Story:DragonSoul/Prologue

The Dragon People
Long ago, there existed a mountainous island called Deist. Deist is where the ancient dragon-kind dwelled. A proud race, they were very protective of their land as well as their own kind, and feared for their ferocity and strength. These people were also known for their wisdom, having witnessed the world change over many eras.

How the Dragon People, or rather the Drakenaer, came to populate the continent of Calladan quite a mystery. It is often said that they have descended from the ancient dragon-kind. Though they ironically share many traits with the Humes, they maintain the traits of the dragons as well. Perhaps this might explain why they came to call the dragons their Ancestral Gods. Some even take up the use of Magick to construct Golems in guise of dragons.

They hail from the highlands and are able to maintain their balance on uneven terrains. They also have dense bones covered tightly by packed muscle fibers, reptilian scales, and leathery skin. Thus, the Drakenaer are physically stronger than the Humes and are easily distinguishable by the wings on their backs, thought not all have the ability to fly or even glide. While wings allow the Drakenaer to cover a great deal of ground quickly, they are sometimes clumsy and affect a Drakenaer's balance. To counteract this imbalance, most Drakenaer have long tails that act as a third leg, giving them a tripedal stance.

Like the original dragons, the Drakenaer are primarily predators though they are not above delving into vegetation if need be. They mainly hunt for the living to provide for their families, namely the females and their young.

However, Drakenaer culture of all kinds tends to be chaotic in nature with no machinery or even strategy, and so were thrown into disarray when migrant Humes arrived on the northeast shores of their continent. At first, the two races tolerated an uneasy coexistance, but over time the Humes began to realize their stark technological advantage over their native neighbors. Through millenia-spanning theaters of war and diplomacy, the Humes gradually appropriated Drakenaer lands until their borders stretched to the southern sea. Though many Drakenaer escaped west, into the Great Wilderness, countless others were enslaved by the invaders. Upon their backs and wings, the empire of Ithil was born.

Nearly five thousand years have passed since the first Humes set scaleless feet upon the continent of Calladan, and their empire is graced by the rule of King Frederick Delita Pelharm. He presides over a fragile and defining time, ripe with the threat of revolt and promise of peace. For though Ithil stands stronger than ever, the soul of dragons still stirs...

Prologue
Three hundred years ago...

Biot Chamlett stared at the tiny band of survivors left to him - a score of bedraggled soldiers only. His mind could not accept what they had become: a Drakenaer's eyes should burn with determination, not be clouded with exhaustion! Their scales came off in patches, wing membranes had been torn, everyone nursed wounds. Even he had to hold his tail aloft, for fear that dirt might get into the cut. By the Dragon People, what a sight we are, he thought grimly. I, stumbling along without a tail to balance me, leading this lot.

"Biot." A quiet voice, but one he knew well. "The Ithil banners are coming," said Savart.

He didn't have to ask if they were many. They had been, every time, endless numbers of them swarming down the hillsides. Unfathomable in their quantity and in their purpose. Why had they suddenly come, slaughtering tribes who had never done them injury? Ignoring his injury, he intertwined his tail with hers. There were no orders he could give.

In the distance, he could hear the heralding trumpets. The Humes had soon learned that these signals meant nothing to the Drakenaer, only panicked them or sent them into battle more readily. Hiding was not their way.

He took up his weapon, a two-handed great axe; a Hume weapon, but they had been forced to adapt. They had laughed when they first saw Hume weaponry - what could they have to fear from creatures who couldn't fight by themselves, with puny weapons that Biot could lift with a single hand? Yet here were the flags, advancing on the final group.

"Stand ready," he growled to his troops. He saw something of the battle fire returning to them, as they held their weapons aloft, readying for the final charge, disorganised, but far braver than any Hume could be.

The two forces crashed, wave upon rock; Biot glanced wildly around after each meeting, gasping between bouts of frantic fighting. He could see no one, not even Savart; they were all lost under a swelling tide of humanity. The battle frenzy could not grasp him, sliding off his creeping despair. They were too many.

There! Savart reared above the roil, stretching out her wings in flight. Humes flung themselves at her, tearing, grasping; one climbed up her back. A collar gleamed in his hands for a moment, and snapped shut.

Biot roared above the fray. How dare they? How dare they chain a Drakenaer, whose life was freedom! They would clip her wings, her, the most beautiful of the Winglords, remove her from the skies forever. He had to reach her, kill her if he must, but never let them take her flight.

"Captain Poynting, sir!" The messenger saluted smartly despite his torn uniform and pale face. Well, being near the beasts had that effect on everyone who valued their lives. Poynting made a show of turning towards the boy, as if he could safely ignore the savages. Not even savages: monsters. Every fibre of his being was tensed, ready to turn around if he sensed movement behind him.

"What is it, Corporal?"

"We're having difficulty, sir. Nearly all the beasts have been captured or killed, but one is proving...very hard, sir. It's killed scores of soldiers already!"

"You haven't reported this to Major Gauss?"

"Dead, sir. Killed by that one. The big red."

Poynting cursed. Every soldier meant another family starving in the oncoming winter. And to lose one of their best officials! "The collar's no use. Kill it, but act cautiously. Harry it with arrows first, aiming for the wings, eyes and tail." He could just see the big red on a hilltop in the field. It drove an axe through the soldier in front of it, smashing down with enough force to splinter every bone. Gods.

"Sir?" The corporal again. He was surprised by the boy's bravery; so young, yet he edged towards one of the black beasts. "This one's looking at the red too. It's...keening."

"A cat will keen for another of its kind, but that doesn't make it human, Corporal," Poynting said. "Besides, these guttural cries could be asking for food, for all we know." He glanced at the moaning beasts and shuddered. "I don't mind telling you that it's frankly terrifying. Nothing intelligent makes these sounds."

"I know, sir. It's just that I've raised animals before, and I know this one's obviously in pain."

Poynting looked him up and down. "What's your name, Corporal? No, don't stare at me like that, you're not in trouble."

"Ampere, sir."

"Ampere, eh? You're named after General Ampere, who lost his life fighting against these damn things." He spat. "You're too young to be here, even as a private, but striplings and elders are all we have left. They killed us, boy, killed and killed. We tried to reason with them, sent treaty members to talk. Maybe they don't speak our language, but they went and ate them. Can you imagine that? Ate them. That's when we knew they weren't people.

"Maybe it would have still been all right if they had kept to themselves, if they couldn't agree to our laws. The hills aren't great land for anything apart from game. But no, sometimes hordes of them would sweep down from the hillsides, carrying off livestock. Always in the winter, too, so villages starved to death. They eat so much. Bigger than us, stronger than us pound for pound and in size, faster... If they joined together, we'd be wiped out completely.

"You can keep your sympathy for them once they've been chained. You can only do it because you haven't seen what destruction these ravaging beasts can bring. Corporal, it's them or us. If we waited too long, we'd let more people die, and one day, they'd come for us all."

Enough. Enough. Biot's arms were aching, as he heaved the axe above his head and down, the same movement again and again. They kept on coming, warily now, but still the waves of them broke against him.

What am I fighting for? Savart's chained, every tribe I know is, by this clan with no end, the ones who called themselves Ithil. There was no hope left for the Drakenaer.

He turned, stretching out his wings. A cut - someone had sliced at the joint as he opened them. No matter. With Savart's cries echoing in his ears above the battlefield, Biot turned and ran.