Roars and flames sounded in the intervals between the banging against the massive door. With each bang, everyone in the grand hall sucked in their breath, and whimpers were wrought. This was one of the grand halls of the dwarven city of Cöldèlm. It had been two months since the disappearance of several elves, along with the mysterious murders of several more. Among those who went missing, Nèamöräth, and his dragon, Äarvöa. Rumours had spread that a cult of elves that believed themselves the righteous rulers of this land, even more so than ordinary elves, had formulated, and, using dark magic, had committed the string of murders. Dênæ Ketràhn-Dûarc Had never believed these rumours—dismissed them as imaginative lies told to paranoid men by the corners of their minds. Now, though, with a dragon attempting to burn and smash down the enchanted door of Cöldèlm, now she was not so sure. She held clasped to her bosom her two sons.

With each thud against the door, the dwarven guards rattled their falchions and halberds and yell cries of anguish at the dragon. The beast outside echoed them back with roars and crackles of flames.

“We will be alright, won’t we, mother?” Inquired one of Dênæ’s sons, his voice quivering and his eyes wide.

“Yes, yes we will. Remember, the beast hasn’t yet got in; our doors are too strong.” She said, trying to sound certain.

“But what if it does get in?”

She answered soothingly, “Then your father and the other guards will make short work of it.”

“I’m scared.” Said her other son, his voice too shaking.

She rocked them both gently. “Don’t be.”

The doors clattered again. The weapons wielded by the dwarven guards too clattered, and cries of rage came from those guards. This time the dragon did not roar. It let out a long-lasting burst of flames.

“Tirák Uîtaás-Étnä!” Shouted a voice from upon the dragon, though barely audible amongst the jet of fire. The fire stopped for a second—one awfully long second. One second of complete silence. It was broken with the sound of burning flames marching across the surface of the door. But this time they didn’t radiate off like the past times. The flames curled through the thin gaps between the two doors and through the planks. The door smouldered and burned. Another crash against the door. It gave way. In swung inwards into the foremost guards. The ivory-coloured dragon flapped its wings to stop from entering the chasm. It was Äarvöa.

The manoeuvre had exposed her underbelly, and several halberds were jabbed forward at her, punching several bleeding wounds that quickly oozed berry red blood over her otherwise creamy scales. She roared in pain as she cocked her head back. Flames streamed from her maw and incinerated rows of guards. The colour of her fire was slightly off—as if augmented with a magic charm.

A flog of arrows streamed in from outside, and tore yet more of the dwarven guards to the stone ground. By an unspoken coordination, an elf with coal pigmented skin and eyes so red that his eyes could very well have been gouged out and replaced with rubies somersaulted backwards off Äarvöa. He had to be Nèamöräth. He continued to spin faster than the eye could follow all the way into the middle of the guards, where he beheaded all within two yards with a shining silver longsword. He continued fighting with unnatural skill even as Äarvöa winged to the door and rose away. A dozen or so other dark elves strode in with long steps and too fought with similar uncanny skill.

Hearing the dragon get through, as well as the screams of dying guards at the hands of dark elves sent a chill careening through Dênæ. She held her children even tighter, who cried soundless tears through clenched eyes. It wouldn’t be long until the dark elves made their way into the great hall and—like chickens in a slaughterhouse—kill them all. She had to save herself and her children—but how?

Her eyes darted around the hall. Dwarves screamed and ran into one another. She fixed her eyes on a doorway. That’s it! She thought with glee.

“Come with me,” She told her two sons, who followed her closely as she pulled them through the crowd towards the door. She slammed the side of her body against the gold laced walnut door. It opened no more than a foot, but that was enough for a dwarf to get through.

She pushed her children in before her, then squeezed in herself. A long corridor with jagged edges lay for what seemed like miles ahead. Dim candles lit it up with flickers and made shadows dance about. With a deep breath, she persevered forwards, still clutching her children.

The pathway grew ever more sharp and cavernous, as well as darker, the entrance now like a shimmering star in the eternal darkness. On the matter of eternal, there was still no end to it either. Still they pressed forth, until the rocks too ununiform for them to gain a footing.

Dênæ glanced around, squinting. She saw a small entrance to another, narrower tunnel that seemed to curve and wind upwards.

“Come on.” She told her children with a nod, and made her way towards and through the tunnel. Her jaw fell wide open when the tunnel widened into a cavern. It was a tomb. Gold, silver, and various gemstones littered the place. A stone coffin rose out in the centre, edged with diamonds and sapphires. Her amazed children ventured out to inspect the jewels, letting them run through their fingers.

Dênæ was in awe of the tombs riches as well; what dwarf wouldn’t be? But she knew that Cöldèlm was no longer safe for her nor her sons, so she urged them onwards towards the opening to the starry sky. Just as they exited—and for the two children, touched grass for nigh on the first time—a gush of wind followed seconds later by a thud marked the arrival of the off-white dragon, Äarvöa. A small flicker of flames left the tips of her maw and a puff of dark smoke rose. Patches of her scaled hide were raw and tender from wounds, and dashed across her was blood—both from dwarves, and from herself.

Dênæ sucked in her breath and pulled her children close to her as she backed into the tomb. The dragon fixed her dark-golden eyes on her, and shot a toothy grin at her, slowly moving forwards with heavy footsteps that vibrated through the earth. A throaty growl emanated from her, and flames danced across the back of her maw.

Dênæ stumbled over a jagged rock, which cut her calf as she fell. A gemstone neckless slipped out of her bear pelt coat. Äarvöa’s sharp eyes quickly fixed their vertical pupils on the gem.

You have it… Äarvöa unwelcomely thought to her. The dragon’s voice was so deep it seemed to resonate and echo throughout her, like a bell struck by a hammer.

“Have what?” She flinched. She quickly tucked the necklace back under her coat.

The Kiár üln Tïvyár—your necklace!

“Mother!” Cried one of her sons, bending down beside her.

“Why my necklace?” She asked Äarvöa.

The Kiár üln Tïvyár, as you might have guessed by its elvish name, is enchanted. It is a key to an ancient elven city, believed to be of the svell elves.

“Mother! Are you alright?” Cried the son beside her.

Her eyes flicked over to him. “Get in the cave, both of you.” With hesitation, her son got up and trotted into the cave, still in reaching range of Dênæ. Her other son, however, had been taken over by childish curiosity. He slowly walked up closer to Äarvöa. A dread filled her. “Hey! Ekröln, get back here!” She shouted to him, “Go into the cave like your brother!”

Both Dênæ and Äarvöa had their eyes fixed on Ekröln. Dênæ’s were a morbid fear, while Äarvöa’s were intently following him, seemingly waiting for what would happen next. Dênæ lurched forward to forcefully draw him into the cave, but her calf proved to be too weak. By now Ekröln was close to Äarvöa. He looked into her eyes, which seemed to him like three inch wide ambers with an equally long carving of onyx running through the gemstones. Her eyes followed his palm as he pressed it against her snout. She let a small puff of smoke slowly rise from her nostrils.

“Ekröln, hath you become deaf as the Sister of Kônäth? Come back here, now! Before that beast sets you ablaze!” Äarvöa shot a resentful glance at Dênæ, which sucked the confidence out of her until it was like a burnt ember. She shifted her vision back to Ekröln, who was still pressing a palm to her snout.

Please, do as your mother says. Ekröln seemed somewhat dazed at the deepness of her voice, somewhat similarly to Dênæ. He nodded, before trekking back to crouch beside his brother. His mother scorned him on his way back, but as evidenced by her voice was more relieved than angry.

I would propose a trade to you, one I feel you should take notice of... Äarvöa thought to Dênæ after her mini-reunion with Ekröln, of whom she didn’t intend to harm.

“What is it, dragon?” Dênæ said rather bluntly to her.

I will take you and your sons to safety, in exchange for the Kiár üln Tïvyár.

“My necklace? That has been in my family for over two centuries! Why would I ever willingly hand that over to a monster like yourself?” She demanded, an air of shock ringing in her voice.

“She’s only a dragon, mother.” Corrected Ekröln, unimpressed.

“Aye, a reptile like a crocodile. And similarly to a crocodile, a young dwarf like yourself shouldn’t go around smiling at one!” Ekröln’s brother nodded to Dênæ’s words.

It may have been, but I do question what uses you have for it, and my offer will likely be the only one you’ll get besides death. Your two choices are: life without a necklace, or death with a necklace that’ll likely get looted from your corpse in a few hours anyway. Your decision, I do hope you’ll choose the favourable option for all of us.

The option of preference was clear to Dênæ almost immediately, and she knew that the dragon was correct about not accepting her offer. Still, that elven necklace was a family treasure, losing it would be a shame…

Dênæ fired a question at Äarvöa. “What if you take us straight to your dark elven kin?”

Then that is what I will do, no way for you to be certain otherwise. However, think of this, though: I am a dragon, simple as. If I were to snatch it unfairly from you, I could have toasted you and your sons and ripped you limb from limb as a snack a long time ago; the Kiár üln Tïvyár is resistant to fire, after all. So why go through this longer route? No reason, unless I were genuine.

Argh! Dênæ hated dragons for that one thing: they’re all just so full of themselves, and nobody can object to it, because in many ways, they’re correct! Why couldn’t Næcrë have made dragons equal to dwarves? Why couldn’t she have made her kind equal to even elves?

She breathed her annoyance. “Fine.” She grumped.

Great! Äarvöa realized afterwards she might’ve done well to not have sounded so jolly about it. That slip had also been accompanied with the bearing of her teeth at the edges of her maw. She drew a straight face quickly, and too changed her tone. Thinking to everyone, she continued. Climb onto my back—we’ll be going to safety. She lowered to a low crouch to let them on.

“Where to?” Dênæ asked Äarvöa once she and her sons were on her. Her tone was still tainted with the loss of her prized Kiár üln Tïvyár.

I was thinking a village to the far north-west.

“No dwarves I know of live there. Right, mother?” Asked Ekröln’s brother.

“Yes, quite.” Confirmed Dênæ, an eyebrow raised over the other. “Who does live there, dragon?”

Well, halfings. Dênæ coughed in the surprise of this.

“A half-what?” Asked a puzzled Ekröln.

“A short and hairy people who live lazy lives.” Dênæ told him.

At the same time, Äarvöa was too answering. Short folk with hairy feet and digits, who life relaxed and simple lives with little ambition. Their houses are reportedly cosy, if small, and they are renounced for their excellent cooking and appetites like a dragon’s.

Dênæ was unimpressed by Äarvöa’s eagerness to explain, but let it slip in favour of a question. “Why would you think of taking us to halflings?” She demanded.

The primary reason is simple: they’re unambitious and nonthreatening. This would make them the safest peoples to be with in attempts to evade the dark march. She added jokingly to just Dênæ; Plus they’re also nearly as short as a dwarf. The last bit agitated Dênæ quite evidently, even more obviously to Äarvöa; time with the near visibly emotionless high elves had improved her sensing of emotion.

Dênæ’s sons stated their excitement to encountering halflings for the first time, flapping fists accompanying their speech.

“Your enthusiasm is all very good, but soon you’ll come to dislike the radically different lifestyle.” Dênæ assured them, much to their dislike.

I can see no benefits to remaining by this Cöldèlm for any longer. Thought Äarvöa to each of them. Do prepare thyselves; getting airborne often feels violent to those unacquainted with the experience, and your kind is weaker than an elf or mine own.

She gave them a short time to get ready as she shifted into a more convenient position. With a final warning, she thrusted herself into the air with a violent push of her forelegs, followed by a strong downwards flap of her wings. Her flaps continued violently for several more, long seconds, until she steadied her wing beats and climbed more gently towards the moon in the cloudless night sky…



…And they left towards the north-west and to the halflings.


* * * * *


...Posting another short story I wrote, but never shared.


I wrote this, following off of Ermià Nìr, a few months after writing the aforementioned short. The setting I had been working on I have since abandoned, but much of the ideas I had have gone on to a new, far better setting.

In spite of its age, I hope you enjoyed it! Good day!


~rupert