adept enough to see his micromovements.

Barth had explained that a lot of his "special effects" used pinches of bursting fire salt and colorful smoke to create illusions–but with me around, he didn't need those at all. After all, I was a very skilled fire mage.

The people still milled about as the music continued, festival-goers enjoying their night. The atmosphere had somehow grown more lively as the minutes ticked by, each person waiting in anticipation for the Aurora Constellate that was soon to arrive.

"Alright, Spellsong," Barth said, dusting off his hands with a signature grin, "it's up to you how you wanna make this show really pop. You've got all your neat magics and I'm sure you've got some tricks up your sleeve."

"I'm surprised you're trusting me to improvise this," I said mildly. "You could've given me a script to follow."

Barth scoffed, wagging a finger at me. "A script is a limit, Toren! Without a limit, a story can be anything! Now, how about you give my voice a little oomph?"

I smirked, enjoying the dwarf's happy airs. "You ask, and so you shall receive," I said loftily.

Barth turned back to his stage, scanning the crowd. He winked at me once out of the side of his eye, before inhaling deeply.

"Ho, people of the festival!" he called out, his voice automatically amplified by my sound magic. It wasn't horribly loud, just made to travel further than normal to catch the attention of all. "Man and woman; elf and dwarf! All are welcome if you would but gather round!"

The call certainly attracted attention–and from how Barth flourished his hands in a grandiose gesture, I knew the half-dwarf knew how to hold a crowd. "Tonight is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! I've got a story to tell–one none of you have ever heard. And if that isn't enough to pique your passion, to engross your attention, to reel in your regard?"

The storyteller waved his hand, and I called on my magic in turn. A dozen glittering orbs of fire–each slightly different hues that shimmered in the darkness–danced around him like curious fairies. Barth took the appearance in stride, before gesturing grandly to me.

"Then you'll have the pleasure to witness the performance of none other than Spellsong, mage extraordinaire!"

While the attention before had mostly been mild interest, at the mention of my name, I could feel the intent of half a dozen people sharpen as more people separated themselves from the crowd to focus on the play in particular.

I understood why. After all, the fact that Barth had an Alacryan–presumably one who was high-ranking and powerful–performing with him made his little show even more enticing. It made it different.

Barth's eyes glimmered as he watched an interested audience slowly condense from the crowds.

"Pleased to meet you all," I said leisurely with a smile, nodding to one of the most prominent groups who'd been drawn by the most recent proclamation. I felt a burst of inner amusement as a trio of women stared back at me with very clear interest in their eyes. I snapped my fingers, the sound reverberating outward. As it did so, each of the fires hovering around Barth snuffed out, like the ticking of a clock inching its way to midnight. "I'm here to make Barth's play even more exciting: in fact, that's exactly how he roped me into this in the first place. So if all of you enjoy what's coming up, then that means our friend succeeded in his mission."

It was pretty clear that Barth was using the anomaly that was me to garner more interest and attention in his play: and I didn't mind that, so long as he delivered on his promise of a unique story.

Barth clapped his hands just as the final spotlight of fire went out. "Spellsong is right! I did bribe him with promises of a good story, one never heard before. In fact, this is an old, old tale, passed down in my family since long, long ago. It is the tradition in House Morg to tell this story, word for word, to each successive storyteller, so that they might never forget it. Generation upon generation has been tasked with keeping this knowledge."

Barth inhaled, then set his hands down on the stage. His smile fell into something serious and solemn, and I unwittingly found myself pulled along with the crowd as he stared at them all. "We all know of the asura. The gods of this world who watch over us from afar, judging and guiding our progress. Even in this war, we have seen their touch."

The crowd shifted nervously, and I felt my brows furrow.

"But there was a time when the asura were not the only deities to walk the land. Yet these others were different from those we know today: far, far different."

Barth conjured two figures from the sand on his stage, drawing them up so they were each about the size of my forearm. One was simply a shifting amalgam of stone and clay, formless except in its rigidity. Beside the construct of earth, a vine of sifting sand snaked around in a repeating pattern. I was mutely impressed by the precision of his craft.

"Mother Earth tended the ground, churning and remaking mountains when they became too stale. She was an artist who crafted her work with utmost precision, molding the peaks of the Grand Mountains themselves and creating wondrous tapestries of stone."

The rigid formlessness of the first figure grew, becoming more and more human. A figure formed of clay–an outline of a portly woman composed entirely of soft earth and neat soil. Somehow, I felt I could feel the aura of quiet contemplation radiating from the summoned construct.

"Sister Nature saw what her mother created and knew it was beautiful–but to her, it was bland and stark. So much gray and brown–where was the color in her art? Her mother made wondrous crafts, but they lacked fine details. But a dutiful daughter could always improve upon her mother's craft. And so she followed after her mother like a dutiful duckling, spreading green leaves and silver blossoms," Barth continued, sweeping his hand.

This time, the twisting vine solidified into another figure of more human persuasion. With my enhanced perception, I was able to spot Barth's barest twitch of his hand, two miniature vials of green and silver entering his conjured sand golem. Slowly, emerald streaks and spots of silver appeared along the lithe body of the puppet as the vials of dye burst within.

While the homely figure of Mother Earth stood short and squat, Sister Nature was lithe and almost beautiful. Her form was trim and full, and she trailed behind the loping figure of Mother Earth with quiet resolve.

"These two—mother and daughter, earth and vine—they were artists, you see. At heart, they loved to create. They roamed the land, sculpting and painting in turn to their heart's content."

The scene shifted, showing Mother Earth as she reached her fingers into the sand. I watched quietly, mesmerized as I forgot the entranced crowd beyond me as the clay figure appeared to sculpt the sand herself, drawing up mountains and crafting squat hills. Barth's magic was honed to a razor's edge as his summoned golem continued in a slow pace across the stage, leaving behind jagged cliffs, soaring peaks, and rolling plains.

And behind Mother Earth, Sister Nature knelt. Where her mother molded and pulled, Sister Nature painted. Everywhere her hands brushed, the sand was coated in shades of green. She tended to each and every mountain and valley, granting them a splash of color.

I heard one of the members of the audience gasp in awe. Were I not able to spot the green dye as it was expertly transferred across the sand, I might have gaped in incredulity as well.

"But there were others who were jealous of such beauty, of such imagination," Barth said gravely.

Two more figures appeared behind Sister Nature and Mother Earth–these ones far from the calm and tranquil airs of their predecessors. A twisting vortex of sand solidified into a man with a long, flowing beard, his face still indistinct. Yet despite this, I could almost sense the anger radiating from the little golem.

"Father Sky detested Mother Earth's art," Barth said solemnly. "For he was of the air itself–and every time a mountain was raised with monumental peaks, they infringed on his territory, his home. They obstructed his freedom."

The figure of Father Sky stomped a boot down on one of the conjured mountains, flattening it as a man squishes a bug. He continued to trail after Mother Earth and Sister Nature, wreaking vengeance on the little bits of art. I heard a child in the audience cry out in alarm and sadness as the hills and valleys were swept away in an artificial tempest.

Seeing where this was going, I added my own puff of magic. Little white whirlwinds of condensed telekinesis trailed in Father Sky's wake, my regalia assisting me.

Before my ascension to white core and the increase of my psychokinetic abilities, such minute control and split focus would have been impossible. But now, little mock tornadoes ravaged the sandy theater, truly selling the idea of the destruction that Barth wanted to show.

Barth shook his head, appearing saddened by the destruction on his stage. Wherever Father Sky went, the careful artistry of Mother Earth and Sister Nature were undone. Spots of green littered the earth, and in my mind's eye, I could imagine a hurricane flattening trees and obliterating everything in its path. "And behind them all, Brother Fire trailed angrily, wiping away all that was left. For he hated his sister the most of all, and desired her art to burn beyond all others."

This time, Barth shot me a covert wink. Catching onto his meaning, I engaged my magic.

A figure of solid fire appeared behind Father Sky, looking just as indistinct. But as the automaton of flame stomped in the living storm's wake, embers jumped off of him, charring the little specks of green dye that they encountered, leaving them blackened and tainted.

"On and on and on this cycle went–creation, destruction, and more creation," Barth said to the enraptured crowd, "as such was nature back in the age of legends. Mother Earth cared not that her creations were destroyed, simply that she could continue to make more. Father Sky wished that his territory would never be infringed upon, and Brother Fire quietly envied Sister Nature."

I stared at the tapestry of magic playing out before me with a slight smile. It was an interesting narrative that Barth weaved, one that I had seen many times in my time on Earth. It sounded like an old folk tale that explained the erosion of mountains and cycles of the world, of which I knew many. Yet this had a distinctly Dicathian feel that made it seem–

"But then the Dragon saw the carnage and devastation left in their wake," Barth said, cutting across my thoughts, "and he was dismayed."

The figures of nature continued on in their endless cycle, but I felt a bolt of surprise as a conjured dragon inspected the charred remnants of their wake.

The scene changed. The blackened dye and figures of Sister Nature and Father Sky were subsumed back into the stage. I allowed my conjured idealization of Brother Fire to dissipate as I watched with a growing suspicion in my stomach.

Now, it was the Dragon and Mother Earth alone, facing off against each other.

"So the Dragon spoke to Mother Earth, demanding that she stop her work. 'Everywhere you go, you leave destruction behind you,' he accused," Barth said solemnly. " 'You must stop–for the sake of everything.' "

"But Mother Earth rebuked the Dragon, saying 'I destroy nothing. I only create and mold–it is Brother Fire and Father Sky who destroy. They are spirits of chaos. But I? I am order, the earth itself. To command the earth not to shift and change is pointless–as is demanding the sun not to rise or the moon not to wane.' "

I unconsciously found myself leaning forward in my seat, my attention entirely captured by the interplay of Dragon and Mountain. Because this story–it appeared to be far, far more special than a simple explanation of erosion and weathering across the years.

"The Dragon shook his head, further dismayed and saddened by Mother Earth's response. 'You cannot see, for you are large and grand, Mother Earth. But beneath your feet, there are countless living beings. They live and love and breathe as any of us do, yet your creations destroy them. Each raised mountain strands them far from their homes. Each rumbling earthquake destroys their hovels and sanctums–and your step has ended the dreams of thousands.' "

Between the Dragon and Mother Earth, a new vision played out–but this time, it was from the perspective of a grain of sand. Of a human. Their world shook and roiled as the very landscape seemed to turn against them. A small, cowering figure of sand clutched a family of even smaller puppets, trembling before being fully washed away.

"And Mother Earth saw the results of her actions; saw what the Dragon implied. But still, she would not relent. She was stone–unyielding and unmoving. 'I am the earth,' the spirit of the ground replied, 'and I cannot stop in my purpose. These lessers may toil and try beneath my feet, but my grand art is more beautiful than anything they shall ever create. Such is existence.' "

The Dragon figurine tilted its head, and I could almost feel the sadness in its posture. " 'Then it seems we must battle, for I will not allow the destruction of life, no matter how feeble.' "

And as the Dragon reared back its head, preparing to blast a gout of sand at the other construct, I felt Aurora's attention finally settle on me as well. Just as I had become enraptured by the story playing out before me, so too did my bond.

The battle between Dragon and Mother Earth raged across the board. I assisted where I could with little bursts of fire and miniature arcs of solid sound, adding to the spectacle. But my mind was elsewhere, even as the crowd became more and more entranced–each wanting to know the outcome of this fight.

But I already knew how it would end–because both Aurora and I knew this story in part.

"But finally, it was clear that there was a victor," Barth said, clenching his fist.

Mother Earth appeared worn and broken. Like a cracked piece of pottery, the lines of wear and exhaustion were evident even in the puppet's body language. It slumped, appearing to struggle to keep itself together.

" 'You were a worthy foe,' the Dragon said as he loomed over his defeated enemy. 'Never before have I fought one as great as you, and never after shall I do so again.' But Mother Earth would not fall so simply. 'You must cleave true and fast, Dragon,' she challenged, 'because I will rise once more should your strike miss its mark. But know that even in my death, those small lives you protect will always be in danger.' "

The dragon figurine reared up, a whirlwind of sand building in its gullet. I prepared my own magic–focusing deeply as I meshed sound and fire together.

" 'My strike is true,' the Dragon said, 'but we shall always watch over those beneath us: as is our duty as the strong. To protect, rather than needlessly destroy.' "

The dragon exhaled, and instead of sand, a beam of pure red plasma hummed as it surged from its mouth. As the plasma struck the stage, the sand turned to glass as it was superheated, before the beam finally struck Mother Earth.

Carving her neatly in two.

The audience held their breath–but the living mountain did not stir. The constructs gradually simmered away, leaving nothing but sand and glass behind. Bartholomew dipped his head. "We don't know what happened to Sister Nature, Father Sky, or Brother Fire," he said, and he sounded genuinely upset about that. "But the Dragon set his kingdom atop the still body of Mother Earth, both as a sign of respect and warning to all. Any who brought needless death and destruction to those smaller than they would face dragonfire–as it was, and always shall be."

"You must ask this man the true origins of this story," Aurora said in my mind. "Do you know why?"

I do, I thought back, noting the reactions of the crowd. Just like Barth, they seemed to want more. They weren't fully satisfied with this ending–and why would they be? They wanted to know how the story truly ended for the family of catastrophes. Because this is no simple tale. It reminds one of Arkanus Indrath and his victory over Geolus, the Living Mountain.

"Indeed," Aurora replied internally, "And the way this man told it is precisely the story told to young asura in Epheotus when they ask of the Indrath's Castle."

"That can't be the end!" a young voice cried out from the crowd. I focused on a young girl, no older than Benny as she pulled past her mother. "What about Sister Nature? Brother Fire and Father Sky? What are they gonna do now? There's gotta be more!" she said.

Barth stroked his short beard, shaking his head solemnly. "That's all I know, little girl–and it's in my House's strictest rules to never tell any more or any less than this. Though you," his eyes twinkled as he leaned over the stage, "you are free to make whatever ending you wish. That's the power of stories, after all."

The next words from the crowd, however, made me blink in surprise. "You have Toren here as a performer," a familiar voice said, echoing from within the many watching people, "but we haven't heard him speak. You talk of stories–but should we not hear one from the Alacryan?" they demanded authoritatively.

I slowly stood as the familiar voice echoed out, but as usual, I wasn't able to directly pinpoint who had said it. There was a notable portion of the audience that consisted of young women, and the voice had predictably echoed from there, but…

My heart beat a little faster in my chest as I peered intently at the crowd as if I could pull apart the veil with just my eyes. I locked eyes with many of the women who watched with starry expressions, noting how their own heartfires skipped slightly when I focused on them, but that just confirmed they weren't my target.

Barth, evidently, noticed the attention I was getting from the crowd as I stood. He smiled crookedly as he stared at me. "Well, I've done my own performance," he said cheerily toward the audience, "but I'm sure none of you have heard an Alacryan tale, eh? Who wants to hear one?"

And to my surprise, there was a chorus of agreement that surged from the crowd. But despite this, I still couldn't pinpoint the source of the voice within.

I felt my eyes narrow and restrained a smirk as I stepped up to the little platform of sand, focusing intently on my magic. Barth stepped away, seeming just as focused on me as I'd been on him as he gave me the stage. These people wanted a show–so I'd give them one. And as the sound of dwarven music flowed around us, I knew already what story I would tell.

"There are many differences between Alacryan and Darvish culture," I started, feeling my mana as it thrummed across my body, "but there's a lot alike, too. We don't have adventurers like you do–but we do have Ascenders–mages who dive into the long-forgotten remnants of the ancient mages, searching for wealth, power, and prestige."

I clenched my fist, and a figure of solid fire slowly formed from the ground up. The figure of solid fire exuded confidence as they turned toward the crowd, a mask covering their upper face. If one looked closely, they might be able to spot their short ponytail as they turned.

"This story is about an Ascender," I said, my smile softening, "and a Sorceress."