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Epilogue

• Final Chapter of the DragonRider Chronicles

Night laid thick over the city of Port Perdition. The evening breeze toyed with the sails of the countless ships moored in its spacious harbor, and the trees lining the broad avenues of the hills above, where lay the grand mansions of those who had grown fat off the sea-trade. Somewhere in between, drunken sailors staggered from dive-bar to gambling-den to brothel and back again as they spent their wages enriching the local landlubbers and leaving themselves penniless again by the time their ships departed.

No-one paid a great deal of attention to the swarm of bats passing beneath the moon as it soared above the stench of the harbor, to the wealthy quarters beyond. There, they homed in on a particularly opulent mansion, which had been recently purchased by a wealthy eccentric... and on the balcony outside his bedchamber, the bats coalesced into something far more solid - and formidable. Kain, the legendary vampire, sneered as he peered through the glass, his lips drawing back from his long fangs in disgust.

Solid flesh became mist, and seeped through the gaps in the patio door, entering the room without the slightest whisper of sound before becoming solid once more. His clawed feet made no more noise than a particularly nervous mouse as he walked across the thick rugs towards the bed, and looked down on his prey. 'Captain' Jack Sparrow, his scraggly beard and dreadlocked hair unchanged despite his recent rise to affluence - and it seemed like he even wore his salt-stained tricorn hat to bed!

After the way the ex-pirate had talked himself up at their last meeting, Kain had expected a decent chase. A game of cat-and-mouse across the continent! Traps, tricks, false leads and narrow escapes! Something to get the blood pumping in his decrepit old veins! A chase to remember! But no. When he'd finally finished wallowing in debauchery long enough for the burning blood he'd taken from the DragonRider to cool, and had reminded himself that he'd promised the trigger-happy pirate a painful death, it had taken a downright _depressingly_short time to find him.

A port city, known to be tolerant of pirates. An eccentric seafarer with a cart full of golden treasure and a red-haired girl on his arm, rolling right into town and buying up the biggest, most extravagant mansion he could find. His looks, his behavior, and his strange purchases all seemed calculated to create vast amounts of gossip - with the end result that Kain had barely started asking questions by the time the answer fell in his lap. So, here he was - standing over the bed where the big-mouthed 'Captain' slept soundly, one arm around the curly-haired, equally-asleep form of Menolly, the Dragon-Singer.

All of Kain's vampiric senses confirmed that what he was seeing was, indeed, his target. No illusion, no dummy, no body-double. The red-haired lass was quite real too, and he found himself momentarily lost in the memory of the pleasures he had taken from her body. Maybe he'd indulge himself again, once Jack Sparrow was dead. The desires invoked by the DragonRider-blood had faded, to be sure, but the embers of that fire still burned inside him - and hopefully would continue to do so for a long time to come. After all, when they were finally extinguished, he'd have to track down the DragonRider again for another dose - and he couldn't count on her being in mortal peril next time too, so bargaining for another drink could get... problematic. And taking it by force would require him to catch her well away from her lover - an enraged Black Dragon could be quite dangerous even to him, after all.

Snapping out of his reverie, he shook his head with a silent sigh, and jabbed a clawed hand down towards the sleeping form of his prey, intent on tearing out his heart. He'd planned to make the pirate's death a tad more spectacular, but the sheer ease of the hunt had robbed him of the enthusiasm. Suddenly, however, his hand was arrested in midair, as if by a solid object - and a wall of gleaming light sprung into existence around the bed, humming slightly. Jack Sparrow's eyes flew open, and the pirate sat up in his bed with an irritating grin. "Ah, Kain ol' mate! Took ye long enough to get here. I was expectin' you sev'ral days ago."

Kain returned the grin with an unpleasant specimen of his own. The disappointment was draining out of him, replaced with a predator's delight as it caught the scent of worthy prey. He tested the strength of the glowing wall that separated them, pushing against it with his vast strength as his clawed feet dug through the expensive rug and into the hardwood floor beneath. It held up against his power with ease. Sparrow gestured grandly at it, as if it was his own invention. "Save yerself the trouble, matey! Those priestesses from... whatever-island, made this for me before they left, in return for some travelin'-funds. They may wear some odd clothes and have weird accents and whatnot, but when it comes to barriers to keep unholy things out - that's you, y'know, no offense - they're pretty much the best around!"

Kain grunted, and reached across his shoulder to grasp the hilt of the terrible sword he's collected in the same long-forgotten tomb where he'd first met the DragonRider. It writhed in his hand like a living thing, because it was - a demon in the form of a blade, ever-hungry for blood and souls, and usually capable of dominating the mind of anyone fool enough to pick it up, turning them into little more than vessels for its gluttony. But against the mental strength of a millenia-old vampire, it had been forced to capitulate. Now it served him - though not without the occasional complaint.

In a single swift motion, he brought its fire-red edge down on the gleaming barrier, making it emit a single, high-pitched note as it shook under the force of his blow. The terrible, unholy blade, combined with his vast strength, was pushing the barrier to its limit, and Sparrow's confident grin took on a somewhat frozen quality. Next to him, a strangled gasp could be heard as the sound awoke his partner. The naive, red-haired maiden did not react well to seeing her past rapist standing over her bed with sword in hand, and tumbled back against the wall, pulling herself into a tight ball as she stared at him with one fear-struck eye between her fingers.

Then Jack Sparrow put a calming hand on her head, ruffling her hair. "Ssssh, luv. I've got this. Don't worry." The face that turned back towards Kain was still cocky and confident, but now also tinged with determination. "Why don't ya put that cutlass of yours away for a moment, so we can have a talk like civilized landlubbers, no? I might've something to offer you... and what've you got to lose? You're immortal, and I'm not going anywhere fast. 's only my bed that's warded, after all!" Kain's eyes narrowed, and he gave the ward an extra slice before lowering his sword. He felt fairly confident that he could break down the barrier well before dawn, but it would be a rather inelegant, brute-force solution. And... he was curious. The sheer gall of the pirate had surprised him before, and surprises were becoming hard to find at his age.

Jack Sparrow nodded in an annoying imperious manner, then grinned. "There we go, matey. No need for unpleasantude. Matter of fact, how's about a drink?" Reaching down beneath the bed, he pulled out a small, carved box lined with purple velvet, and from it drew a small bottle of something bright-red that seemed to almost glow in the near-darkness. With a careless underhand toss, he threw it to Kain, who watched it sail untouched through the magical barrier before snagging it out of the air. He could already tell that the contents were blood, but... not human. Nor dwarven, nor elven, nor orcish, nor any lower animal...

"Dragon-blood," explained Jack Sparrow helpfully, gesturing at the bottle. "And more where that came from. I collected quite a bit during that whole business with the Dragonslayers. Now, I'm not sayin' someone as... impressive as you couldn't sink his fangs into a dragon's scaly neck, come to that, but it'd be a hassle, wouldn't it? 'specially when I've got a barrel of the stuff that I've no use for... savvy?" Kain grunted and unstoppered the bottle, sniffing at the contents, wary of any poisons or other impurities that might have been added. He detected none. A quick swig later, the searing taste of dragon-blood hit his tongue - heady, like strong alcohol had been in his dim, mortal past. And more... somehow, it was responding to the residual power of the DragonRider-blood that still lingered in his long-dead body, reinvigorating it. It wouldn't light the flame by itself, but it could certainly fuel it! Thus, potentially, delaying that annoying situation he'd been grousing about just minutes before.

Throwing back the rest of the bottle, a blood-stained grin spread across his face as the heat suffused his usually-cold body. "Maybe we _do_have some things to talk about, pirate. I've never been one to let revenge get in the way of more important business, after all..." The terrifying smile was mirrored by a charming one on Jack Sparrow's face, and the box was lifted to show off its contents - at least a dozen more bottles, all glowing slightly red in the moonlight. "I've got more, too - hidden, savvy? Somewhere it'd be a whole hassle for anyone but meself to find 'em. Just so ye don't get ideas..." Kain nodded absently, feeling suddenly thirsty at the sight of the bottles. Certainly, it would be worth discarding a revenge that would be rather unsatisfying anyway, for something so... delightful. Jack Sparrow's smile grew wider as he casually comforted the sobbing Menolly with one hand while preparing to get down to some serious haggling...

The sound of something hard hammering against the stout wooden boards of the gate made the watchman jump - quite literally. Stumbling out of the chair he'd been snoozing in, he fell to the ground and found himself momentarily entangled in the long cloak he'd wrapped about himself, as protection from the bitter cold. Cursing, he tried to free his limbs from the thick fabric and get to his feet, even as another round of hammering shook the door. "I'm comin', I'm comin', hold yer horses!" he grumbled, trying to suppress a sudden, irrational surge of fear.

There was a reason he was so jumpy, after all - everyone knew the enemy was coming. Not... yet, granted. And if there was a besieging army outside, they probably wouldn't announce themselves by knocking on the fortress' rear gate. Taking a moment to breathe deeply and regain his composure, he walked up to the small gate and opened the barred peephole to look out on the night-dark forest that provided a reasonable natural defense for the rear of the fortress. Sure enough, no sign of any armies - in fact, in the wan light of the single, sputtering torch that hung beyond the gate, he could see just a single individual - a striking woman with bright-red hair, bright-green armor, and a huge spear made from something resembling bone slung over one shoulder. She also looked markedly impatient.

"Who are you? What do you want?" He cursed inwardly at the fear even he could hear in his own voice. He should've met her with a brusque "Who goes there?" - or maybe the classic "Friend or foe?" But the unusual appearance of the unexpected visitor had startled him, bringing his earlier, irrational worries to the fore again. The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'm Aelia of the Spear. And I'm with the mercenary unit your lord hired. We're expected. Supposedly." The sentinel blinked a couple of times, then felt the fear began to leak out of him. He had heard that the King had hired a squadron of mercenary irregulars to reinforce the garrison. They just hadn't been expected so soon. "Ah! Right - you're with Silver Fang's Dogs of War, then?"

The woman nodded, and the relieved guard quickly worked the lock and crossbar, opening the gate. Upon doing so, he found himself momentarily flummoxed by the realization that she had not been alone after all - a dozen large hounds stood silently by her feet, beneath the peephole's view, and now seemed to be looking him up and down. He laughed nervously. "Guess that 'dogs of war' thing is pretty literal, huh? Ahem... do come in, I'll take you to meet the commander. Uh... and, when should we expect your boss to arrive? Silver Fang, yes?"

"I'm already here." remarked the first of the dogs, as it calmly crossed the threshold and walked inside. He was not the largest of the hounds, but certainly solidly built, and sporting some unusual coloration - tiger-like stripes of silvery fur across his back. The sentinel found himself instinctively pulling back against the wall, away from the large dog who now seemed to be analyzing him with eyes far too sharp and bright for a mere dog. Then he snorted. "I can see we'll have our work cut out for us here. Well? Get a move on, man! You're supposed to be a soldier, not a scared, superstitious peasant. Take me to your commander so we can start hashing out a workable strategy already. Aelia, you take the rest of the boys with you and find a decent place where we can quarter... oh, call it a third of the crew. We'll want to leave the rest hidden out in the forest."

The woman came to attention and saluted sharply. "Yes sir!" Then she turned on the heel and marched into the fortress proper, with the rest of the canine contingent following her, noses snuffling and ears alert. Leaving the discombobulated sentinel alone with the striped, talking dog who was, apparently, the famous mercenary leader Silver Fang. However, after a moment to catch his breath, he regained his balance and closed the gate behind the group, before coming to attention himself and gesturing for the dog to follow him. The way the red-haired woman had acted - exactly the same way he would have acted around a superior officer - had helped the strangeness crystallize in his head. So Silver Fang was a talking dog... so what? It was a strange world out there, filled with horrors and wonders alike. And whether this creature was one or the other, he was on their side."

He did not notice the wink that Aelia and Silver Fang exchanged as they split up. The performance was well-rehearsed and had a great track-record of helping people get over their initial amazement (and superstitious fear) at Silver's canine nature. He also didn't notice the slightly awkward way Aelia was walking - but of course, she was getting pretty good at hiding that. They'd made camp not far from the fortress for most of the preceding day, and hadn't gotten underway 'till a few hours earlier. And Aelia had spent pretty much the entire time moaning under a succession of virile, furry bodies. After all, they were about to go to work, and the intermingling of their forces and the fortress' human defenders would leave the red-haired adventuress temporarily deprived of her usual diet of canine lovin' - so best to top up beforehand.

Deep in the haunted Shoikan Forest, in a black tower, a shadow stirred and coughed. Eyes opened, showing hourglass-shaped pupils, and golden skin creased as it was stretched over the bony frame of Raistlin, Dark Magi Extraordinaire, who was currently pulling himself out of his bed with some difficulty. He stopped, sitting on the edge, to catch his breath. Wishing, briefly, that he had someone around who could help him. That thought, however, was swiftly crushed. Allowing someone else in here, in his tower, amongst all his secrets? Unthinkable!

His bones creaked more than the bed as he grabbed his staff from the nearby wall - the legendary Staff of Magus, which had never failed him, unlike that makeshift 'Gryphon Staff' which had nearly gotten him killed - and used it to push himself to his feet. He was still recovering from that last, ill-fated battle. It was taking longer than it used to. A lifetime of accumulated damage, from an existence that had rarely been far from danger and death, will do that to you. But he had cheated the Reaper once more...

Despite all his preparations, however, casting such a potent teleportation-spell, at a time when he was already exhausted from a drawn-out slugging-match, had nearly been the end of him. He had stumbled out of the magic circle on the ground floor of his tower on the brink of unconsciousness, and had been forced to rest on the cold, hard floor for most of a day before he even had the strength to crawl into bed. If he hadn't created Invisible Servants years ago, mostly out of a desire to avoid interrupting his studies for such minor tasks as cooking and cleaning, he likely would have starved - he certainly hadn't had the strength to prepare food for himself, nor even reach the kitchen.

But as it were, the simplistic magical constructs had reacted to his presence by resuming their pre-programmed routines, preparing and bringing him meals at regular intervals, enabling his slow, but sure, recovery. They'd even brought him the special tea that stilled the raking, bloody cough that had plagued him for most of his life, and which no healer could cure him of. And now, while his body remained far from even its past, unenviable state, his mind had at least come back into focus. Even if it would be months yet before he could move properly - and resume his plans - he could at least start planning.

Seating himself at the small, round table that held his crystal ball, he took a moment to breathe deeply, and listed his current advantages. Firstly, as far as he could tell, everyone thought he was dead. He had already employed the crystal ball to gather some rudimentary information - so he knew that the twin priestesses from the Island of Yamato, the fiery-haired Menolly, and that insufferable pirate, Jack Sparrow, had all survived the destruction of the Dragon-Slayers. And Jack Sparrow, at the very least, had been quite free about recounting the dramatic battle that had been their end - while indubitably over-inflating his own contribution to it, and the valor involved in his survival, never mind his 'rescue' of the three women.

And while it dug at Raistlin's pride to imagine that the world thought him dead at the hands of an upstart like Lezard Valeth, it _did_serve his purposes, for now. Especially if Thakharsis, the dragon-goddess and his divine nemesis, believed the same. Most would have considered it folly to expect ignorance of a god, but Raistlin had studied the nature of the gods far more... intimately than any other. He knew well their power - but also, their limitations. They were not truly omniscient, nor omnipotent. Merely... very, very powerful and very, very perceptive. There was no doubt that Thakharsis could swiftly and easily determine that he was still alive, if she cared to look. But if she assumed him dead, and was otherwise preoccupied, then it might take a while before she found occasion to take that look.

Better yet, she was preoccupied - specifically, with damage-control after his partially-successful campaign against her children. Even if the Dragon-Slayers had ultimately failed, they had managed to kill_thousands_ of dragons before they met their end - a significant percentage of the total population, considering that there'd never been all that many dragons. And even if most of those slain had been the more 'common' colors - greens, browns, blues, bronzes, and so on - those were still numbers that the species as a whole would need a long, long time to make up. Dragons just didn't breed all that quickly.

So right now, all of Thakharsis' attention would be bent on helping her children rebuild. Encouraging their fertility, guiding them to reestablish Dragonhomes that had been massacred, and just generally recovering what had been lost. And she'd be weakened in the meantime. Not much, but... enough that the whole affair hadn't been a total loss. He leaned back in the chair and gazed up at the shadowy ceiling. Indeed, not a total loss. He'd taken a few things away from it, after all.

The Gryphon Staff had ultimately failed him. While capable of negating draconic anti-magic, it was fragile and couldn't hold up to high-level magical channeling for long. But... it had been crafted rather hurriedly, while on the road, based on a rather cursory understanding of the principles. And he still had old Urkanzar's notes and design-documents. If he took the time to study them properly, and used the more elaborate facilities and materials available in his hidden tower, he could maybe... improve upon the design. Overcome some of the flaws. There was no reason to discard a plan just because it had backfired once, after all - you merely learned from the failure, and tried again!

And then there was his supposed 'bane'... leaning forwards again, Raistlin drizzled a handful of silvery powder over the crystal-ball and murmured a few magical words. The sphere lit up, and an image coalesced in its depths. A dark and twisted tower, standing amidst barren hills not far from the Magical Academy of Flenceburg. This was the closest Raistlin's scrying could get to its mark - the tower itself was thoroughly warded, apparently with runes most thought forgotten. Within dwelled Lezard Valeth - Wizard, Necromancer, Alchemist, and Rune-Mage!

Of course, Raistlin had heard of the lad before their fateful encounter on that battlefield... but he had dismissed the stories as being exaggerations, and the young wizard as being just another over-ambitious upstart, spreading himself too thin across too many disciplines, dabbling in things far beyond him. But now that he'd actually seen the man in action, he was forced to concede that his judgment had been overly quick. The skill - and talent - was quite real. And rather than wind up as a magical jack-of-all-trades, he'd managed to combine the diverse disciplines he'd studied into a potent amalgam - which had the added advantage of making his spells quite unlike anything anyone had ever seen before.

A lesser man may have plotted revenge. But Raistlin knew well the futility of such pursuits. His interests in the lad were... more sinister. Various images flashed through the crystal ball as he accumulated more information about Lezard's background and motivation. As he had suspected, it was largely chance that had put the two of them on opposite sides of a conflict. A debt to repay, an old ally forcing his hand... those were the things that had pushed Lezard into arriving there, and fighting on the side of the DragonRider. Not some foolish, heroic impulse.

In fact, the more he studied the man's background, the more he felt a certain sense of... kinship. After all, however decrepit he had become, he too had once been a young, ambitious prodigy. And more intriguingly, whispers had it that Lezard Valeth had fallen hopelessly in love... with a goddess. And was now trying to find a way to pull her out of the very heavens, reincarnating her as a mortal, so that they could be together. Almost exactly the opposite of Raistlin's own experiments, come to think of it. It seemed natural, thus, to ponder if not, perhaps, the two could help one another. Raistlin desired the power of a god - or goddess, he wasn't picky - and Lezard wanted a goddess sans power. If they combined their research, their skills, and their minds... perhaps it could be done.

With an eager grin, he made a gesture in the air, prompting one of his invisible servants to bring him parchment and quill. A simple letter would be the best way to open a dialogue. Far more innocuous than any kind of magical message. He only needed to weigh his words carefully... a bit of grudging admiration to stroke the arrogant young lad's ego, but not so much it became obviously insincere. Some veiled suggestions of assistance, but nothing that might push it into 'too good to be true' territory. Mention of a fair exchange, but with slight hints of expecting to get the better of the deal - anything else would just be unbelievable. The world knew Raistlin Majere as a powerful and terrifying Magus, but few realized that he had a secondary talent that was nearly as impressive - that of manipulation and deceit. Especially when it came to fools in love...

Normally, a group of unescorted women, sitting by themselves in a run-down tavern like this, would have attracted an instant group of more-or-less drunk men making more-or-less coherent suggestions. Four beauties such as these would attract even more of the same and, depending on exactly how drunk the crowd was and whether or not any authority-figures were in appearance, something a bit more insistent than mere suggestions. And yet, around the small table where the four women sat, there was not only an absence of drunken leers, but indeed a veritable no-mans-land, where even the server bringing four bowls of hearty stew, two frothy mugs of beer, and two glasses of water (the latter of which would have attract their own share of mockings, under normal circumstances) barely had the courage to tread.

Indeed, there seemed to be an almost electric tension in the air around the table, a skin-crawling feeling of 'unwelcomeness' that even the most insensibly drunk man in the room could somehow sense. Most of it was coming from a tall, dark-haired girl in a foreign-looking dress, and seemed to be carried by her stony glare, directly at the equally-tall, equally-dark haired beauty on the other side of the table - who was nonetheless easily distinguished from her adversary by being short-haired and far more voluptuous in her body-shape... that much was apparent even through the heavy cloak she was wearing, and her occasional movements showed teasing flashes of skimpy, black attire beneath, and a lot of naked skin. Indeed, it seemed as if the feeling that was making every man in the room shudder was merely collateral damage from the sheer weight of disapproval being directed across that small table.

Nonetheless, it seemed to just wash over the recipient. She slouched respectfully in her chair, grinning across the table at the younger woman on the other side - who was sitting ramrod-straight in hers. Mugs of beer were downed with ease and apparent delight, while the other woman - whose face was looking just a little red - seemed to be keeping pace merely out of a refusal to be one-upped in any way. Certainly, she did not seem to particularly enjoy the strong drinks. And yet, despite the battle of wills raging upon the battlefield of the small, poorly-washed barroom table, the other two girls sitting there seemed blissfully oblivious to it.

Both of them were blond and large-eyed, and much like their dark-haired companions, seemed to be mirror-images of one another - both wearing cheerful smiles and friendly, open faces with expressions that a less charitable individual would call 'hopelessly naive'. And again, like the other pair, one was long-haired, dressed in foreign garb, and had the youthful curves of a girl still new to womanhood, while the other was short-haired and possessed more generous, mature curves despite seeming no more mature in spirit. Indeed, both of them were giggling together in a way that seemed far more reminiscent of a pair of preteen schoolgirls than the armed and experienced adventurers they seemed to be.

After all, if it had been merely an intense sense of disquiet, _someone_would have managed to argue himself into taking courage and approaching the group... but as it happened, there were some fairly convincing, physical arguments to go with the electrified air. Each of the four women, however youthful they appeared, was armed - with the kind of odd diversity one only saw in adventuring-parties. The short-haired blonde had a rapier sticking out from beneath her cloak, while a black, coiled whip could occasionally be seen flashing out from beneath her dark-haired companion's identical one. Meanwhile, both of the foreign-clad women had strange, short rods with several zig-zagging lines of paper attached to one end hanging from their sashes, and the dark-haired woman had entered the room with a simple longbow strapped across her back, which was now leaning against her chair - always within easy reach.

The men in the bar assumed that the two cloaked women were elves. It was an easy assumption to make, what with their pointy ears and delicate facial structures - but in this case, they were wrong. Still, they could be forgiven for being unaware of the existence of Fairies, since only a few handfuls of sages and similar students of the strange and arcane knew of that particularly obscure race... and of those, exactly one was aware that a couple of those normally isolationistic beings had used a magical draught to obtain human size, and headed out of their remote forest to learn more of the 'big people' world beyond it. But as it happened, Lezard Valeth was not present in this particular bar to correct the general misconception.

While the two blonde girls had chatted and giggled easily, the dark-haired women (both of whom seemed older than their respective companions, in spirit if not in years) had largely eaten and drunk without a word, sparring with harsh gazes and sarcastic smiles... until the woman with the long, black hair finally broke the silence. "Hurry up and eat your stew before it gets cold, Himeko. I'd rather not have to spend more time in the company of... such people than I have to, anyway." Her blond friend looked up from her conversation - and the stew that she had, indeed, been making slow headway on at best, with a somewhat petulant expression. "Stop that, Chikane! You can't blame them for what happened. We were in the wrong - helping such... nasty people! We never should have gone along with them in the first place. You said yourself that you had a bad feeling about that black-cloaked mage..."

Chikane scowled - across the table, at Pamila, rather than at her friend-slash-lover. "That hardly justifies what they did to us!" The dark-haired fairy returned the scowl with a naughty grin, and put her fifth mug of bear down long enough to fire back. "Aw, you're making it sound like such a horrible thing... but from what ol' Silver Fang told me afterwards, you were rather enjoying yourself towards the end of it!" If Chikane blushed at this, it was artfully concealed by the way the drink had already reddened her face - but Himeko, despite not even having been the target of the remark,did blush furiously - and then took on a rather hang-dog expression.

"I'm... sorry you had to go through that, Chikane... I know you did it to keep me safe..." The other girl's stern-looking face instantly dissolved, and she waved her hands as if hoping to chase that line of thought away. "No, no! I'm not blaming you! And... I guess it wasn't that bad, after all... but that's not the point! That DragonRider promised to keep you safe in return for me going along with it, but she didn't!" It was uncomfortably easy to make that admission about the hour-long session she'd suffered through in the woods with Silver Fang, the talking dog, and his 'army'... but she quickly reassured herself that she was just trying to ease Himeko's worries.

"Even if we were defeated foes, breaking faith with us was dishonorable - and your little friend there helped with that!" She stabbed an accusing finger at Pfil, who shrank back from it - pulling her cloak up around her as if it could protect her from the accusation. Pamila, seeing her beloved's discomfort, instantly pulled herself out of her slouch and leaned over the table with one hand reaching for her whip, and her mouth opening to deliver a blistering retort - only for Himeko to preempt her with a lifted finger of her own. "Now, you stop that right now, Chikane-chan! Anitra-san did exactly as she promised - none of the men even laid a finger on me. And Pfil-chan helped her do it - so if you care about me at all, you owe her gratitude, not blame!"

Chikane flinched back from this reply far more forcefully than Pfil had flinched from her accusation. The nuances at play would have gone right over the head of anyone not used to the labyrinthine rules of proper conduct, politeness, and proper mode of address used on their remote, isolated home island. The way various honorifics were used with every mention of a name, to denote whether someone was greater than you, your equal, lesser than you, friendly with you, distant, close, related, or dozens of other things. Amidst all of that, saying someone's name without any kind of honorific was the most intimate possible way to address someone - and as such considered painfully rude unless you were talking to a very close friend or... someone even closer.

As such, the most painful part of Himeko's rebuttal had gone entirely unnoticed by their two dinner-companions - the attached '-chan' suffix when she addressed Chikane. It was, of course, a perfectly proper way for one young woman to address another young woman, particularly if they were good friends... but as they usually dispensed with honorifics when addressing each other, it carried undertones of distancing - an implicit threat of withheld affection and closeness. Under such an assault, there was only one thing she could possibly do - place her palms on the table and bow over them in a gesture of humility. "I apologize for my rudeness, Pfil-sama - and thank you for looking after my friend when she needed it."

Pfil peeked out from behind her cloak, a warm, yet embarrassed smile spreading on her face. She did not know the exact cultural implications of Chikane's display, but caught the gist of it just fine and quickly waved her hand at her. "Oh... um... thanks! Please, you don't need to do that... it's fine..." Pamila, meanwhile, chuckled at the suddenly-humble Chikane in a way that was just about verging into a leer, but the dark-haired woman shrugged it off as she sat back up again. For once, she reached for her beer-mug out of an actual desire to drink the bitter fluid, if only to numb the sting of humiliation.

She nearly choked on it, however, when Pfil suddenly clapped her hands and smiled at Himeko. "Actually, I just had a great idea! Why don't we all travel together for a while? Me and Pamila have no clear destination, anyway - we're just trying to see the world and learn more of it, so we can go wherever. Maybe we can help you with that thing you're trying to do?" Before Chikane could manage to cough up enough beer to voice her own opinion of that suggestion, Himeko had leaned forwards to grasp Pfil's clasped hands. "Oh, that's a wonderful idea! It's been hard going by ourselves, and I'm sure having you two along will make things much easier!"

When she finally managed to clear her airways, Chikane burst out "There's no need for that! I can definitely protect you by myself, Himeko!" This time, however, it was Pamila who managed to interject before Himeko could answer. "You so sure about that, girlie? I seem to distinctly remember capturing the two of you not so terribly long ago... you couldn't even protect yourself, much less your cutesy partner there." Chikane glared back, one slender hand curling into a fist. "You do, do you? Well, I distinctly remember you getting some help from a Priestess of the cursed Dark Elf race. Who, I have noticed, is not here at the moment." But Pamila just shrugged off the protestation - literally - and replied with a dismissive wave. "Details, details. We had you on the defensive as it were. She merely sped things up a bit."

As Chikane seethed, Pfil looked up at the grinning Pamila with a small smile. "So you don't mind us teaming up with these two, then? I really should have asked you before I offered, but it just occurred to me and seemed like such a great idea..." The voluptuous fairy leered at the two young women on the other side of the table - particularly the innocent-looking Himeko - and grinned. "Oh, I'm fine with it. The more the merrier, yeah? And besides..." she reached over to tenderly stroke Pfil's honey-blonde hair. "You know I'll go with you wherever you choose to walk, right?"

Pfil blushed slightly and smiled broadly, reaching up to touch Pamila's hand. "I know..." On the other side of the table, the other two women exchanged long glances and blushed furiously, wishing that they had the courage to demonstrate their shared affection so blatantly in public. Clearing her throat, Pfil then turned to Himeko again. "Well, it's settled, then! We'll help you to... uhh... what was it you were after, anyway?" Himeko giggled, shaking off her embarrassment before replying. "We are trying to find a way to protect our homeland from dragons. Or rather... to find a _better_way."

She then looked pleadingly up at Chikane, who sighed and continued the story for her. She knew well how difficult it was for Himeko to speak of their past, and at this point, it seemed rather pointless to keep holding out. The battle was clearly lost - Himeko would get her way, as she always did in the end, despite her shy, self-effacing and seemingly weak personality. After all, it hid an ironclad determination and the will to defy an entire nation if she decided it was the right thing to do. "Right... well, see, our homeland - the Island Kingdom of Yamato - has long been protected from any draconic incursions by a magical barrier. However, the ritual for maintaining it requires a rather distasteful... sacrifice, so we decided to leave in search of a more palatable solution..."

A murmur was spreading across the continent. It struck the Dragonhomes first - those great nesting-grounds where dragons by the hundred lived and bred, protecting their young together. First, a sense of elation as the news of the destruction of the DragonSlayers - who had struck terror into draconic communities for years - spread amongst them. Then, a sense of mystery and enigma - how had they been defeated? Details were scarce. Word had first spread along with the very welcome return of several whelps and eggs stolen from raided Dragonhomes, but the people who delivered them had been rather cagey about the hows and whys, and the recipients too relieved and grateful to push for more answers.

Then, a whisper carried on the wings of traveling dragons, carefully aimed for sympathetic ear-holes. Whispers of a better place, a better way to live. Of harmony and peace with 'lesser' races, of abandoning ingrained prejudices. Sometimes, individual dragons or entire families would emigrate from their Dragonhome, but never turn up at another. Initial concerns over these 'disappearances', however, were blunted by the vague rumors beginning to spread... rumors that maybe the mythical, obviously-made-up 'Dragon Utopia' was a real thing after all, and that those who vanished had merely been selected to receive invitations there.

The murmur, however, was not contained merely to the dragons. Sages and scholars in dozens of cities would suddenly head off on 'study-trips' while being remarkably cagey about their destination... and, more bizarrely, entirely failing to petition the local lord or their personal patrons for traveling-funds. And when they returned, they carried with them copies of famous (and occasionally infamous) works that had long been thought lost, and seemed filled with new philosophy and convictions. The idealism they often displayed afterwards was alternately seen as dangerous or promising, depending on who you asked.

Certainly, something had happened. And bit by bit, new ideas were filtering down from the high mountains of the Dragonhomes and the ivory towers of the intellectuals. In places where the local rule was particularly iron-fisted, home-grown rebels seemed to acquire a more philosophical bend, moving away from 'Death to the Tyrant' and towards 'We can do better' - increasing their appeal amongst the common people in the process. Political thinkers and advisers across the continent noticed the sudden groundswell, and started asking questions. Where had these ideas suddenly come from? Why was it starting now, of all times? But their attempts to trace back the tendency were met with walls of silence.

And meanwhile, far away in the Dragon Utopia, the two weary adventurers who had put all these events into motion rested. Their journey was at an end, their goal had been reached, all their needs were met, and a new hope for the future was growing beneath the DragonRider's heart. They were largely ignorant of the impact they had had on the world - and did not particularly care, either. Their journey had, after all, been solely for their own benefit... making any change they'd affected along the way, good or ill, entirely incidental.

However, even as they found themselves gifted in abundance with the things that all living beings had always sought and longed for - food, safety, and the opportunity for procreation - their minds turned back to the hardships and challenges of their adventuring life. Pain was forgotten. Excitement was remembered. Battles became more invigorating and less terrifying in the rosy light of retrospect. The comfort and safety of the Utopia, the friendliness and admiration of their neighbors, all became more and more stifling.

The wanderlust had set in. It was only a matter of time before they found a suitable excuse to fly out again, traveling by themselves in search of excitement and adventure. And as the DragonRider spent many a day sequestered in the Grand Library of the Dragon Utopia, it would not take long before she found such an excuse... and who knows what events, what revelations, this new journey might set in motion?

A New Beginning

The Chronicles of the DragonRider may have ended, but the tale of Blake and Anitra's journeys continue in the Legends of the DragonRider!