#adwen

Late evening the day before, she had spotted the drake dragging its games back into the cave under the rashvine. Only one ram this time, with turfs of fennec furs frozen to its maw. It had gone out for a very long time and carried back very few games- that meant the drake was gorging on fresh meats to build up energy for the migration. A young one, this drake hadn’t even developed the deep burgundy red of twice-shredded scales even though its forelegs had already grown spurs. As such, it was not yet adept at hiding its lair; still, it stood twice her size when at ease, and possibly thrice when defensive.

She knew the ram musk made her smell like dead prey, so long as she was discrete. The spear lay heavy, dead in her arm. At times it dragged on the snow when she wasn’t paying attention, but she lifted it and held it near her hips as she stepped into the cavern, mindful of the noises ironbark against stone would produce.

Her steps were measured, silent, heel-roll-ball and repeated, the woven boots protecting her soles from chipped rocks and broken bone pieces. Deep into the cavern where the drake feasted upon its game, she moved ever the closer…

It snarled and hacked up a piece of tendon stuck at the back of its throat. Heart trembling, she struck then, hitting its maw dead center and tore through the membrane between its two jaws. The drake roared in pain and swung wildly, but the spear was stuck. It sent her flying with a thrash and clamped down on her weapon, quickly reducing it to shards in a frenzy of teeth. Whatever pieces that fell out littered the ground- the rest it attempted to pry out with its talons. Then, with fresh blood and drool running down its mouth in big, fat drops, the drake turned its attention upon her.

She dashed to the side just as it lunged. Stones crumbled and rained upon her in pebbles. A knife- her mother’s!- she whipped out and slashed at the drake’s muzzle, but it skidded uselessly across hard, raised scales, spitting sparks into the dark. Dark talons swiped furiously at her, tearing into her thick leather pieces like they were mush.

The fire in her airways starved her legs of strength; they gave way without warnings, just as the drake’s maw snapped close above her. The beast swung its tail and connected. She was on the floor before she could gasp, and the fire in her throat spread down into her chest. It was pitch black in the cavern, illuminated only by the sunlight reflecting off hanging icicles, but it was a hunter’s instincts that told her she had closed her hand around a piece of ironbark. Her fingers felt blindly for its ragged edge.

As the drake lifted itself up on its hind legs, she drove the bark into its breast. Where it flinched away, she followed. She gripped the piece tight enough to rip her gloves to shreds, but whatever it did to her hands was much worse on the beast. Her legs flushed hot with the warm blood that poured onto them while it shrieked, its wounds only serving to drive it deeper into a senseless rage. It shook her off and began to hack, whiffs of something sharp and bitter filling the air.

The drake stumbled once, twice, aided by her kicking at its forelegs with all of her might. Its roar was broken by coughs and puffs of smoke. Then, in a mighty rumble, sparks of flame began to grow in the pit of its throat, setting its eyes alight.

She crawled back on all fours, as quickly as her body could carry her, further into the cave. Mounts of uneven rocks there nestled close to her as if to pull her deeper into their stiff embrace. The heat she worked up had melted the powdered snow- she was suddenly keenly aware of the sweat-soaked ram fur against her skin. It brought her out of her stupor, and she roared back. With all the strength she could muster, she flung the knife she had held onto over the drake’s head.

The cave was too shallow for the drake to rear up and stomp her to death, but it was just the size for it to trap and incinerate her- and for her to crumble the ceiling above them both.

As soon as the knife hit its mark, she curled up, nestled between frozen rocks with her palms shielding her face. An unbearable heat instantly enveloped her, took her first by the hands, then her arms and her folded knees. Amidst the inferno, she felt a crash so tremendous it shook her to the bones and the fire’s embrace receded. But everything was burning. She began beating her hands against her thighs, against the charred bits of fur and her sooth-covered hair.

The drake was squawking as she did so- the icicles had crushed it under their weight. Its head, mighty as it was held high on its enormous body, was clammed between what seemed like a piece of the ceiling and the floor.

She crawled, then rose, holding her hands flat against the rocks to seep out the pain. When she could ball them into fists, she picked up a broken femur at her feet and her fingers felt blindly for its razor edge.

Her skin was too burnt to feel the scrape of scales, the ripples of heat. But her eyes caught the incandescent flesh that flickered golden underneath dark scales all the same, and she brought the bone there. When it was done, and the drake was still, she collapsed upon it in a heap of blood and dying embers. She apologized for the long and arduous battle, then whispered to it the rite of the death of her People.

~

The Chief-Hunter carried her back to their aravels. Privately she had thought that she could walk, but she had let him pick her up nonetheless, for her will had left her after she cleared the ice off the drake’s corpse. Others would come to harvest its remains soon- taking scales for their armors, teeth, talons, and bones for weapons, meat for the hungry, and blood for salves. She was content in knowing they would be well-prepared for the storm season, and in her pride forgetting that Vaerahel was among her search party.

“You stupid, bull-headed child-“ He gritted with a stiff expression, his red robe wet with mud and snow. His magic came in jitters and spikes, as though interrupted frequently by the waves of his emotions. They spread through her unevenly but carried with them the warmth-ache of raw skin knitting itself together.

“Save your yelling, Keeper,” The Chief-Hunter said, “Your child had been through enough.”

“At her own doing!” A sharp spike of magic, almost tangible in how forceful it hit her, echoed the harsh frown that finally took over his features. Above all, the frown brought her a feeling of sorrow she could not place. 

Enabel’taren reached for him with her charred hand. Vaerahel took hold of it immediately, cradled it between his large ones, and the kiss he blew into it healed her burns with a familiar gentleness that lulled the guilt.

“I’m sorry papa. I’m sorry.”

He kissed her on the forehead and kept himself there for long moments- so long, in fact, he stalled his friend’s pace, and had to reach both arms over to take his child and cradle her close to his chest.

“We should talk about her apprenticeship. Later.” The Chief-Hunter reminded him after he had made sure neither father nor daughter would topple over. With a long sigh and another kiss pressed onto her hair, Keeper Vaerahel finally answered.