Private It Ain't Much, But It's Honest Work

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra knelt beside Norvyk just outside the ring of the Monastery's empty training grounds; the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the sandy courtyard and baking the back of her neck while she worked. Her storm dragon’s emerald scales shimmered in the light, flashing like jewels where she had already scrubbed. He lay stretched out, his massive wings spread and draped in the grass, eyes half-closed in contentment. Her dragon was going through another shed and Petra felt compelled to help him through the normally itchy process.

A large bucket of warm water, laced with fragrant soaps, sat beside her. She dipped a thick brush into the mixture, her hands steady and practiced as she scrubbed along the contours of Norvyk’s powerful neck. The dragon rumbled softly, a sound that resonated through the ground, almost like a purr. Petra smiled, her fingers tracing the edge of a particularly stubborn patch of dirt that clung to his peeling scales.

"If I didn't know better, I would think you've been rolling in mud on purpose." Petra murmured; her voice affectionate yet teasing.

Norvyk turned his head and snorted, a gust of warm air blowing back the loose curls that had escaped her braid, "I wouldn't dream of making more work for you." His tail flicked playfully, and he shifted to move one wing over Petra's head, acting as a shade from the hot sun. The elf grinned at him knowingly and continued to wash away the dead scaleskin.

Behind her, was the large pile of her dragon's tack, a collection of straps, buckles, and her saddle that had seen countless training sessions. But weather, dirt, and she had to be honest, blood had made it grimy. Her next to-do item.

After her current section was gleaming, Petra set aside the brush and wiped her brow, her arms having started to ache, and reached for a dry cloth, soaking it in another bucket full of oil she’d prepared earlier. The scent of it filled the air, a blend of herbs and spices to help keep Norvyk's scales supple and strong.

She fell into the calming cadence of her movements, and began humming a lilting ballad under her breath, a tune she’d learned during her early days in Fal'Addas. It was a simple, rhythmic melody that matched the task at hand and leant to easy daydreaming, her mind already turned to being on dragon-back again and soaring through the endless sky.

@Sitra

 

[Sitra]

To someone that preferred silence above all else, the stifling confines of the dormitories with its myriad of unfamiliar faces and voices was as close to torture as she could tolerate, at times.​

Never mind the fact that she was one of the few squires with the luxury of possessing her own personal chambers, where her status laid bare the hypocrisy beneath one of the Monastery's core foundations. It was not a thing that she had asked for, but had received nonetheless - a privilege made all the more apparent when most other squires were automatically relegated to a dormitory that was more reminiscent of a soldier's barracks than a place of comfort and repose.

The subtle hints of inequality - even in a place that professed it as one of their foremost tenets - hardly made her any friends amongst her peers.

But she had no intention of turning down a luxury so freely offered.

Nonetheless, despite it very much being a luxury, the noise had no difficulty in carrying right through the walls of her room; a courtesy of the amount of bodies all congregating in one place. However, as unfortunate as it was, she expected nothing less at this time of day.

There was nothing to be done about it during the afternoon, when the sky held the sun at its highest peak and so sent the dizzying amount of squires running for the cool shelter of their rooms. A blow to any peace she might have enjoyed within those four walls, but it wasn't as if she had any right to complain.

She had been writing a letter to her uncle, one of the few people who had treated her like an adult with her own interests in their correspondence. Which was a depressingly rare thing to have; at least in a world as restricted as that of a Saknne noblewoman.

They wrote of all manner of things that she hadn't expected her own parents to indulge; he did not speak of marriage prospects or expectations of her, nor did he force her to plow through the excruciating minutiae of domestic life back home until her eyes glazed over.

Rather, they spoke of politics; of how the world turned while she was relegated to obscurity.

It had helped a little bit to soothe her soul.

Not that it helped now, and she held little hope that she would be able to concentrate enough to complete the half-finished missive on her desk - distracted as she was by the incoherent din of voices that carried through the halls of the dormitory and through the insubstantial wooden paneling of her walls.

Not that she necessarily blamed them, how could she? So few of those in the monastery had the luxury of writing letters at their own leisure - and the company of your fellow squire was probably more preferable to most than the quiet scribbling of quill upon parchment.

Although she did wish they'd be quieter about it.

Even if she had wished with all her heart to have simply been finished with the letter so that it could be sent on the next caravan that came rumbling through the relatively isolated grounds of the Monastery, she knew it would be impossible. That it would have to wait became exceedingly more clear as she once again glanced up at the latest burst of laughter in a vain effort to understand what exactly it was that had caused such an excited stir of amusement.

On a better day she might've gone to find out for herself, but then it wasn't even close to a better day. Homesick as she was, the only remedy seemed depressingly out of reach. Any finely written letter to her uncle that could have alleviated that burden in her stomach would have to be done another day.

But as it stood, all she could hope for was to wait the ordeal out somewhere a little more peaceful, and resigned to that fact, she carefully slid the chair away from the table and across the uneven floorboards before following along in its wake; making sure to tidy up her desk and tuck away her paper and quill into a nook in the wall so that it wasn't left out for the ravages of curious children.

After a few quiet moments of fiddling with the kerchief draped over her hair, she took one final look about her personal quarters before deeming it acceptable to someone who tolerated not a single thing out of its rightful place. Then she carefully pushed her door open and slid out of her room, stepping into the cramped hallways of her new home.

She needed to be in the open outdoors, not in a place that threatened to suffocate her.

Even with the day at its hottest, and the sun at its most oppressive, Sitra found that she didn't mind the temperature nearly as much as others. The heat had suffused her bronze skin with a pleasant warmth and left her wanting to stretch her legs.

So that's exactly what she did.

The refuge she thought to find in the training grounds was due to the fact that she assumed that nobody wanted to linger in the dusty courtyard any longer than their daily practice required. Sometimes she would find a couple of knights at practice, but more often than not it was one of the few places that she would gamble on having all for herself.

But just like her hope for letter writing, so too was this hope dashed upon the rocks as she found herself looking at... an unusual sight, to say the least. She had unconsciously expected someone else to be there, yet the sight of a woman grooming her dragon? That wasn't at all what she had in mind.

How could she not be captivated?

As she watched from a short distance away, Sitra could not help but to observe the scene before her with what was probably wide-eyed wonder had she been paying attention to the face she was making. But she wasn't. Her attention was utterly occupied by the way the scarred woman seemed to clean the scales of the beast laying at her feet with the same casual grace that one might brush a horse.

The woman she knew by reputation, if not by sight; her name was Petra, was it not? Which had meant that the creature that she treated like a particularly oversized horse was Norvyk. Still, the fascination in her eyes was marred by a degree of uncertainty as she stood at the threshold of the training grounds, hesitant to interrupt them.

And yet, just as hesitant to move her rebellious feet to a direction that gave them the same privacy she herself so desperately sought.

So she did neither of those things; instead staying still like some kind of prey animal and listening to the sudden song that left Petra's parted lips, her hands clasped and folded at the front of her long skirts while her idle fingertips played at the fold of material she found beneath them. And while the easy pace of the task still kept Petra from noticing her, distracted as the other woman was by the simple ritual, it was not enough to keep Norvyk's attention.

Especially not when the newcomer made to move few paces to the side in order to get a better look - her curiosity getting the better of her sense of propriety when it came to spying on something she hadn't the permission to see. But how often did one get to witness the magnificent sight of a genuine dragon merely lounging in the grass like a cat would?

Oh, that wasn't to say the hypnotic movements of Petra as she sang to the afternoon air wasn't an equally captivating sight.

But that wasn't necessarily something she'd admit to with the same readiness.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

There was something in the way of a day spent in the sun, alongside her dragon, and music at Petra's lips that had a content joy blooming in her chest. The world felt more alive, the air easier to breathe, and the great evils that the Order battled seemed not so looming because of it.

Norvyk shifted beside her and grumbled deeply in his chest, the sound numbing her toes. Glancing beyond her shoulder, her draconian gaze zeroed in on their new visitor. A dark-haired girl that seemed just this side of running from the training ground if Petra moved too quickly. A deer facing down a wolf in the bush and poising to bolt. Deeply amused, Petra worked to keep her demeanor nonchalant as she stood from her crouch, making a show of stretching languidly.

Whistling, she tossed her oiled rag back in its bucket and took a curious step forward, Norvyk's wing stretching easily to keep her under the shade. She crossed her arms, casually aware of the way her biceps flexed under the suds and gave a friendly quirk to her eyebrow. "Well good morrow. You're a squire are you not? One of the ones with their own rooms, if I'm not mistaken." Her grin sharpened at Sitra's expense. "Yes... I have heard quite a bit about that arrangement. Have you come out here to train on your own?"

@Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Nobody ever liked being caught when they thought themselves unnoticed, least of all Sitra who had considered herself rather discrete. But whatever brief flicker of panic that might've flashed in her eyes was promptly smothered beneath a serene smile and a careful, polite nod.

As flighty and skittish as she initially seemed, it didn't take long for the squire to conceal whatever she was feeling with an aristocratic poise; in the way she'd spent her entire life being trained to do.

It was a good thing, too. Petra might have kept her expression friendly and open; more than happy to showcase her amusement to the gawking squire, but the warm enough greeting was soon followed by words that had immediately caused Sitra's hackles to rise. She was instinctively wary, and tried her best to smooth over whatever imperfections could've marred her face's composure.

The subtle criticisms disguised as idle conversation was hardly a new experience for her, and with that wolfish grin on the other woman's face? Sitra wanted to make certain that there was no weakness to be found in a mask that smiled blithely back, apparently untouched by the... good-natured jab?

It was too soon to say what Petra had meant by it.

"Good morrow to you, Knight Sworn," Sitra had responded in kind, biting back any other response that threatened to bubble forth from her lips until she tamed her tongue into submission. As much as she disliked the implications of Petra's words, she knew it was more important to set the tone of the interaction rather than make unnecessary enemies. So instead of venom, she offered a soft laugh in the face of what was obviously common knowledge at this point; as easy and carefree as it was vaguely uncomfortable. "I am the squire with her own room, that's true. It was not something I thought to turn down at the time."

Implying that she was thinking about turning it down, now.

It had certainly come with its fair share of complications, and at the time she'd simply taken what was offered without thinking too much about the potential fallout. She'd been exhausted, filthy, and just worn down to the last of her nerves since arriving to the Monastery, and had only realized her mistake in the weeks that followed.

Knights could be such filthy gossips.

But by now it had become a strange point of pride to her, and she no longer seriously considered backing down to thinly veiled ribbing. So, as humble as her words were, that same serene smile only deepened in the face of the implicit disapproval, "I didn't imagine it was my decision to turn down, even."

That was also true, she hadn't the faintest clue who to ask - and what to say - even if she had.

Nonetheless, the admission had caused a blush to colour her cheeks. She allowed the mask to drop, if only a little bit, as she crossed the width of the training field in short, certain strides so that they didn't have to practically yell at one another. Her hands dropped from the front of her skirts to then be relegated to her back, clasped together and out of sight so they wouldn't betray her nervousness.

"And no, my duties for the day are finished. I just thought I'd enjoy the day outside rather than be cooped up in my room, writing letters," Sitra's brow crinkled in amusement for the briefest of moments, then turned contemplative when her gaze briefly flickered to the lounging dragon. "I see that you and... Norvyk had the same idea, Syr?"

 

[Petra Darthinian]

If nothing else, Petra loved to tease. To test at the edges of what made a person tic. What made them scowl, or laugh, or rally, whatever it may be, as long as it was real. And for a moment, the elf witnessed those real pieces flash across Sitra's face, before hiding politely behind a mask. A knowing smirk wrestled on her lips. There she is. Not as demure as she played herself to be... Good. Petra preferred a little spice.

Copying the squire, Petra shifted her hands to clasp behind her back, if only to keep her strange limb a little longer from Sitra's curious stare. At the girl's question, she half turned with casual interest to scan her half-cleaned dragon. "We did indeed. He's shedding and asked for my help in reaching all the hard-to-get places." That wolf's grin was back with a mock whisper. "Although between you and I, I think the big lizard just prefers to be pampered and is afraid to say it." Norvyk rumbled behind her, and retracted his wing back to his side, she huffed a quick laugh. Okay, perhaps she preferred a lot of spice.

Turning back to Sitra, Petra's head quirked with a curious tilt, "Letters? Do you have many people back home to write to?" A familiar ache in her chest mirrored her question. Pesky things— memories.

@Sitra

 

[Sitra]

The rumbling disagreement from their third companion inexplicitly put the squire a little more at ease; her features softening into something resembling an actual smile this time around, and she proceeded to make a face of wry amusement at the lighthearted banter directed at Norvyk.

Sitra had correctly assumed that the dragon's rider was simply a tease at heart, and so tried anew not to take Petra's own needling of her own accommodations too personally.

And yet, as correct as she might've been about the knight's penchant for spice, she hadn't the courage to fully imitate Petra's amiable smirk in the fear that she was missing some hidden, terrible jest at her expense. To say that Sitra was always suspicious, all the time, was honestly a bit of an understatement, but she made an effort not to let that show.

She looked at Norvyk again, her laughter less guarded after a sudden thought sprung to mind. "He looks rather content, at any rate. And who knows? He might even perversely enjoy the idea of such an obliging knight at his beck and call; it's certainly a bit of a different take on most fairytales between knights and dragons that I've been told,"

The concept of riding them was not one that was popular in the storytelling circles of Saknne, where tales of a hero astride a dragon were only ever told when it was for the purpose of plunging a sword into their heart. So, what she was seeing definitely made a case for fact being stranger than fiction, at least to her sensibilities.

She might've wanted to ask more about the story behind such a magnificent creature, but was soon interrupted by the next question - this one bringing a flicker of a grimace across those finely chiseled features before, once again, they was forced into a placid facade. She made a point of not looking away from Petra's curious gaze while she composed an answer in her mind. "Nothing like that, really," she had answered.

There was a hint of teeth in the playful, silent laugh that danced across her lips.

"Typically it's only my uncle, and sometimes a friend or sibling when when they're able to write." Sitra replied almost absently to what Petra had asked her, clearly far more interested in observing the reptilian eyes of Norvyk as the slits widened against the newest flash of dazzling sunlight that had escaped through the shifting foliage of the trees overhead. "There's not a great deal to talk about with me so far from home, and I don't want to bother them with every little detail of my new life here. So I usually reserve the rare letter for more interesting things. It's an arrangement I'm perfectly content with."

Her almond eyes returned to Petra; scrutiny in those brown depths, however brief.

"How about yourself, Syr Darthinian? Have you many people back home to write to?"

The question was made with a formal address, surname and all, in a way that made it apparent that this line of discussion was hardly something that thrilled the squire to discuss. However, the subtle challenge in her words was dampened by the guileless look that followed; she did seem interested at the very least, for all her reluctance accompanying the subject.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Ah, well. She should have seen that question coming. It was only natural to politely inquire in return. More fool her.

To indulge the sudden urge to fidget under the squire's scrutiny, Petra moved back to her abandoned buckets, ducking her eyes and setting her hands to work with wringing out the oil rag. She stepped to Norvyk's folded wing, nudging lightly at his top wing joint— the dragon lifting it aside so she could work at oiling the clean scales along his ribs.

Humming thoughtfully, she looked back at Sitra with an appraising expression and nodded at her supplies. "Well, while you're here. Grab the scrub brush in that bucket over there, I haven't started on his right side yet. Many hands make light work and all that." She offered a grin, knowing that washing down a dragon's scales had to be the last thing Sitra would have expected of her day. But Petra was hoping it would do the girl some good. "We can talk while we work. And who knows, perhaps Norvyk will even let you sit on him afterwards."

A long-suffering draconic hiss filled the air and Petra laughed and smacked his side with her rag, that original tune already back and humming warmly under her breath.

@Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Honestly, the only thing that Sitra was better at than demurring was knowing when others were guilty of doing the same; there was something in the way that Petra had looked at her then, deftly sidestepping the squire's question so that she could instead nudge Sitra towards the bucket containing a scrub brush.

She hadn't questioned it, either. Happy enough with the excuse to change the subject.

"Of course,"

So she went to where she was told, hesitantly stooping to collect the brush out of the bucket with one hand, while the other carefully patted her skirts down in a vain effort of avoiding most of the dripping excess. There was a hint of trepidation in her walk as she went about settling herself next to Norvyk, and she tried her best not to appear either unnerved or giddy with excitement, despite very much feeling both in equal measure.

The idea of seeing a dragon this close for herself, outside of the occasional manuscript, was definitely overwhelming. Her studious gaze remained fixed upon the scales of Norvyk before her, finding it easiest to ignore his presence and molten eyes upon her when she had something else to concentrate on.

Even if it was almost impossible to ignore what was underneath her brush.

And she had wondered idly if he could feel the trembling of her dark hands as she tentatively went about grooming him - almost as one did a horse - letting the conversation lull while she eased herself into a more familiar routine. Not that anything about this was familiar, of course, but the repetition of the task helped soothe any of her initial nerves.

Soon enough the silence was replaced with the sound of metal bristles scraping across the hard surface of Norvyk's hide, and she'd taken the opportunity to touch the warmth of her palm against the coolness she found beneath it. The texture was almost as surprising to her, though she said nothing, instead focusing on Petra as her eyes rose to meet the scarred woman's.

"I don't know about sitting on him, but I am obviously curious," she spoke then, an amused tilt of her lips as she went fishing; her mind was already whirling with about a hundred different questions, and this time she hadn't bothered to avoid voicing them.

Her hand scrubbed a little more absently at Norvyk's hide as she grew comfortable with whatever this whole situation was. "I have questions," that was putting it lightly. "For example, I think I must ask how you came to find yourself travelling with such an interesting companion, Syr Darthinian?"

The concept of dragon riders was already a foreign enough concept to her. And so it was intriguing as it was completely and utterly mystifying, compared to what she'd learned with all of her dull pedagogues.

Taking the opportunity to have a break from the labour of sweeping away the dead skin of Norvyk so that his scales could shine anew, she raised the hand that wasn't nearly drenched in brackish water to tuck away the bangs that hung loosely about her face, pointlessly wiping at the perspiration beading at her forehead with a thumb.

As beaten to death the subject of one's dragon might be to its rider, it seemed a better topic than Petra's home life.

One step at a time.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The tale that the squire asked for was a long one, but as Petra rubbed the oil into Norvyk's side, she reflected on how far she had come to where she was now. How different her goals were. How changed her outlook and circumstance. There was a time when, for all her seeking, the hole in her chest never stopped burning, and she feared she would be consumed by it.

But here now, standing under the diaphanous shadow of Norvyk's wing, the soft green light dancing on her cheeks, the enormity of who she had become felt compounded in a single moment and she took a quick shaking breath under its weight. It felt grateful, it felt warm, and most importantly, it felt whole.

Covering her emotions with a soft cough, Petra cleared her throat and rested a forearm against her dragon's scales. "You know what's funny? In all my time here as a knight, not one soul has asked me that question." She laughed to herself. "I'm not sure that in comparison to all the magics the Order has to offer, that perhaps a bonded dragon and rider seem like the least strange of their ilk, or if really, we're all just very good at minding our business. Although I think between us three, we know that's a crock of shit."

The elf began her labors once more, working at the scales in front of her until they gleamed and she felt ready to speak.

"Norvyk may give you a different perspective, but then again, he didn't lose an arm and both his eyes that day."

---

Petra had read about dragons and what little was known about the intricacies of their anatomy and culture. Of the history of their species.

They were a naturally secretive lot and the differences between their kind were as varied and complex as her own people's. Yet that unknown had only deepened her insatiable curiosity for the majestic paragons.

The elf had always been a child of study. An aspiring thespian and scholar who sought to learn the wonders of the world through books, and what they couldn't tell her, she would find for herself. Such an endeavor is what had brought her to the throat of the Mheara Mountains. With tales of the elusive storm dragons whispering in her ear as a siren to a sailor on the high seas. She had come across a few mentions of them in old texts found in the great libraries of Arshakan Empire, a trek she had made over a decade ago in an effort to better understand the ways and songs of her people and where she belonged in the world.

She had stayed and visited for a handful of years. Had enjoyed the culture and history of her people and the other races that visited often.

But something had always felt like it didn't quite fit.

The famous city was built from the fables of heroes. Closer to greatness than any could hope to be. But it never felt like enough. She always ended up feeling inexplicitly stuck.

That restless and hungry desire for more had served as a catalyst for all the great endeavors of her life. And the failures too.
That same hunger is what drove her now to the coast south of the Mheara range, having passed her home to the north, feeling too uncomfortable to stop there to resupply; instead she took the extra time to ride to Crown's Hold, restock, and head south.

She had passed a mining town a day ago and had finally rounded the edge of the mountains that made up the Mheara. From here it was all coastline. Which was the closest place to the storm dragons that she discovered was described in her readings. Petra wasn't sure if the authors were purposefully being cryptic, or if they really had the barest of observations to go off of. Either way, the battered and ink stained field journal she had kept with her all these years, had empty pages that were hungry for sketches and her own thoughts upon the beasts. The idea of finally being published for her discoveries sent an ambitious thrill down her spine that only others who felt the same passion for knowledge and the curation of it could understand.

She just had to godsdamn get there already...

The cool air was a boon on the exercise fevered skin of her mount. She had purchased the black mare when she left the Empire. And the longer she spent with the animal, the more she realized why the stablemaster had sold her the cantankerous nag for cheap. She had already been thrown off twice in her journey. And there were days she was ready to throw in the towel with the stubborn animal. But Petra respected the fierce mare, and despite her vitriol attitude under saddle, she was a reliable mount in difficult terrain and could be trusted to take care of herself. All the same, Petra refused to call the mare the name she had been sold with: Muffin. A more laughable title she ahd yet to come across.

The duo had been riding at a steady decline since the dawn had broke upon a new day. A new opportunity, she softly encouraged herself. From her earlier perusal of her map, she knew that once they had reached the edge of the Mheara, as they had done yesterday, they should reach the coast by this afternoon. The only problem was that she frequently had to make stops and find shelter for the intermittent rain showers that seemed to plague this part of the region. Rain, she could handle. Chafe from soggy leather straps, she could not.

She knew that traveling the coast in this kind of weather was not ideal. But her common sense told her that there was no better time to find a storm dragon than in this very weather. The nastier the better. Muffin's perpetually pinned ears seemed to agree otherwise.

****

They had been riding at a steady trot for some time, with Petra mindlessly singing a montage of hymns, folk songs, and even bardic tavern tunes to occupy herself, when the first screaming of seagulls interrupted her thoughts. Muffin's ears perked at the foreign noise. It was accompanied by a swift coastal wind that blew her tangled curls from her face and filled her nose with the smells of salt and brisk water.

They had made it.

With a startled laugh of delight, Petra urged her mount into a gallop. Her cape of starlight snapping in the wind behind her. The turbulent breath of her black mare was in tandem with each strike upon the earth with her hooves. The steamy coils of her breath whipping past Petra, like fog on the wind. The mare could sense her rider’s urgency and eagerly committed herself to the task of haste. Petra reveled in the strength she could feel in each powerful stride beneath her, the passing thrill a welcome reprieve from the monotonous pace of their journey so far.

As they drew closer to the coast, Petra finally saw the edge of a cliffside, and what looked like a beach that led below the rockface. There, she would shelter against the cliffside for the night and begin exploring in the morning. But the elf had never seen the ocean in her 127 years of life, an oversight she sought to correct immediately.

It was then that a heavy guttural roll of thunder swept in from the horizon and freezing rain began to pelt them, the clouds were dark and angry as they closed in the farther to the shore she rode, the droplets like stinging ice against her smiling cheeks and obscuring her ability to see. She had been too excited to care about the impending storm, she was so close. So close she could taste the electricity on her tongue.

The seagrass atop the cliffside whipped in protest against the growing force of the wind, the gales growing so cacophonous that Petra could no longer hear the drumming hoofbeats beneath her. It was all she could do to point her steed straight and true.

Petra should have realized her reckless abandon in the name of discovery would lead her to making a mistake yet again. She should have noted the tell tale signs that hummed in the air. There was a pressure of energy that built against her skin, the lifting of hair at the nape of her neck. It wasn't until the first bolt of lighting had hit the ground some feet from her that she realized her fatal mistake.

Muffin may have been steadfast, but to demand that she ride into the very throes of a dangerous storm was too much for any horse. The horse gave an equine scream and came to a sliding stop, her hind end slipping in the mud that curated from the rain. The sudden violent stop caught Petra unaware and before she knew it, she was flying over the neck of the mare and landing in a crushing heap some lengths away. She yelled in pain as she rolled with the force of being thrown. Landing in an ungraceful tangle of limbs with her forehead to the ground, in shock, all she could do was pant as she watched through her dark curtain of curls, Muffin running as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

"Fuck." Was all the commentry she could muster. Her body hurt and her pride even more. All of her research and camping supplies were in her pack tied to the back of her saddle. How could she be so stupid? How could she be so impatient? She was lucky she wasn't killed.

Another crack of thunder interuppted her thoughts. She would do well to find shelter as soon as possible and wait out the storm and then try to find her horse later.

WHOOSH

What? Was that the wind?

WHOOSH

No... something was wrong. The wind was a steady scream around her, but this?

WHOOSH

This felt like a force of air against the wind itself. But what wa-

It was then that she heard it.

Past the deafening roar of her own heartbeat from where it clamored in the cage of her ribs like a trapped bird. And past the roar of wind and her growing fear, she could hear a tenuous aria rising from the thunder. It called to something in her blood.

It was made of trumpets and cellos and violins, their sound triumphant. A rallying horn before the charge.

The orchestral crescendo, buoyant and without end. She scrambled towards the edge of the cliff, the symphony a feverish chant in her heart that drove her forward. She felt herself falling towards something within, as if she was racing towards the finish of something. The urgency that thrummed within her was without explanation, she felt compelled to do something, but she didn't know what?!

WHOOSH

The hair on her nape rose when a thundering voice slithered into her head. It echoed of raging storms and caged fury. Of a being so old that surely it had walked hand in hand with creation itself. It consumed every crevice in her mind, swelling until there was nothing but its presence. She couldn't help but feel like a bird trapped in the claws of a great cat.

"Sing." It whispered.

Her sense of self began to bleed away, blending with a being beyond her own mortal comprehension. How could she host something so vast and fathomless within her own head and maintain her sanity for more than a few moments? It was like some great eye had opened in her mind and was seeing into the deepest depths of her soul, assessing her. Judging her.

Would it find her wanting?

She felt it too. The tethers of her sanity, the ends of the threads, threatening to unravel at further provocation. Some part of her grasped at them, that piece of self that was slipping through her fingers like water. Never meant for her to hold longer than a fleeting moment.

Finally, when she thought she would be lost, she felt the phantom voice recede until it was a manageable occupation. Petra gulped in a lungful of air, stumbling forward as if released from a vice grip.

A voice rang out in her head, this time a bellowing command.

"SING!" The words rang faintly of music, made by instruments she had no name for.

And so the elf did the only thing she could do, she sang.

There were no words. Only a melody that began with a cautious cadence. The song built as she focused on that thrumming in her chest. Her growing confidence enough to throw her voice out into the storm.

More bolts of lightning cracked in the air around her, but she ignored them and sang as if her life depended on it.

WHOOSH WHOOSH

She was holding her hands to her chest, above her heart, where it hammered away, when she realized that the the tune she was regaling was that of an old and tragic battle hymn. It told of a pyyrhic victory that left none standing on the battlefield, none but the betrayed. And that at some point in her song, another voice had joined hers in a harmonic duet. It was then that she no longer felt afraid.

WHOOSH WHOOSH

Petra was in the last stanza of her song when she crept to the edge of the cliff, her voice holding the last note with her unseen partner, when she finally peeked over the edge.

WHOOSH

A jeweled reptilian body flew up and past her face, parallel to the cliff. The force enough to knock her up and away from the edge. She landed on her back, staring straight into the grey sky above her. She couldn't make out the moving shape through the torrential rain.

Yes, she had read about dragons.

But none of that had prepared her for what it was like when brought into the very presence of one all of a sudden.

A dark green jewel dropped from the sky in a dive. Petra was sure that it was going to hit her; and refusing to be afraid, she screamed her defiant rage into the sky. Never taking her eyes off of her impending death.

She kept screaming up until the beast extended its mighty wingspan and thundered to the ground. Caging Petra in with all four of its scaled legs.

There was nothing the elf could do but gape at the deep green storm dragon looming above her. The dragon had shifted its wings to hover the leathery flesh over head, effectively stopping the rain from directly falling onto Petra as she stared in shock.

The dragon had two mighty black horns that swept away from its head. Armored emerald plates lined the length of its snout and leathery fins jutted out from the edge of its jaw and back towards its armored crest. But it was their eyes that transfixed Petra.

The iris itself was a shining predatory gold, like that of a sea eagle. The pitch black pupil was slit like a cat’s, with the sclera around the eye just as dark . She lay fascinated as she watched the pupil contract and expand.

Like a moth to a flame, she was unable to tear herself from the chaotic emotions within its gaze. It was like seeing the aural glow of a god.

The power from within its chest radiated in an echo that she could feel in her own. The vibrations enough to rattle her teeth. All the while, that same beginning aria played in a subtle hum in the air.

The same voice spoke in her head a third time, "Hello, Little Lark. You answered my call and faced the Harmony with ferocity. In turn... I shall accept your contract."

"Wh-wha-what?! No, no, no, no. I-I-" Her words wouldn't stop tripping over her tongue, she couldn't get them out fast enough. It was then that the aria sped into a frenzy around her, and a bright golden light began to shine at the base of the dragon's chest.

The dragon arched his neck down, his head coming impossibly close. Petra began to panic and attempt to scramble out of its reach as she watched that light travel up the length of its neck and into the maw of the dragon.

"May we shake the very foundations of the earth with our song, Rider." Was all Petra could hear before the dragon touched the center of her chest with the light. And in that contact it was as if electricity had speared her heart and radiated into every piece of her being. Her back arched in agony and a silent scream caught on her lips. No longer were her ears filled with the rage of the storm around them. All she could hear was the dragon's song reaching into the farthest crevices of her mind. Searing her and rebirthing her anew. There was a far away sensation of crackling heat from the top of her right shoulder to the tips of her fingers, but she was too far gone to react.

It was when she thought she was going to fade from this life into the next that her senses finally started to return. The sudden absence of the storm entirely is what caught her attention first. A seagull cried in the distance. The gentle crashing of waves eroding the bottom of the cliff several lengths below. And the soft touch of sunlight upon her cheek.

A blazing pain pulsed behind her eyes and with a groan she sat up, covering her face with her right hand. But the texture was wrong, it felt... scaly. In surprise, Petra yanked her hand from her face and stared at what she thought was her arm. Except it wasn't entirely her arm anymore. What was once rich umber skin, was now covered in jeweled quetzal green scales. Lighter under her forearm and palm and fading into a deep black to all five of her now clawed fingers. She couldn't believe it, it felt like her arm. What the absolute fuck.

A noise ahead of her caused her to spook and gasp as she looked up. There, sat the dragon. Seeming all to the world, relaxed and unperturbed. It stood easily eight feet at the shoulder, and from what she could tell, about 20 or 25 feet in length. Easily big enough to kill her and a handful of other skilled warriors.

But it wasn't fear she felt now. No. What's done was done. Now? Now all she felt was absolute indignant rage.

The dragon leveled a a calm stare at her. Seemingly uneffected by the angry hitch in her breathing pattern.

"I imagine you have questions, Petra Darthinian. But for now, you may call me Norvyk."

@Sitra

 

[Sitra]

The story was a long one, that could not be denied.

Thankfully, it was a story that the squire, sitting at Norvyk's side, found herself wholeheartedly engrossed in. And how could one blame her? The world was not a fanciful place when one's life was so rigidly bound by rules and expectations, nor when one's future was so strictly governed by duty - to the family, to the people, to the faith - these things were the stifling antithesis to anything as fantastical as Petra's tale about her hunt for dragons, and a dragon's hunt for a rider.

There was no time for fantasy in Sitra's world.

So, for someone whose life was made uneventful and ordinary by all the things others demanded of her, it should have been no surprise to find that the elf's words were as spellbinding to her as the call of Norvyk was to his rider... or was it vice versa?

But instead of the magic that was at work so long ago in binding these two strange companions indelibly to one another, this spell was spun by little more than a good story, being told by a good storyteller. For the scarred woman had a way of painting a picture with her words, and the squire's whirling imagination was more than enthusiastic about filling in the empty spaces of the canvass that words alone could not reach.

It was rather mundane magic in comparison, really. And yet it proved no less powerful in keeping the squire firmly rooted to where she kneeled in the grass, hanging attentively onto each word from Petra's lips - trying her best not to interrupt with the flurry of questions that threatened to escape from her own.

It was a challenge, certainly, but she was raised well enough to know when to bite her lip, and when not to speak out of turn.

As much as it pained her to do so.

And when it was over, Sitra was quiet for a long moment. The brush had come to a slow, gradual halt as her hands stilled in their task of cleaning Norvyk's hide; the same way a quill would stop in its strokes as a mind drifted towards contemplation of what to write next.

She hadn't moved away from the warmth of the dragon beneath her hands, even when her ministrations had all but ceased. Whether or not that disappointed the great creature in repose was lost on Sitra, who was far more interested in watching Petra's face as the woman spoke from beneath the cover of her dark lashes.

It was only when the squire was able to gather her scattered thoughts did her hands resume their movements, slow and methodical as she returned some of her attention to the poor, neglected Norvyk. For she found herself strangely unwilling to disappoint this majestic creature that seemed content to bask under her touch.

Her voice returned a few moments after that, as tentative as it was.

"Not one soul was interested in such a tale? I find that very hard to imagine." Sitra had asked with an almost inaudible laugh from somewhere deep in her throat, struggling to keep the look of muted surprise from her features as her gaze flickered between the two equally curious companions before her. The fact that knights and their squires were filthy gossips went without saying, in all honesty; and the dragon-riding woman's earlier teasing had only served to bring that point home. "Perhaps they thought the same thing as I did, and assumed you'd not be thrilled at retelling the same, tired tale."

That explanation required the other knights to have more tact than what either woman believed they were actually capable of possessing, but she felt compelled to suggest the possibility anyway. It gave her the benefit of having a little more time to mull over everything that she was told without the conversation devolving into another bout of uncomfortable silence.

"But whatever the reason for their restraint, that's their loss I think," she spoke with an amused earnestness, and the sincerity in her voice was very real. "You're very talented at storytelling, Syr Darthinian. It's a gift not everyone possesses, and Saknne always welcomed them."

Her grandmother always knew how to weave a story out of even the thinnest threads, just as how she knew how to spin even the most banal details into a richly embroidered tapestry of words. It was a gift, and one that her uncle also possessed in his own unique way.

His letters were always a delight for the news starved girl to enjoy, and not only for the knowledge he imparted, but for his own informal brand of making even the most dull topic of correspondence a pleasure to read and dissect at her own leisure.

But she had no intention of reminiscing about her past when she was already struggling not to blurt out a hundred different questions with the company she had at present.

So instead, Sitra turned her attention to Norvyk with a faint quirk of her mouth - catching the corner of her lips with her teeth as her eyes turned to the back of the great dragon's head - her gaze as mischievous as it was thoughtful.

"I must admit, I have never heard of a contract through song; and certainly not between dragon and human." Sitra couldn't help but muse at the absurdity of it as her brush came to rest at his flank, still more idle than deliberate at its task. She was only distantly aware that she had left it dripping over her skirts, but that was something she'd fuss over later.

"May I ask..."

What a dragon saw in Petra that warranted such a contract? Was that a rude question to ask? What exactly did dragons see as positive traits in other races, precisely? So many questions, but only so much courage to ask them. And too much tact preventing her from spilling them all of them out at once.

Honestly, she felt like a child at her grandmother's knee all over again.

"... why you decided to offer a contract to another; is this a common practice amongst your kind?"

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra settled into the grass next to Sitra, patting the ground with a friendly tilt of her chin. The elf sat back against the side of her dragon, closing her eyes and being content to rest in the shade of his wings, her skin feeling a touch too sun-baked.

"Rest for a moment and I shall tell you." Forearms perched on bent knees as a sigh levied from her throat. "I imagine you've heard of the dracophage, yes? The disease that's devastated dragons since the First Age?"

A long grumble rattled from Norvyk, and Petra absently patted his scales with her hand.

"We don't really know why it only affects dragons, but it's the reason so few of them are left." Petra opened her eyes and turned to level a considering look at the squire.

"And yet don't you find it strange that it never became zoonotic? Despite almost every other sentient people being carriers?"

@feryke

 

[Sitra]

As though waiting for any excuse to put aside the task that was proving to be more tedious than Sitra would have liked for a day as warm and lovely as this one was, there was very little hesitation in doing exactly as she was bidden; and she soon moved to join the scarred woman at Norvyk's side with the same eagerness she had demonstrated in exchanging the stifling walls of the crowded dormitories with the sun-dappled courtyard of the world beyond.

The scrub brush was the next thing to be abandoned, and Sitra's calloused hands had been quick to deposit the burden into the murky water of the bucket next to her - replacing the feeling of old, worn wood with the prickling sensation of the grass beneath her as she settled herself into a more informal kneeling position.

Personally, she would have loved to sit a little more comfortably, but she wasn't certain if the invitation extended to that degree of informality, and her upbringing told her not to, so she didn't. She had no intention of sitting cross-legged like a child before an elder.

Especially when this particular elder was so swift with her teasing.

Meanwhile, the wetness of her hands were momentarily forgotten as she worked over the creases of her skirts, doing what she could to smooth down the the rumpled and stained fabric into some semblance of tidiness. An unconscious exercise of propriety that ended up making even more of a mess of her clothing by the time her hands had returned to her lap.

Internally, she was cursing herself for her stupidity; externally, she was offering a faint smile and a polite nod at the invitation.

And as Petra spoke of dragons and dracophages and things that her old pedagogue had only vaguely touched upon - considering such subjects to be of little consequence to a young woman's education - she had tried her best to follow along with the same air of polite attentiveness that she had afforded to any of her previous tutors.

Truthfully, she wasn't entirely certain how successful she had been in concealing the hint of incomprehension that undoubtedly flickered across her serene, wide-eyed features when the scarred woman's eyes had at last turned to her own, but she was glad that she had an obvious excuse to avert her eyes; looking instead to the very large and very present topic of discussion that she had been washing the scales of only moments before.

"I have heard of such a thing in my studies," she had finally spoken after a long pause, her gaze no longer wavering as she committed herself to fumbling through this impromptu history lesson with as much grace as she could muster, instead meeting Petra's questioning look then with an expression that she hoped came off across as earnest - rather than that of prey staring down a particularly hungry predator. "And I will admit that I do find it odd that we don't have an answer to a question with so many consequences."

Her pedagogue had spoken of different essences in the brief amount of time that he thought to spare on the subject. That the dracophage was an ailment that went beyond the flesh and into something far more existential, and that all species possessed an essence unique unto themselves that separated human from deva, or human from dragon, and so forth.

So why would mankind be affected, when it was a disease of the soul, rather than of the body?

It hardly made for a compelling argument when they still knew so little of the affliction, but she was only a child at the time, and had long since learned by then that children were not to debate their teachers - or such established truths.

Anything to the contrary were to be dredged from imported books and storytellers in taverns, not from curmudgeon tutors. Honestly, there were a lot of things that she had no reason to question from her time in the classroom. A frustrating oversight now that she was being made to answer for her ignorance while she tried not to look too oblivious in the process.

"I imagine you already asked Norvyk for his opinion?" She had added a little lamely, her brow creasing in sudden curiosity as a hand came down to lay upon the haunch of the great beast.

 

[Petra Darthinian]

A righteous laugh erupted from Petra, "Asked?!" The jewel light that bled through Norvyk's wings flickered above her as he shifted, already privy to his rider's scathing internal monologue. It took the elf a moment before she could speak past the sardonic giggles, absently wiping at her face.

"Holy Eights, I will never not find it funny how often people make the mistake of thinking Norvyk would settle for anything less than offering his opinion on something before it is warranted. He is very much his own creature." Norvyk rumbled beneath them, uncharacteristically holding his tongue— to prove a point she wagered, but still, his silence sobered her, and Petra turned an indulgent smile at the squire, happy that even if the girl wasn't confident in her answer, she gave one nonetheless. That kind of mindset would get her far in her studies.

"But yes, I have heard his thoughts on the matter. And as much as we can, we've concluded that this bonding between us, this shared soul we both now inhabit, is the reason why he no longer seems susceptible to the blight of the dracophage. Granted, all magic has a price." She lifted her taloned arm and danced her fingers in the summer air, admiring the glint and sinuous pull of her scales. "For example, I've found myself a little more wild and vicious than I ever was before." She slid a teasing squint to Sitra. "Just a little though." Her plush mouth flashed a sharp smile before knocking her knuckles back against Norvyk's side, "While this guy right here has suffered far worse changes than my own. Somewhere along the way, he picked up a nasty proclivity towards humanity." She laughed again at Norvyk's sudden disdainful snort. "A mighty burden indeed."

@Sitra