FALORA
Crackjaw
Rays from the sun flowed through her blinds. Limbs and soul intact, she hauled herself out of her bed. No dragon roars rocked through her ears, only the song of the willows. Hopefully, Orilion stayed put.
Into the dining room, she turned to spot said fallen dragon god sitting in the rocking chair, book in hand. Its pages flipped with gentle wind. Pages crinkled everytime his gaze flicked across the paragraphs. He inhaled with the wind outside, then their eyes met. He placed the book to the side and left the chair.
"I have... a couple questions before we begin this journey, Asen'Orilion." Falora packed her traveling bag, shoving her sketch quills and extra paper into the side pockets. Maps. Money. Books. Anything to help make the journey to Notalsald. "Is there anything you can remember?"
Orilion pursed his lips and gazed at the bookshelves. "My name, as you well know." He tucked his hands in his elbows with a sigh. "Other than that, no. There's a gap in my memory."
"Okay." Falora dared to step closer to the god of the ancient past. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Orilion switched his attention to her finished stack of drawings. Her vision of the Gods. Embarrassment washed blood into her ears as he rifled through the stacks, stopping at the scaled dragon of dripping rot and decay. "Stop that," she bit and swiped the papers out of his grasp. "Answer me."
Orilion withdrew his hands back against his chest with a frown. "I... do not belong," he replied. "The last thing I remember was walking through Arth'lun."
Falora shoved the drawings deep into the bookshelves. "What?"
"The last thing I remember," Orilion repeated. "I remember walking through Arth'lun. I..." He faltered, then grimaced. "I think I wanted to talk to my sister about something—"
"Wait, sister?" Falora waved her hands. "I don't remember any sibling relations within the Dragon Texts." She leaned forward. "Which one?"
"Mortals referred to her as the Dragon of Knowledge," Orilion said. "Ase'Lesinia."
The Dragon of Knowledge, sister to the sky tyrant. Falora rested her back against the bookshelf while her knees trembled with jelly. I've always followed Lady Lesinia's teachings. Knowledge is precious. Knowledge is power. In truth in what is unwritten. In deceit in what is. YOu must always find the truth beneath the shadows. Falora held the side of her head while knowledge poured. "I don't... I don't remember them mentioning that Lady Lesinia had a brother."
Orilion hugged himself. "I know. I noticed," he observed, though there was no trembling fury of a god in his voice. "I don't think she'd have liked that. The Lesinia I remember coveted whole truths, not half ones. It was her hoard of dreams. Knowledge — skewed by perception, and we were not infallible to this." He frowned at the books lining the shelves. "It's all the same in every one. I cannot discern the truth from it... if it is even a lie. I do not understand how this perception grew like a mold." He came closer to the shelves, and dread filled her heart. "It does not feel right."
Guilt swallowed her heart. "Well..." Falora whispered to justify their side of unseen history. "Storms are chaotic and are more often than not destructive. I guess people equated that to what you're represented as in your texts. So, when the supposed truth repeats itself over and over..." Falora shrugged her shoulders. "What are they supposed to think? That's all we've learned, Asen'Orilion, that you were a monster, a sky tyrant who supped on mortal sacrifices and their prayers."
Orilion blinked, then gave her a side-eye. "Tell me... would you call a storm evil because of its nature?" His frown twisted into the first hint of rage, but it never lashed out in a bolt of lightning to smite her insolence. "Many things, by its nature... are discomforting. Death. Life. The mind. The body. The soul." He clenched his fists, and the raging hurricane died in the cyan. "All of these things, would you call those evil by nature? Just because sometimes they don't make sense?"
Falora hesitated at his words. "Then... if you and Lesinia are siblings, wouldn't that make you a Dragon of Knowledge, and not Storms?"
Orilion shook, then frowned deeper. "I... I wish to say no."
"You wish?"
"That does not sound correct," Orilion replied as he pressed his hand against his heart. "No, I am... not a Dragon of Knowledge, that was solely Lesinia's domain."
"Then what are you the god of, really?"
Orilion stared at the spines of the books which told of his ancient evil. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Falora asked. "How do you not know? Isn't that the core of who you are as a God? Isn't it hard to forget something like that?"
"I guess not."
Falora sank in the silence he left her with. "Well, maybe if we get to Arth'lun, it'll come back to you." I have to lead an amnesiac god all the way to a city I'm certain fell to the ground many ages ago. Falora brought her hand to her nose. What am I getting myself into?
"You do not have to help me," Orilion pointed out. "I can make my way—"
"You can't," Falora stopped him short. "I'll guide you to Notolsald, and we'll figure it out from there. First, I need to make sure my cloudsweeper is taken care of, and then we can start walking." Falora headed for the arch, but stuttered on her feet. "Oh! Before I forget—" She swiped Flynn's cloak, which he left behind on the rack before throwing it into Orilion's face. "Wear this. You do stand out a little. We have to pass by Old Bensen, and he won't ask too many questions."
Orilion fiddled with the clasp of the cloak with a small hiss under his breath as Falora rushed out of her house.
To leave it all behind to go on an adventure.
To see what the world hid.
Falora closed the door behind Orilion and locked it before they tread to the cloudsweeper. She threw her bag into the holding compartment, and she turned on the aethergine, scowling when it bubbled pitifully. On the move again after a few swift kicks into the battery, she sighed and allowed the wind to caress her cheeks.
No Celestial Airships hovered around the old temple, but she took the long way around her tiny inlet to reach Old Bensen's cottage. Fishing boats weaved with the tiny waves splashing against the docks as she nodded for Orilion to hop onto the dock before dragging her cloudsweeper to an extra spot. Anchored and tied to a chain, it was time to leave Crackjaw.
"Tulcai is a day's walk from here," Falora said as they moved around Bensen's cottage. "Flynn and I used to camp on the road between Crackjaw and Tulcai." Fond memories flowed into her fingertips while her and her brother explored ruins, where Flynn took the lead, in charge and ready to protect if any land beasts leaped out at them, declaring himself unafraid.
But... ever since our parents died out at sea... he was scared of storms and cursed Asen'Orilion — and then joined the Celestial Templars. Falora huffed out pain. "Once we're outside Crackjaw I'll take you to our old campsite. No one uses it."
Awkward silence hounded their every step which raised questions to her mind. Unable to make passing conversation with one of the most evil figures in history, she checked on him when he lagged behind. He wandered the fine line between road and nature. Irritation gnawed at her bones, and she blurted, "Are you a dragon?"
"Huh?"
"Are you actually a dragon?" she said as he caught up to her. "Or did history lie about that too? It was called the Age of the Dragon Gods. I... expected a lot more out of you, if I'm honest."
Orilion blinked, then grinned. "I... I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Tyvlon."
"Falora," she insisted. "You can just call me Falora."
"I will give you the short version," Orilion said. "Yes, I'm a dragon." Falora motioned to his body, and his grin widened into something genuine and bright with humanity. "I suppose I should try and explain then. I have more than one form. Your texts mentioned dragon souls, did they not?"
"I always assumed it was metaphorical."
"Well, your mortal texts don't define them quite right," Orilion admitted. "I have many forms, but at my heart, my soul, I am a dragon." He rubbed his chest in show. "The physical form doesn't matter. Whether I appear as thus... or even a physical dragon, what I am in my soul will never change. I simply just change my perspective of what my soul shows. Does that make sense?"
Falora rubbed her chin, left with more questions than answers. "So, can you turn into a dragon right now? It'd save us a lot of time."
Orilion's smile died with the wind. "Ah... I... can't."
"Any reason why?"
His lips parted as he tapped his temple in thought. "I can't remember," he repeated. "I can't explain it, Falora. I feel like if I could explain it, I could return to a dragon. Except there's gaps in my mind, it's almost like I've..." Orilion drifted off. "I think I've forgotten something far too important." He closed his eyes when water entered the cyan. "Something that I feel like... I shouldn't have let myself forget."
"So, I guess no flying and making this easy?" Falora quipped.
He grimaced and the joke killed the conversation. His gaze changed targets. Instead of the ground he tread, he stared at the heavens above. Oranges of the afternoon sun shifted into dark blues of twilight with streaks of flame. Falora rushed up a small cliff face, and indicated for Orilion to follow. Right where her and Flynn left it, the old cave which gave her a view of the distant road. Over the trees, the sun pierced the cloudy horizon and added scorching flames across the silver.
"We'll stop here," she said and sat against the wall. "Besides, I still want to pick your brain."
Orilion slipped down the wall with an exhausted twist to his brow. "You may try."
"How are gods born?" she asked and whipped out her sketchbook.
Orilion set his hands in his laps. "I was born in the same stormy river as my sister, except the Mother molded different components into our souls, which is why I am not a Dragon of Knowledge and my sister is," he whispered. "Due to that, we share a lot of forms, save our true ones." Orilion shrugged his shoulders.
"Hm..." Falora sketched the angled cyan. "I guess that makes sense, but you're saying you don't remember what you were given as a component?"
"No."
Falora tipped her head at his weary face. "Maybe some sleep will help." A horrid thought stopped her short as Orilion curled on his side. Wait. He does need to sleep, right? He looks exhausted, but why would a God need to sleep? A part of her feared to test her theory, but she forced herself to lay down. Alertness gripped her bones as the hoots of owls filled the forest. The longer the night dragged, the harder it became to keep her eyes closed.
Unable to rest after a loud hoot, she lifted herself up to eye Orilion.
He laid on his side, back to her as his chest rose and fell with the whispered wind outside. Her doubts intensified with the possible truth of Arth'lun, of Ase'Lesinia, whose teachings she followed all her life. The more she took in every part of the canvas of his face, the less her knowledge and texts of history made sense.
Moonlight spread patches of light across the cave floor, and placed him in its embrace of a silver glow. Her fingers clasped her sketchpad, longing to capture the vision the world gave.
Orilion rolled over. "Why are you staring at me?"
"Does it bother you?" Falora let go of her sketchbook.
"It's... a little strange."
A laugh bubbled in her chest. "I-I'm sorry. It's just... You are a god. Most people would find that interesting."
"If they didn't try to kill me over something they learned through something written out of their time," he mumbled and rolled over. "They might be right though."
Falora frowned. "Orilion."
He lifted his head.
"Why do you think going to Arth'lun will help?"
"Lesinia will be there," he pointed out. "She'd know what to do. I want to know the truth. If I'm... If I'm this evil monster, I want to know why or how." He hugged himself and curled into himself. "I... I guess there is one thing I do sort of recall, though it is a fog."
Falora snapped forward. "What? Anything will do."
Orilion set his arm against his brow. "I... I was fighting a battle with someone, and I lost."
"Is that it?"
"Yes." He grimaced. "Can we speak of something else? Or better yet, get some sleep without the staring? It's going to be a long journey from the maps I looked at."
"You need sleep?"
"It's... nice." After a few, silent seconds, he slammed his arm against the rock as exasperation writ upon his face. He forced himself upwards with a small groan. "You think I'm going to watch you sleep."
Falora frowned. "I mean... if one doesn't need to sleep, why would they? How would they occupy their time?"
Except... I had been the one staring.
Orilion flopped to his side with a groan, and his breathing matched the wind. Falora gazed outside the cave and past the clouds where the rainbow dragon fires danced along the eternal sea of stars. Purples. Greens. Blues, where a painting told a thousand stories among the sky.
The sky... is beautiful tonight. Falora twisted to Orilion.
Is it true? But how can I look upon a sky like this... and call it evil by nature? Past all those clouds, past all those storms... is that picture-perfect splattering of colour.