"In the Age of Gods, certain individuals were granted the hearts of dragons,
"Those aligned with the sun, with the burning passion of Ase'Soliria,
"These people are tempered in flames,
"Forged by volcanic fire."
~ Passage One: Dragon Soul of Sunlight
Falora
County of Crackjaw
Grey clouds littered the sky above the harbor town. Falora stood at the edge of the pier, almost able to imagine the boat where her parents left, so long ago. Never to return in the haze of a horrible storm. Fishermen tied up their boats against the wooden docks, where the waves lapped at the white stones.
"Thanks for your help today, Falora," Ujurn said from his boat. "I had a nice haul today. I probably couldn't carry it by myself."
"It was no problem." Falora shrugged as she stepped off the pier and onto the harbor proper. Light showers slicked the cobble streets and flickered the embers reflecting off the drops. Hand up to her brow, she trudged through the fisher's market, away from the delectable smell of dead fish. Braid behind her ear, she reached main street. Carts rumbled through, powered by the fire runes etched into their wheels.
If I don't smell that fresh, ocean smell every morning, it'll be too soon.
Acolytes of the nearby temple assured those afraid of a little rainwater. Their headdress curled beside their temples, a pale visage of Ase'Soliria. Falora shuffled past one girl, who listened close to the older priestess who went about her daily calls and prayer in the street.
It's the same every time. Falra rubbed the bridge of her nose. The amount of times I've heard 'may they find peace in Asen'Tharalon's ream, and may Asen'Orilion burn in in the pit of the Elder Ones...'
Everyone acted the same during storm season. They lived on the coast, it shouldn't have been much of a surprise.
"Falora."
Emraine, the herbalist's daughter. Falora faltered off the sidewalk to wait for her outside the shop she had bustled out of. Her skirt hugged her knees, while a stray, scandalous button hung loose at the top of her shirt.
"I thought you'd be working the counter today, Emraine."
"I was coming to check up on you." Emraine flashed out a piece of paper, the real reason Emraine would bother her. "Okay, well, that's half the reason. Mother wants to replenish her stores of pyrelilies. You know people don't like going that far down the coast when there's a storm coming. We're running out, and they're blooming. Mr. Bensen has been complaining again." She blinked her owlish, grey eyes at her. "You know how he gets. Mother is willing to pay you the usual."
Falora pocketed the list. "Anything you need me to get while I'm down there?"
"Other than be careful?" Emraine asked. "They say this incoming storm will be a big one."
Falora sighed. "They said that last time, and it turned out to be a small shower."
"Are you going to go on that fishing thing of yours again?"
"It's a cloudsweeper, and yes," Falora said. "I'll have you know it's a family heirloom, and it's sturdier than most fishing boats."
"You know I'm teasing." Emraine pressed her lips together. "Not many people in this town have a cloudsweeper. People talk."
"Because working, flying ones are in the big city. Mine has been reduced to a boat." Falora rubbed the back of her head, and her mind wandered. "The aethergine must be out of power, and the altimeter is all busted." She stepped back. "I should be getting those pyrelilies for your mother. Tell her I said hello, and I'll get them to her as soon as I'm able."
Falora froze when a deep flush entered Emraine's cheek. "Have... Have you heard from Flynn?"
Of course this would come up in conversation... Falora placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, sucking in a heavy breath, then smiled at her. "Nope."
Emraine made a noise of complaint. Falora burst out into laughter, walking away. "If I hear anything from him," she called back. "I'll let you know. Tell Old Man Bensen he'll have his pyrelilies. Just hope I don't get attacked by fire spixes." Falora stuck out her tongue to tease, then continued down the pathway.
Besides, I've got stuff to do today. I need to buckle down for a storm. And pyrelily pollen. When Old Man Bensen gets stomach cramps, everyone comes down with fire sneezes.
As for the rumours of the cursed beach, there was no other place she'd rather be. Parts of her hoped relics from the Age of Gods swept up to shore every storm. To tell a different tale then the one of their small, unassuming coastal town.
Falora rushed out of the city proper, along the beached crags and old, abandoned piers left to rot with seaweed and moss. One small boat ride, she'd be at the family home. All abandoned, save for her left behind. It was out of the way of hustle and bustle. Her cloudsweeper floated beside a rickety pier. Its sails wrapped up tight until use. Several dusty dials on the front jolted and spun, but she ignored the numbers.
Falora twisted one of the levers, and the sails dropped. Unlike regular boats, its sails were made of what felt like woven clouds. Hands on the wheel, she jangled with the aethergine. Bubbles rumbled from the side, and she pulled at the sails.
Smooth sailing.
Ocean wind rustled around her from the incoming storm. Foamy waves lapped at the distant cliffs of Crackjaw. As she rounded the bend, the aethergine sputtered and whined.
But the wind itself never failed.
Falora manoeuvred her cloudsweeper into the small inlet, and took out an emergency paddle to usher onto the private beach, while pyrelilies floated past her and spread their ember touched pollen over the crags. Falora sighed, then tugged it ashore before anchoring it to the nearby rock. She sneezed, but drifted her way to the beach. Falora jumped out and hit the shallows, then tugged her cloudsweeper ashore.
As she anchored it to the rocks, she turned to the distant island. Two giant towers of shaped lightning pierced the heavy mist which swirled around the forbidden island. Rumours spoke of a temple dedicated to Asen'Orilion laid past the mist.
Curiosity would have driven her to explore, if it didn't get her marked as a heretic.
Falora doublechecked her ropes, then moved up the small gravel path into the willow forest. Leaves whistled and brushed against each other as she made her way up to gather her bag for pyrelily collection. Emraine has good timing... Falora reached the front porch, where the first step creaked its greeting when her boot pressed against it. She reached for her bag behind the small porch swing, then checked it for any unwanted contents. Satisfied at its emptiness, she hauled it over her shoulder and returned to the beach. Pyrelilies danced along the waves, casting the foam into a warm, reflective glow with the pollen spreading.
Falora mucked in the shallows, picking the leaves with careful, calloused hands. Using the technique Emrain's mother taught her, she tied the bundles for safekeeping. With her favour out of the way, she took a seat on her favourite crag and pulled out her small book. The last thing she had of her father.
Every interesting thing she spotted when the tide drew back, she sketched. From shattered vases, to pieces of hulls from distant shipwrecks. Instead, she sketched out a little pyrelily, struggling against the tide and away from the pack.
Her mood dwindled with the darkening clouds of night. Falora hopped off her crag and pocketed her sketchbook, returning to her house to set up for the storm. She pushed the porch swing against the corner of the outside, then moved into her house. Twisting the flame dial on the wall, the hanging lamps sputtered to life.
It took one look into her brother, Flynn's room, to irritate her all over again.
Gods, couldn't he have cleaned it up before he left for Celestan? It looks like a tornado created by Asen'Orilion himself blasted through. Falora nudged a pile of books out of her way as she stepped into Flynn's room. His bed unmade, she leaned forward to close the storm shutters. Too much to ask for, I suppose... She got to work in making it look presentable, not that she expected visitors save for the wind and rain.
Falora returned to the living room, where her kitchen stood off to the side. Fond memories replaced the dreary ones, where Father made his best, memorable breakfast for her and Flynn, while Mother sang a tune of the Gods before each meal.
I miss her voice.
Falora took in a breath, then cleaned off the table for dinner before moving into her room. Historical texts filled all of her bookshelves, or, at the very least, objective viewpoints of the Age of Gods without heresy within their pages.
I can't always avoid it. Falora sorted through her bookshelf to separate those with more religious leanings. With that out of the way, she turned to her own window to close the shutters, blocking her sight of the beach on fire with a sun blocked in the clouds.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as she closed the rest of the windows in the house, turning fire dials as she went to cast light in her quiet dwelling. Alone to her silence, she slumped into Mother's rocking chair and grabbed a book to read. Tales of Arth'lun and the Dragon Gods. Though she never gave herself wholly to religion, she followed in the teachings of Ase'Lesinia, which were often more ironic than anything.
Never take one side of the story as fact. Always search for answers. Memory alone was never a true test to history's whims. Everything had to be written down, checked, but could history truly be experienced by those who no longer lived in it?
We live in the Aetheric Age, where we now roam the skies as the dragons once did. Falora leaned back in the chair, where it rocked against its legs. It lulled her into a sense of calm. On our airships and cloudsweepers, where skyhunters hunt aether creatures and tell tales of their own...
Falora turned to a page of the city in the sky. Arth'lun. All its discoveries, laid to waste in Asen'Orilion's tyranny. He brought down the city from the heavens, making it nothing more than a crater under the protection of Celestan, where the Celestial Templars decreed it a holy site of remembrance.
Everyone tried to forget Asen'Orilion. Every story told him of his swinging moods of a storm. Where he feasted on blood sacrifices, and lusted after others to create evil, corrupted spawns. It was all the same, and every time the priests at the temple prayed for her well-being, she wondered if it had been something divine that took her parents away.
A divine calling is what took Flynn away.
Falora placed the book beside her and continued to rock in the chair, trying to sleep in spite of the thunder. Flynn had used her as a meat shield every time lightning struck the clouds. She scoffed, and placed a hand on her brow to ignore the flashes.
The moment she heeded the call of sleep, lightning cracked around her. It shook the house, and she jolted out of the rocking chair, where the flame dials had run out of steam. Another crack of white lightning sent her out of her chair to speed for her bedroom window. She dared a peek.
Forked lightning struck the towers of the misty island, and she swore beads of light hushed through the mist. Falora, caught up in the sizzling energy, gasped when a blue beam of light shot up into the sky, then all fell still.
Until thunder rumbled again.
What was that?
Falora frowned, then grabbed her heavy raincoat. Wind howled through the wood as she pushed her door open, fighting against nature itself. Willow leaves continued to hush their gentle song in the raucous, harsh chorus of the storm.
Falora kept her raincoat tight around her as she made her way down to the beach. Waves lapped in hunger, but her cloudsweeper remained safe and secure. Debris scattered around the sand, while the thunder continued to shake the heavens.
She wanted to rush back to the safety of her house, but stopped at a shape of cyan light striking through the waves of dark.
A dragon crawled out of the waves.
No, not a dragon.
A man.
A faint mirage formed wings on his back, but when she blinked them away, all that was left was the glow of a storm core. He trudged through the waves, unimpeded by their raging tempests. Swirls of blue escaped off his being, and she swore the dragon wings returned to flutter helplessly in the wind.
Lightning flashed, but the blue never drained. He stumbled onto shore, where all the cyan withered away. Enchanted by the mystical sight, Falora kept close to the safety of the rocks to creep closer to investigate.
He kept a hand on his chest. Sheets of rain twisted around him and never touched him.
Falora dared not call out, but the misty figure came to a stop out of reach of the waves. The wind fell into a hushed silence when he appeared to take in a breath, and she jumped when he fell to the ground.
No more lightning flashed.