Dragon ch 1

 A romantic perspective was that living up by the Spikes was a delicate dance. If you were quick and graceful, you could thrive in a beautiful, deadly place unlike anywhere else in the known worlds.   

Some people just said it was damned stupid. Magic was unstable here- more so than down in the valleys. It crackled visibly between the tall mountains, daring anyone foolish or power-hungry enough to come on up if they were hard enough.

Sometimes people did go up. They didn't always come back down.

But people did make a living on the mountain ranges, and so some stayed on slightly less hazardous slopes. Some were in the morally dubious business of ritual preparation- making a living off whatever clueless bastard that had it in their head to venture up the Spikes in search of power and, apparently, wisdom.

They were never real specific about what it was they were hoping for. Perhaps it was the kind of wisdom that would have kept them from going up in the first place.

The rest of occupants of the village of Triels were mostly in the business of harvesting. Not so much for food, however. While large amount of magic in the area led to bumper crops, it also had some unpredictable effects on the people who ate it. That didn't really stop the locals, but it made selling crops unlikely.

So agriculture wasn't so much their business. No, they harvested the trees.

The trees surrounding the Spikes spent decades absorbing the excess magic that occasionally shot down from the mountaintops, and so became incredibly powerful with time. If they weren't chopped down, eventually they grew sentient and caused all sorts of problems.

Like that- Syla stiffened as lightning crackled across the sky and slammed into the nearest mountain with almost vengeful force. Fuck you in particular, the world seemed to be saying. The ensuing light whited out the skyline for a good three seconds and left sparks drifting into the air. When the air cleared, Syla could see the diverted streams of magic writhe down the mess of crags to disappear into the forest beyond.

That was probably going to be trouble, but hopefully someone else’s. No good came from direct exposure to magic like that. Sure, you might be blessed with the ability to control rainfall or something, but it was just as likely that you would be roasted to a crisp or could only control the specific genus of voles living in the sewers of Nunda.

But if you were careful and sturdy enough to take direct hits from whole tree branches, you could make a fair amount of money harvesting the trees here. There weren't many people doing that. Syla was a member of the oldest family business in that field, so she would know.

Depending on the temperament of the tree and the skill of the craftsmen involved, the wood could be made into wonderful - and most significantly, valuable- things. Enchanted doors that never broke or opened for trespassers, walking sticks that wrapped around legs like snakes and operated joints and muscles at will, or rocking chairs that never stopped rocking. It had made the Grotsper family affluent and influential, at one time.

Occasionally a tree had enough conductivity to be used for channeling magic, but those were pretty rare. Generally any tree with that amount of power uprooted itself and either ran off in the night or went on a rampage until someone tossed a lit cigar at it.

Not that the “enchanted” objects could be any less dangerous, especially in the wrong hands.   

Syla held out a spike and accompanying floral-covered nameplate. Life was all about choices. So many choices. Had to make good ones. Rough claws placed it tentatively on the ground near the sapling and waited for a reaction before she risked digging it into the soil.   

There was no movement- that was a good sign. Either that or this tree was a dud with no magic at all. Just to check, Syla scrambled behind and pulled up a second spike with a different name. “Got any preference at all?”

No answer came but the familiar buzzing of the forest.   

“Riiight, then. Thank you for your time.” Syla pushed the first sign into the dirt on a whim. “I suppose you’re just gonna be ‘Bleth’. It suits you.”

There were more to name- the first in a series of choices that had to be made. It was only right that someone knew the character of the trees they were caring for and selling. Made for bad business when someone sold a birch with a mean streak off to make for someone’s bassinet or rocking chair.

Syla stood up and lazily let the accumulated filth roll off sun-warmed scales back onto the forest floor. There was always work to do, but something about the day just seemed off. Whether it was just a severe case of the heebie-jeebies or an unconscious attunement to the magic-laden atmosphere, it could be fatal (or worse) to ignore it. Syla gathered up the pile of stakes and surveyed the area with the learned disaffection of a local.

An unfamiliar playing of light sent screaming panic in Syla’s hindbrain.

The iridescent streaks of pure magic hadn’t drained down the mountain at all. They were lying there, open to the air, not grounding into anything.   

It felt like it was looking straight back, and appeared to wriggle in an inviting sort of way.

She stared until her eyes went so dry that she had to blink out her inner lids to moisten them.

Huh. That could not be good at all.   

The crunching of tree bark forced Syla’s gaze away back to the immediate surroundings, as all the trees shifted themselves roots and all to make a tight circle. Being watched without any eyes was something Syla was used to- but on this scale… it was like they were waiting.   

Carefully, so as not to make anyone (or thing) aware of what just happened, Syla smoothly sauntered towards the edge of the forest towards somewhere a terrified lizard could safely get absolutely shitfaced.

And maybe look into leaving the family business behind for something substantially safer, like mugging armed adventurers.

It took some days for Syla to calm down, gather information, and consider all of the options.

Decisions, decisions, and all of them terrible. Syla found that this was inspiring philosophical internal debates, which were already intolerable at best. But the question still remained:

Was it morally reprehensible to sell a business involving murderous magical trees outside the family?   

Of course, it was hard to justify selling it to a family member already, but that was tradition. Tradition exists outside the moral decision spectrum, and so it was perfectly acceptable to doom a nephew or five to an incredibly dangerous business.   

But at least a family member had some idea, whereas outside the family the poor sap wouldn’t know what they were getting into.

The family point was moot anyway- Syla was basically the last one in the family left, which is the problem inherent in a lethal family run business structure. There were a couple of cowardly cousins somewhere, being prudent and obsessive about scurrying from one warm rock to the next where the chances of being turned into avocado pudding were never above 0.   

Syla decided in the end not to decide- the trees generally weren’t smart enough to wander off anyway, and maybe the lack of supply for magical wood would increase demand once the forest was back down to only being as terrifying as before. Grotspers as a family were not easy to intimidate, but it had become too dangerous even by those lackadaisical standards.

Going back to the forest right now would be stupid beyond belief, even for someone who fully expected their job to kill them. That didn’t mean you walked into death willingly or stupidly.   

Syla had ventured as far up as she dared within the shadow of the Spikes to peer at the situation, when she was still considering that time might resolve the problem. The magic was still visible on the mountains even days later, still building up and sparking off each other where separate streams collided like drunks in a fistfight. It was not getting better. It might be getting worse.

Syla wasn’t low on money to be honest, so trying longer to wait out whatever the hell this was possible. Unfortunately that path threatened incredible boredom and accompanying feelings of uselessness that weren’t to be tolerated. It might drive her to desperation tactics, like visiting the neighbors.

There was always another option, of course. It also wasn’t appealing, but none of this was.   

Those hapless people that came up to the mountains for power always came from somewhere- schools of some sort in the bigger cities that studied magic to try to make some use of it. They seemed like fools, but if even one of them knew something useful it could be worth asking. And probably the ones who went to the Spikes were the least intelligent of the bunch.

Syla hadn’t had much use for the cities and their attractions before- too many people and too much nonsense. But now it seemed that would be the best possible way to resolve the issue. Who knew who long it would be until the Spikes went back to the way they were before.   

And what if they never changed back? Syla couldn’t sit that long with nothing to do. She'd kept on with the family business after almost everyone else had died or fled (or fled and then died- magic was about impossible to escape) mostly because Syla couldn’t stand being without some sort of work. Finding other employment hadn’t been necessary when there was ample work to do right outside. And Syla had already ruled out selling or abandoning the damn thing.   

But Syla didn’t have the knowledge or skills to do anything about the absolute horror show going on up the Spikes. Waiting it out seemed unlikely to solve anything, even if it wouldn’t send Syla into some sort of boredom- induced spiral.   

The wizards in the city might be able to solve the problem, though. At least they were more likely than anyone else to be useful. They’d still probably just get lit on fire or eaten by some angry trees, but there was a chance they’d be able to fix the problem before that.   

At any rate those awful wizards definitely owed society at least one favor, and Syla felt like calling on it.   

To Nunda it was.

____

The door wasn’t locked, but that was for the best. Nackt would stop by every couple of days to make sure nothing horrible happened to the house, or at least send Syla a letter describing the ensuing fire for her to enjoy. The community was too small for anyone to try stealing anything, and there wasn’t much to steal at any rate.   

At least it made packing easy when nobody really owned more than necessary.

Some extra decorative layering panao and a couple nice yemari in a bag would do it so that she would fit in the big city. Maybe some more money? Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. People used money for things- especially outside the village, even though Syla usually made do with the self-sustaining garden outside and the possessions left behind by family prior. One only needed so many cooking utensils and kitschy decorations.   

It seemed like Syla was probably forgetting something but careful reexamination of the house didn’t turn up more than an old forgotten book and some dusty corners. Syla took the time to wipe them down.

Syla shrugged off the rising panic of leaving and strode out the door with manufactured purpose. Nunda was… to the right, first thing. Past the Spikes’ most populated area and tourist attractions, down the mountain range. It was visible from the town, anyway. This really couldn’t be that hard.

Triels was fairly busy regardless of the time of year. The picturesque view of the valleys below combined with the thrillseeking possibilities of the Spikes made for a steady business in tourism. The hotels tended to market towards their respective buyers accordingly “Stay here for a certified Spike guide’, ‘magic Spike rocks’, and various gimmick items purporting to vastly decrease your chances or death by a thousand spontaneous falling pigs.   

That was a good year, actually. Syla still had some leftover dried meat from that. At least tourists were the gift that kept on giving. Ostensibly the pig bounty should have gone to the unfortunate that was inflicted with them, but dead people rarely had a use for pork products.

A particularly garish display advertised jewelry of varying purposes. A particular display was centered on protection- general, protection from fire, protection from ingrown toeclaws, protection from bandits...   

“Syla, didn’t know you’d need some luck.”   

Talf had been one of Syla’s agemates, or close enough to it that they had attended school together. They hadn’t been close. Talf’s natural charm and salesmanship had made her quite popular, though. Exquisitely crafted rings adorned her arms, talons, and neck. Even her paneo were woven with metal thread. And on Talf it didn’t look ridiculous. It says a lot about a person when they can wear the jewelry equivalent of a small country’s income and not look like a colossal ass.   

It was Syla’s fault for lingering, really. People in such a small community noticed every out of character thing you did and nothing could stay secret past when you’d had enough of a lapse in judgement to air your business to anybody. Or maybe even just out loud to yourself- people in small boring towns love to snoop. Oh, sorry to drop in on you at such a bad time, but I’d of course just wanted to come check in on you since there was a mild breeze yesterday. Hope you’re all right, I brought a pie…

And that was when you didn’t do anything. Syla coming into the village proper and lingering near anything non-utilitarian was outright weird.   

So that had been a mistake- and before even actually leaving. It didn’t bode well for Syla’s grandiose plan of “go to Nunda, find a useful idiot, make useful idiot fix the world, get back to work”. She hadn't escaped her home village yet and she had gotten trapped in conversation.

And Talf was still standing there, looking amused. It would probably be a good idea to get out of there.   

“Not in particular,” Syla avoided eye contact by examining the intricate engraving on one of the necklaces. It looked like two birds with their claws entangled, standing on one leg. Probably for good relationships? It seemed like having to stand on one leg because the other was stuck on some other ass's leg was a bad thing. Syla would find that very inconvenient. “They’re lovely, though. Thanks for letting me look at them.”

Talf hummed noncommittally and ran a long luxurious talon along the bottom of a row of talismans, causing them to tinkle and glitter. “I know you’re not very interested in them, but thank you for the compliment. I see you’re going somewhere?”

Syla had put the small bag of money and clothes under her yemari, hoping that it would be hidden under the soft folds of fabric and the extra bumps protruding legs and a tail provide. Apparently not. Maybe Syla just sucked at having secrets.

“You never wear yemari,” Talf looked like she was trying to be generous, probably due to Syla’s obvious discomfort. “I suppose they might be an inconvenience in your daily line of work. Here for business or pleasure?”

‘Neither’ would have been the honest answer. But the conversation was quickly growing uncomfortable. This was threatening to become a full blown exchange, and Syla would like to leave right now very much, please.   

“No reason. Thank you again. I’ll see you around!” It had come out far too quick and a bit overly loud, but at least Syla hadn’t been intentionally rude. She practically leapt out of the conversation and into the bustle of midday shoppers, leaving Talf standing there a bit perturbed but otherwise unharmed and unoffended.  

Outside the shopping area Syla took a long evaluative look at the scenery and down onto the valley. Nunda was visible in the distance, what looked like tall sweeping towers mixed with ramshackle construction and topped with a cloud of smoke. Farther in the distance were more mountains and hills, covered with lush vegetation and the occasional hamlet.   

‘For once I think I see why Khatre settled our people here.’   

Or whoever actually decided that and then blamed a god for it, anyway. Who knew with people?

The ground felt like it was shifting under Merl’s feet- though whether that was a valid geographical phenomenon or an appropriately melodramatic result of this find was up for debate.   

The stargazing books left behind by ancestors long dead had managed to survive whatever bafflingly weird shit had happened to them in the “Bermuda Triangle”, the ravages of time, and whoever the hel had shoved them so haphazardly between five dusty boxes. It was surprising that they hadn’t fallen apart- though the paper felt worn and brittle in Merl’s hands. It was delicate stuff, and no wonder.

‘But none of it makes any damned sense.’   

Either the persons responsible for the charts were slobbishly just painting stars wherever, or the entire sky had changed. Merl couldn’t recognize a single constellation out of that mess. Even the sun looked wrong for some reason. How hard was that? It was a big red ball in the sky.

Maybe they’d just been shoved down here because they were useless garbage and the librarian couldn’t bring themselves to destroy even useless literature. It seemed possible- but usually even the inaccurate garbage was left in the accessible archives, maybe with some warnings or the expectation that the reader (having come all this way, filled out a gigantic form for a library card, and wandered back to the “ridiculous fiction” section) would be capable of exercising some common sense.   

The things downstairs were usually there for storage or because they were dangerous. Lots of people had written some irresponsible how-tos involving the wellsprings of magic-like energy that could be found far underground or in other dangerous areas. Advice such as “dance with a sprig of mint in your mouth, balancing a glass of wine in your right hand, while reaching out to the pure energy with your left foot.” Specifics like the kind of mint tended to be left ambiguous so that the author couldn’t be blamed when an unfortunate reader died as a direct result. Too many lawsuits by the bereaved.   

But this thing didn’t seem dangerous necessarily, unless you were going to try to follow an absent “North Star” back from the wilderness and ended up in the ocean or something.   

At least it was interesting, though- someone had left notes in fading pencil. It could be a mildly entertaining thing to paw through after work, when the pleasant monotony of shelving and providing referrals was over.   

People who work at a library tend to enjoy reading, so Merl carefully tucked the book with the least-damaged cover into a bag to take home for the night. Maybe if Merl looked out at the sky really carefully, those same stars would align differently.

That bit of odd excitement over, Merl went back to digging through those dusty boxes to find an old set of bookends for the reading nook. It looked like a total disaster over there and the madness needed to be contained before it fell on some unsuspecting napper.   

Work was work. Not much more could be said about it. While enduring the trials of the circulation desk, Merl thought more than once or twice about the book she had found. By the time she locked the doors, nothing sounded more relaxing than taking the book out and making a comparison.

Lounging in the long soft grass and looking up at the stars sounded like the stuff of dreams, but really it felt like an exercise in scholastic pain.   

“That star isn’t there AT ALL, the “big dipper’ is halfway missing, and I’m not even sure it’s right about the PLANETS.”

Those seemed like rather obvious mistakes for a stargazer to make- and someone had had the gall to sell this to a publisher at some point. Who authorized that?

After all, it isn’t like stars tended to up and move right out of the sky.   

Not to mention that no one’s eyes should ever be aching like this. Merl had been staring at the paper for too long, trying to play chicken with a centuries-old lump of yellowing paper. It hadn’t worked, but not for any lack of effort. The book just lay there, as one does.   

“Should have left it back in the basement.”

What a waste of time. Well, in any case, the grass was comfortable enough to lie on and take in the night sky for a bit before going home to sleep.   

Merl flopped back and wriggled into the soft fibers, enjoying the night’s stillness.