Umber

Bane’s dragon gains a name and a protector. (sab)

The dragon yawns and opens one eye. “Hey, guys, what are you doing here?”

You start to respond, but Serge lays a cautioning finger across his lips. After a moment, you hear the heavy breathing and equally heavy tread of six or seven individuals climbing a nearby trail. One calls out in a rough sing-song voice:

“Where is you? You sneaky-sneaks hard to find. I got da wood! He got da fire! Time for da BARRRRR beeeeee QUEUUUUUUUUUE. Wonder what it’ll taste like. Prolly like chicken, heh!”

Another responds, “You numbdumb err ahh skulldumb… you stupid! You never et chicken.”

“Have too, and the word’s ‘numbskull’ and watch what yer sayin’ or I’ll be throwin’ you on the BAR be QUEUE toooooo!”. This latter is followed by a dull thump which is in turn followed by a sharp yelp.

Looking over the hill, you see half a dozen grimy orcs with bulky backpacks led by an equally unwashed ogre carrying large bundles of wood. “Now THAT’s what I’m talking about”, says Magnus, who charges down the slope, sword swinging. The rest of you look at each other, shrug, and take off after him.

Within moments, Magnus is carrying a large bundles of wood back up the slope, “campfire tonight!”, the other supplies — and corpses — discarded down the mountainside.

Then the screaming begins. From somewhere ahead, high above the valley floor, you can make out a faint, but clear cry. “Five fingers hath Grandfather, and a thousand eyes! My death will mean nothing!”

The voice that responds is equally clear, but not at all faint. Even at this range, it causes pebbles to be shaken free from the slope, and your balance to be unsteadied. “PERHAPS.”

A writhing body, lit only by the moonlight, suddenly appears in mid-air and begins to fall, tumbling rapidly. It quickly slows its spinning and begins to move its hands in a measured pattern. Soft words can be heard. Bane, straining to watch and listen says, “He’s trying to cast Fly!”

“YES.” And a brilliant bolt of lightning erupts from nearby the figure and engulfs him, disrupting the spell. Apparently he was tough enough to survive the blast though not the fall, given the screams that are finally replaced by the sounds of breaking bones. The corpse lies still, within mere feet of the others.

“NINE HUNDRED NINETY SEVEN WOULD PERHAPS BE MORE ACCURATE,” rumbles the unseen voice. The approaching sound and a reversal of wind indicates that something very, very large is coming your way. Magnus focuses his special vision — and staggers to one knee. “By Fharlangn!”

A small brown squirrel hops onto the rocks before you.

“But… just a second ago…” Magnus stammers.

“Impressive, human,” interrupts the squirrel. “Most mortals would have run screaming, or even lost their minds upon seeing my true form. You must truly be fearless. Though I sense in both your aura and outburst that you are strengthened by greater powers. Do not be chastened, as you are wise to seek such allies.

“My name is Nightwing, and I have been watching over the wyrmling for a few days now. It was his presence that woke me from boredom. Only rarely these past few centuries have I emerged from my underwater cavern — a cavern that seems to have become smaller than it once was, and in its constriction disturbed my long and restful slumber.

“I began my survey of the lake, knowing that it was unlikely that I would find a better home than I had some hundreds of years ago. But as I searched, a shadow, cast by the full moon, passed over me. When I investigated I discovered your companion — this strange brass dragon. I say strange because never have I seen a wyrmling use his wings so regularly, so precisely, almost like some ancient dwarven creation, not a creature of flesh and blood.

“And so at first I followed, and then, to learn more than I could from mere observation, I led, by allowing him glimpses of me by moonlight, casting the shadow on him, as he had on me. To my surprise, he showed curiosity, by following, and intelligence, by searching, and frustration, by shouting at the moon when I hid myself overlong, not as a machine might, but as a true member of our race.”

“It was you, then!” responds your once-clockwork friend.

“Indeed. What is your name, little one?”

“I have none. This is what I seek, as well as help for my companions.”

“One of these you shall certainly have. I was named for my preference for flying in the dark and quiet; you shall be known as Moonshadow, as befits our recent game.”

Moonshadow whispers the name and stretches wide his wings, obviously pleased.

“As far as help is concerned, I am afraid that you must seek elsewhere. I must attend to the destruction of these insects that I have been feeding to the valley floor. I shall wage war on such vermin as would slay a member of our kind for sport. It has been a long time, but my strength and will return to me.”

Magnus asks Bane quietly, “What kind of dragon is this Nightwing?”

Bane replies confidently, “Bronze.”