Drakkniedheim (Folklore)

The folktale of Drakkniedheim originally speaks of the legend of the 7 rings, and then follows Demissyr on her travels through the land to slay the 23 dragons of the original brood. The long quest takes place within the Begi era.

Eventually, Dessimyr's story became folktale, and was eventually the final addition to The Fare-Lion's Saga, as a complementary piece to Adelysia, the Lion's tale.

The story itself acts as a historical recounting, or a journal of the epic.

The first known original copy of Drakkniedheim is kept in the underground library in the Cove of Midnight.

## One

My gaze stretches far, *far*, across the fields mired in mass, steel, and flesh. Banners torn from their posts, posts from their earth, glinting specular through settling ash -- the grass dry and dead. A forest of birch encircles the rolling hills and long-forgotten dried rockbeds of once-flowing streams.

There is a single flagless pole settled in yellow and black, upon mounds of bone and adaptive flora. Evolution is such a pretty and truthful thing. To see the bones fade away and stretch apart as vines slither down them -- even in sweltering heat and dry air.

I turn around to see the path I carved through the forest, clearer than the sweat drenching my long fingers. The sun is high and scalding, and I can feel my feet sticking to my leather boots.

Disgusting.

In the distance, I can see the barrier between Vixheim and Noxon Fell. A towering wall of warping shapes and colours, mostly dull greys and hints of vermillion. A magician’s work -- no doubt long dead, unless they found the ability to become immortal. The Dracus weren’t so kindly at the border town. No mead-halls or gracious feasts. Just soldiers, dead eyes and deader hearts, grisled against the blight and fateful winter -- the promise of warm summer days just beyond the border. They knew they would be executed for crossing, however -- be it from the government, or the Dragon roaming the other side.

I suppose you could say I got lucky. That the man I’d known for years finally broke, and in a fit of rage-driven hysteria, allowed me my chance to cross into Vixheim. I saw fear in his eyes as I fled -- but also acceptance. He knew where his duties laid. This was the only chance possible to save Sendurjiae from cannibalizing itself. The embers of hate turning swiftly into the fires of war. War like one-hundred thousand wars. War that would swallow the seas and turn the mountains to dust.

My hunt began, not out of reason, but necessity. Far too long have the Dracus protected the most deadly war force in the world. Far too long have they spent mercy on the Dragons, out of sheer hostaged might. Wicked wings constantly unfurling gales of enchantment and absolute chaos, scented in rusting iron and iron blood.

Far too long have they let the world dry, crack, flood, and burn due to incompetence. The Dragons -- however contained in their concentric circles of magic -- have been slowly killing the world. The roots of their ancient ways burrowing deep, and absorbing all that wasn’t used. People die of thirst near rivers. People kill each other for stone. People… become animals.

I remember my mother. *Goodnight, Demissyr*. The savage men of treason breaking down the door. The fire spreading through the castle halls. The faint shout *I love you* before the windows shattered and left me orphaned. That is the truth to people. They can turn on you, on themselves, on the world -- but they can never revert. They will never be good again. But even if you’ve been good your whole life -- you can be manipulated -- you can fall.

Oh, this is a hard truth to learn. An even harder truth to bear. Thought brings more thought, and soon you become senseless and numb.

I gaze down and see footprints burned into the ground. They lead over the hills and end near the Northern Vixane Forest. A lump of grasses and dirt lie in an unusual oblong pile where the ash ends. I heard in nursery stories that the Dragons -- especially the lesser ones, such as Vix -- would camouflage themselves by humbling the materials around them. I never thought that would actually be true. It would explain how so many fell -- their steels were sharp and muscles strong, but their wits? Not so much.

I pick up a bent pole with some of my cloak. Even through insulation my hands begin to scald. It was blunt -- but with enough force, could probably pierce hide. I take my arm back and feel the sinews contract and warp. I close my eyes and breathe, on each breath building the tension in my biceps. This would be easy. I open my eyes again, arm poised. I aim at a moss patch curving upwards and away from the mass in the shape of a horn, and I lunge, weight forcing the pole out of my hands with might.

Everything slowed down as the beast reared itself out of the ground. As if a corpse had gotten out of its long slumber by being stolen from. Seven of Vix’s eyes rolled out from the back of its head and stared at me in disbelief -- like intelligence was something impossible for a human to have. The eighth eye was wildly rotating, and as it did, the metal cylinder lodged in the serpentine ocular spun around and hit the socket bone repeatedly.

“For once, my intellect has a competitor,” it raged, furrowing the ground. Vix’s tail flailed in agony and joy. This was more than just a game of chess, yet it was played off as just that. “But can you match my speed?”

A flicker of sunlight gone quiet was all that prompted the Dragon’s slither. In a second, it was before me, preparing to gouge into the nape of my neck. For a Dragon, Vix was on the smaller and faster side -- a rarity amongst the gluttonous others. There were 23 in total, each living within a single band of a certain ecology, each band concentric to the last.

I stepped aside as I let Vix dive into the crackling grasses. This was infuriating, apparently. I felt my lips wrap thin into a smirk full of gall.

I unsheath the greatsword Hjallmoorne. It was nearly the height of a man, and yet somehow could be swung effortlessly when momentum was built. A long, heavy, crimson ribbon hung steadfast from the pommel. The Royal Guard was well-versed in blacksmithing.

I failed him then -- this is no time to fail him now.

Vix writhed in hatred along the ground, its claws sinking deep. It snapped back and forth, trying to disable me. I pivot and cut, lacerating the ribcage of Vix. It seethed, face full of contortion.

“If by speed you mean that of a barn-mule, I’m sure I have you matched.”

I step back and feel a skull crack under my weight, my foot catching on a vine. I stumbled, and Hjallmoorne flew to my side. Reaching for it, I realised that I was stuck.

An instance of reflex. A snap of realisation. A touch of luck.

I vaulted left as much as I could as the Dragon lunged. I heard a sound like that of a blade being sheathed, and felt cold liquid drizzle on my hair. I turn to see its head impaled on the pole that was left standing, shaft incising itself down the oesophagus.

Kicking at the vines I manage to free myself and dust off. I walk over to the beast -- now pleading for mercy. I stomp its neck and finish the job.

“Twenty-two more.”

I resheathe the greatsword and make on my way to the forest.

...

...

## Two

The blight which befell the world didn’t seem to affect Drakkniedheim. Miraculous, thought some. Suspicious, thought most.

I sweep my legs over the rotting birch trees, and clamber around boulders. I would have to make my way around the whole of Vixheim before I’d be able to continue to the next circle. I just was hoping to find a little water sooner than I’d thirst.

I look forward to the horizon of trees. The sun, now a faint shimmer, sat on top of the wicked branches. Quaint, quiet, and beauteous I thought. It seeded a little bit of angst in me as well, and a sigh escaped me.

*Westward still*.

I decide to set up camp in preparation for the coming night. Water is still elusive, but I can live another day. My provisions prepared for such emergency -- but it’s no problem yet.

Soon, a tremendous flame takes the place of the fading light -- replacing every shadow the sun yielded. My legs were worn, and my arms spent. I’d only need a blanket to sleep, anyhow.

Before I slept, I’d need a good song to set me on my way. A good way to keep wholly alive.

“The ash becomes

That of snow…

The winds be hung

O’er the gallows

My head held high

The blow struck low

The winding path,

Now set agl--”

A branch snapped, making me reach for my dagger. My long black braid was tangling in the tree bark I laid against. I quietly crawl along the ground, soil flying into my eyes. The wind picks up, making me shiver at the cold. How could a place be so hot one moment, and so cold the next?

“Demissyr,” a whisper says.

“Who’s there?”

“You failed us.” An apparition of my mother, clad in burning cloth “You don’t deserve the chances you’ve been given. You don’t deserve to keep going.”

“I -- tried the best I could, what… do you want from me?” I haemorrhage tears.

“I want you to stop.”

“But, I can’t just fail my land -- I have to--”

“Demissyr.” She clasps her pale hands around my face, my cerulean staring into hers. Her orange hair is amplified by the embers which bloom and decease around her. She kisses my forehead. The affection is cold and shallow. “Come and join your father and I for a feast. We’re making your favourite veal.”

I stand and falter, knowing how hollow the memory is.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry….”

She vanishes, and I’m left with chapped lips. Cold lips. Cold heart. I continued to question myself, no matter my accomplishments. No matter my strive. What purpose do I serve with? Why have I always felt so alone, even with a friend by my side, or a man by my bedside?

“By the Lords, mother, you always found some way of hurting me. Even after you’re dead.” I sobered myself with some nectar from a nearby flower. It was cool and sticky, and mostly bitter in tang and taste. It dried my throat even further -- and of course, I regretted it deeply.

The branches now grasped at the fading slivers of gold -- the silver of the moon nabbing at the fingers. I scratched my throat with the remaining nails I had left unchipped. The soothing melody I had started -- now -- was but a gentle hum.

It was all I could muster after such exhaustion.

...

...

## Three

I hear a great deal of hissing. A serpent? No, those went extinct long ago. An insect? Maybe. My brow furrows inwards as the hissing grows louder. Eyes still shut, I can’t help but want to stab whatever was making that annoying sound -- and then it stopped. Dead silence. Then I hear a shrill. One bird, two birds, seven. A melody ripe with cheer floats through the air.

I get up, head spinning from the previous night’s encounter. It would be nice to just forget about it, but even trying to pierces a hole in my chest. As my mind clears, I finally glance around in astonishment. In one day, life had returned to Vixheim. Beautiful blooms of deep crimsons and lemon yellows float along the treeline. More than just a few, but a whole band. Thick and lustrous.

I feel a cool breeze dampening the air from the east. I clamber up the tree I was leaning against, and I catch a glimpse of winding snow creeping the edges of the forest. Contemplating, I realise that Vix’s life was the string that tightened the barriers around it. The freezing winds of outer Drakkniedheim now seeped onto exposed flesh. The animals relishing in the breeze would soon come to pass with convulsing fever and frostbite. They would burrow and hide once more, a lesson in the brevity of happiness and good times.

I turn to the west, the next barrier there, but flickering. Cyan wisps trailing into nothing. One point in particular catches my eye. It’s about a half-kilometer to my left, and it seems to breathe. In. Out. Like an open wound gushing blood. An opening into Mertheim. I slide down the tree and begin heading westward. Bound to walk the line of the sun as the mist grows stronger.

Sooner or later the soldiers would return to their posts, words given to their superiors and from those vassals to the queen. Then the queen would send the Yr Drakken to hunt down whatever caused the disturbance. I would have plenty of time before any word reaches her, all the way in Durkoslienkyre.

Plenty of time.

I stumble twice, get pricked once, and nearly fall into a chasm as I’m making strides into the heart of the Vixane. The further along I get, the mist loses its cooling attributes, and not farther after that it starts losing its humidity as well. In small swells every minute or so, a dry burst of air hits me dead in the face, making me feel older than papa’s scrolls. I keep making steps, and the air picks up its force. The nerve of this forest. Going from a mild inconvenience every minute -- to an ashy, stinging gust every half.

*It’s not long now: the second circle. No one’s been there since the Fiend Era -- or was it the Sunless Age? In any case, it was when these beasts ran free. Wild. It hurts something wicked knowing these weapons once roamed, unimpeded. Mother’s stories always struck a blow of terror in me. It didn’t matter if it was just that -- stories. They had an air of truth about them.*

I feel it getting hard to breathe, my lungs whimpering and whining in the scratchy atmosphere. My head begins throbbing as an acute pressure starts accumulating in my blood. It will take time to get used to this, but while I do, I feel as if I will be felled by agony. I inhale and nearly squelch at the rot. It’s nearly indescribable. The sulphur of raw eggs in a sewer, with a hint of peat and… something I’d rather not say. Or even comprehend to say.

Pushing away crackly branches with my sword hilt, I reveal the wall of lights preceding Mertheim. Seeing these masterworks never gets old. The way they seem to stretch upwards forever. The surfaces like the membrane of a bubble, yet tinted in unique ways. This one was an opaque verdant, contrasting the yellowed surroundings. Every now and then, the green would part and reveal blackened forest beyond it. I scan left, then right, eventually spotting the opening I saw from the tree.

It’s not very large, only about two men tall and wide. Through the hole there’s a formidable, brooding darkness. The trees beyond -- black and grey. Stretching dull lifelessness for a seemingly endless expanse. These trees were leafless, dead, and still. The canopy of branches above so thick only tiny pinions, like the light of stars, made it through.

Where there was chirping songs, whipping grasses, and sizzling air behind me, in front there was nothing. Not a single bit of movement. Not a single bit of sound. It was like a painting in the royal hall, fake yet portrayed with many details. So many, in fact, that it felt like you were *there*. The confusing part was that I *was* here. It’s just… unnerving. Makes my muscles prickle and simmer.

Stepping through the gateway felt like entering an entirely different world. A world with no goal. A world with no hope. A world that was probably once beautiful, but now just decays in a wretched state. I start to ponder, realising that this world is -- well -- not too different from our own. *Vile thoughts, Demissyr. What would mother say if you lost hope? How would she scold you had ye no goal?*

The dirt is flat beneath my feet. The ash trees were sprouted like a chessboard: dirt to tree to dirt, all in lines and in all directions. It feels as if I shouldn’t be able to breathe. As if there’s no air nor oxygen here. It’s not that I’m suffocating -- quite the opposite, in fact.

I’m weightless.

It takes some time to get a rhythm going, but once I do it’s impossible to stop myself willingly. Step, hack, duck, step. For some time I keep going. It feels like mere minutes, but by the time I need to rest, the rays of lights pierced orange. I hadn’t even had a mind when journeying. No thoughts whatsoever. Just like a dream.

My jaws start salivating, famishing my stomach. I hadn’t eaten in three days now, and was starting to remember I was only human. Only ever human.

I fear that my supplies would have to be cut into, this early on. Sure Drakkniedheim may not be huge, but it’s dense. There’s no telling if I’d starve or not before making it into the heart and out again. It disturbs me to think that I’d have to feast on dragon meat.

My hair stands on edge. A snap of a root. I whip to my right, Hjallmoorne drawn and red ribbon still. Black strands, sweat drenched, loosened from my braid and stuck in my blue eyes. They meld and mesh with the forest, making most anything indistinguishable from anything else. I see brown in an ocean of coal.

It’s a deer and her doe, and I resheath my blade in relief.

“Greetings,” I say in friendship, startling them more than they did me. They prance cautiously behind a fallen tree and duck as if trying to hide from a child. The doe pokes its head out from behind, then turns its head sideways to get a better look at me. I realise that these animals haven’t seen much life in quite a while -- most likely surviving on edible roots. My ribs resonate with the digestion of mere stomach acid. The deer now looks at me also, quizzically.

“It’s nothing, I assure you.” *Assuring a deer? What, have I gone mad? Or am I really just trying to “assure” myself? What is with me? It’s an animal, Demissyr. Just like the dragons. It hasn’t harmed anything, sure, but it has no thought process. It’s a mindless creature. A simple creature, built only to survive. Only to survive.*

I pull my dagger out, blade cold and shimmering. I prepare the blade between two pinched fingers. It’s dull against the callouses. I look into the deer’s eyes. They are shallow, piercing, yet lifeful. The deer, while unintelligent, seemed to know my conundrum. It feels as if I had known this deer, maybe, in another life. Or maybe this deer knew me.

The thought and hunger grows with each passing second, the silence of the forest unbearably calming. The doe is lurking out of the corner of my eye, preparing to run for its life. It somehow understands the weight of the situation, the weight of sacrifice. I could sate myself, *oh how I could sate myself*.

I prep the blade by sliding its edge along creased bark. I ponder for some time, and as I do so the doe walks over to its mother. The deer licks her child then nuzzles it, closing its neck over the doe’s small hide.

My breath quickens in desperation. I just can’t do it.

My dagger slides back into a hidden pocket, and I slowly walk to the deer. At first, it recoils in surprise, but after a minute it comes to my hand and nuzzles me. Saline starts flowing from my eyes. Even an animal can love. The pair walk away, and I could’ve sworn that the doe turned to look back as it disappeared into the dense woods.

My rations will have to suffice this time.

...

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## Seven

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### Blood of Soiahra

Blood of Soiahra as sung by Drikinyaoki, Son of the Sun, before Illiarkaros exiled him to the Dead South of Drakniedheim

Soiahra, Soiahra. My life is given to thee. My blood of sisters and daughters sworn, upon the ironwood tree. Death has come, Death has come. My wings are fragile and cold. We must run, we must run, and leave our precious gold. We spit fire, we spit fire, soot coming out of our mouths. He was liar, he was liar, and now we have no South…

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