Wings of Sap & Storm

A Far-Wandering Dragonborn’s tale

Larry takes a deep breath, the fresh scent of the tall pines and conifers filling the air with the sweetness of sap. The pale dawn light glinting off the blue of his scales, casting refractions on the trees around him. Larry froze as a twig snapped behind the herd, spurring them to shift uneasily. The slight chirp of the birds in the distance, the thump of the hooves nearby, the sway and shake of the leaves above him.

He takes a careful step, feeling the moss between the scales on his feet, gently stepping with bow drawn. The tension from the bow pulling at his forearm as he slowly comes from behind a tree, his target, the herd of deer milling and moving about fifty feet away. 

His breath held, the sounds of the forest bleed from reality, the bow becoming the only thing upon which to focus on. A gentle–thiwp–an arrow sent hurtling through the forest. It strikes home, the mournful and panicked sounds of the herd as it hears one of its own fall.

The herd scatters quickly, loping through the tall trees and disappearing into the brush. Larry moves forward quietly, another arrow tucked neatly into the bow. Once a few steps had been taken, he stands up properly, his scales shifting on his snout as he exhales.

“Did ya see Bishop? I got ‘im!” Larry says excitedly, moving quickly towards the fallen quarry. 

“Yeah well done kid, you’re getting better everyday. I’ll haveta cut you loose soon.” Bishop says, eyes glinting with amusement as he appears from some nearby brush. His bow slung across his back and quiver of arrows still full. 

“What’s it you always tell me, I’m your retirement plan?” Larry throws over his shoulder, a barb at his teacher and friend. 

“Sure kid, gonna have to take down a deer a day to keep me fat and happy.” Bishop laughs as he speaks, hand reaching down for a small silver flask at his hip. Taking a quick swig, Bishop turns around. 

Larry retrieves his arrow, cleaning it on the tail of his leather jerkin and rehoming it in his quiver. He slings the deer over his shoulder, shifting it to avoid his horns as it settles on his shoulder. This makes five successful hunts now, I wonder when the tall-men will begin to accept my presence nearby. This should prove our worth!

Almost six foot and not yet fully grown, Larry was filling out. His eighteenth nameday was coming up and Bishop had promised him a special hunt, a quarry that only the most masterful of hunters get to go after. 

The deer weighed nothing to this young ranger, as he followed Bishop down the skinny deer path they had followed. The dawn sun slowly settling into morning as they resolved their hunt. The path was winding and slowly brought them back to town, the sounds of birds replaced with the clanging of iron. The smell of sweet sap replaced with the tart and smoky smells of the village. The change in smells made the thin scales along his snout crinkle. I’ll never be used to these places the tall-men love.

The following day blurred in a pleasant rhythm: butchering and selling the stag, repairing arrows, and listening to Bishop’s increasingly tall tales by the fire. As dusk bled into night, Larry lay awake beneath the stars, excitement twisting in his chest. When dawn finally came, it brought with it the day he’d been waiting for.

Larry leaped out of bed, quickly pulling his jerkin over his chest, some of the threads being pulled on the edge of his scales. He rushes out of his small room, bow carefully and hastily slung across his shoulders. The embers burn in the main room, smoke hanging low as Bishop sits in a chair next to the burnt out fire, smoking his pipe. 

His fingers curl over the top of it, tamping the embers within his pipe down for a second, before taking a long pull, the embers glowing a deep red. Bishop releases a stream of smoke, like a dragon taking a mighty exhale, as the smoke settles once again. Larry takes a second at this, never a good idea to interrupt Bishop if he was deep in thought. 

Larry sits, and after a moment Bishop turns to him, eyes piercing and green from under the floppy hat he wore. His ‘thinking’ hat, Larry laughs internally to himself. Bishops watches Larry for a second, a gaze Larry meets beat for beat. The hunter’s look, he’s sizing me up. Larry’s shuffles in his, sitting taller, setting his scaly snout and jaw.

Bishop nods, and says “Well, happy birthday my boy. Truly. I know you dragonborn are tough folk, but today is a true test. Today we hunt my favored quarry.”

Larry cocks his head at this, “Favored quarry? I thought this was just a particle kind of hunt? Maybe for a big predator?” 

Bishop smiles with his eyes, the smile lines growing as they crinkle around the green patches that are his eyes. “Mmm, something much more skilled at hunting us back my boy. I’ve taught you stealth, I’ve taught you patience, marksmanship, even some light fighting with that seax at your side. You’re old enough to know what I actually hunt. It fetches a much higher prize than our deer.” 

Larry’s heart jumps at this. Something that can fight back? More than a predator? What could be worse than owlbear, or a grumpkin?

“So what is it then Bishop? A bandit chief? A ancient paladin?” Larry says, trying to lighten the mood that seemed to have infected the smoky room.

The joke was met with a straight face, his green eyes never left his blue. “Angels. Aasimar. Ascendant beings.” Bishop says flatly. Angels? Did he just say Aasimar? Larry thinks as the scales on his neck prickle. 

Abruptly, Bishop was standing, and walking towards the door. His bow, quiver, and cloak all gathered within one balled fist as he set out. Larry hot on his heels, wanting to know more about these angels. 

They walked at a brisk pace, leaving behind their warm cottage and the village of tart and smoky smells, immediately venturing deep into the conifers and fir trees. The smell overwhelming Larry’s senses, the cloyingly sweet scent of sap pervading his snout. 

“What do you mean Bishop? Aasimar? That seems ridiculous. Near this tiny quiet village? My story books tell me they stop giant wars, prevent demons from piercing into our plane? Why do you kill them?” Larry asks, rattling off questions as fast as he could possibly think them. This is not how I wanted my name day to go.

“Larry, I know you have questions. Aasimar are like you and I, they are just neutral beings, some skewing good and righteous. Others skewing more evil, actively corrupting. Others simply reside over ancient fields of battle, bemoaning the fates of the thousands of potential years wasted at one site.” Bishop says as he leads them deeper into the forest, setting a quick pace as they navigate stretches of forest that felt all too familiar.

“Why hunt them? So they know what it is to be hunted. Beings like that have no idea what it is to be on a clock, to have to struggle in the mud, in the muck, in the blood to survive. I hunt them for the same reason some frogs poison the thing that eats it, because it’s instinctual. They can wipe out villages like the one we just came from in seconds, a sweep of their weapons can level some kingdoms.” Bishop says, leading them around huge boulders and over rough knotted roots of the conifers. The dawnlight just beginning to filter through the needles of the firs, casting dappled light across the back of Bishop’s cloak. 

“If that is all true, Bishop, then how can we possibly take one down? And what makes you hunt them? I don’t understand.” Larry says, and increasing anxiety growing in him as they walk. Why are you saying all of these strange things? Are we not meant to be just hunting, like everyday?

“I’ll show ya kid, don’t worry. Sure god-like power and what not, something to equal the playing field is what you need. And as for why? My parents prayed to a being much like these Angels. A minor deity, Seraphiel, the Loomwright. Supposedly the patron of woven crafts and the written word, seen as the divines Celestial archivist, her hands being the hands responsible for the divine narratives we know now. Seraphiel was a Deva, a minor deity, that fell from grace. She became disillusioned with godhood, by the rigidity of the divine narrative. And when she fell, is when her followers did too. The ones she allowed her divine inspiration to flow through, best authors of highest acclaim, the most skilled weavers, their minds were wrent as the magic was stolen back from them, leaving them shells of people, not even capable of doing what they loved.” Bishop stops here for a second, his feet that had set a hard pace slow down to a stumble, then stop altogether. The dawnlight in the full effect now, illuminating Bishop within the embrace of its fog, the smoke seemingly following him around. 

Gods, all that before he found me. And he still took me in and cared for me. Larry walks up and pats him on the shoulder, a warm smile on his face, his scales refracting the light onto Bishops face. 

“I still don’t fully understand, but what I can understand is that this means a lot to you, Bishop. You’ve taught me everything I know. It’s the least I can do.” Larry gives a smile, his snout curving up to reveal his sharp teeth.

“Well then kiddo, I suppose we should get on with it.” Bishop says as he sighs, turning away from the small oasis like forest they were, continuing the brisk pace. 

Larry followed sheepishly, puzzling together all of Bishop’s new found past. They walked through the forest as the sun sent shafts through the conifers, the sweet scent of sap still lingered as they forayed deeper into the forest. 

Eventually they came before a huge cliff, stretching before Larry as far as the eye could see. The firs and conifers sticking closely to the cliffside, giving it little room to breath. As if the forest moves to overtake the stones. 

Bishop suddenly crouches, moving forward slowly and deliberately. Larry follows suit, staying low and avoiding the sunlight, his scales having scared off prey in the past. As they move through the brush, away from the beaten path, the forest suddenly grows cold. 

A thick fog hangs to the skirts of the forest, and a chill enters the air as they move forward into suddenly alien forests. Larry looks around agape, this is already a far cry from the hunts that Bishop had led him on before. 

The trees become leafless and stark white, like bony fingers clawing from the layers of hell beneath their feet, scraping at the sky in their rotting state. Larry instinctively draws his bow and leaves an arrow on the string, for the off chance of something happening. 

Bishop stops by the trunk of one tree and waves Larry over to him, and begins  to produce several vials. The glass bottles are filled with a menagerie of liquids, some shining a golden color, some looking like a viscous black ooze. 

Bishop motions to Larry’s arrows, and dips the tips into various tinctures and potions, the arrows seemingly drinking in these lethal concoctions. Bishop hands his arrows back, and begins on his own. 

Bishop whispers as he focuses on his arrows, “Seraphiel is near, her magics are what causes the poor ecology around here, tainting the earth around her. We have to move quickly and assuredly. The deva is probably in a style of stasis right now which is perfect, we can get the jump on it and load it down with arrows. Lead off with the shimmering gold tipped arrows, its a combination of gold dust and desecrated water, surprisingly effective against these things for some reason.”

Larry simply nods and nocks the golden laced arrow into his bow, looking at Bishop uncertainly. He’s never whispered on a hunt before, that alone makes my stomach twist. He looks around the tree they’re crouched behind and sees a floating mass of wings, just floating in the mix of several scorched trees, at the epicenter of a crater. 

He swallows through the dryness of his mouth and looks at Bishop, who nods at him and picks up his own bow. Bishop motions to a nearby tree and begins to move. When he gets there, he nods at Larry and nocks an arrow. 

They both nod, and ready themselves behind their respective trees. Then, in one motion they step out and loose their arrows, gleaming gold and black, with the quiet sound of the bow singing, thp, thp.

Both land home, Larry hitting the Deva in the Wing, Bishops hitting it in the back towards the base of the neck. The Deva responds quickly, unfurling it’s wings, its feminine face a mask of twisted fury as it looks around for those that would dare attack it in the open. 

In its hand is a brutal blade made of some archaic language, it’s runes glowing faintly as if hungry for blood. It roars as it looks around, sending pulses of magic through the ground. The trees roots suddenly come to life, trying to wrap themselves around Larry’s feet. 

Just as he looks down, Larry hears another thp, thp, thp as Bishop looses more arrows. He jumps back from the vines. His hand finds a black-tipped arrow, and before thought can catch up, he looses it. It strikes the deva in the chest, joining Bishop’s other arrows. 

The Deva roars again, charging towards Larry as Bishop yells at him to move. 

“MOVE LARRY NOW, I’LL DISTRACT IT” Bishop screams over the chaos and Larry’s own heart beat as he watches this Deva move with inhuman speed. 

Larry’s body moves on its own. His clawed feet dig into the fog-damp earth. He turns and runs. The scales on his right cheek tingle, instinct screaming at him to duck. He listens, just as the runic blade flies over his head, slashing through three of the skeletal trees around him. Larry crawls back, looking up at the Angel as it looks down at him. 

The blade moves slowly, the face of this creature still contorted in anger and hatred as it bears down on him. The sword raises up above the Deva’s head, preparing to come down on the young Dragonborn. 

As the sword begins to swing down, a loud warcry is heard and suddenly the Deva stumbles forward. Larry watches as Bishop leaps upward, lands on the Deva’s back, and drives blackened arrows deep into its flesh. The Deva reels and shrieks beneath the blows. They move away from Larry, Seraphiel trying to smash Bishop against the nearby trees. 

As Bishop stabs into his sworn enemy, Larry tries to compose himself; nocking and loosing arrow after arrow into the body of this Deva. The twelve arrows sticking out of it’s chest exhibiting the poisons they coated their weapons with. 

The Deva begins breathing heavily, as it finally finds a nearby tree and smashes Bishop against, who lets out a yell of pain and falls leaning up against the tree. The Deva slowly turns, once again raising it’s archaic blade wordlessly, looking at Bishop.

Larry’s panic rises in his throat, the taste of copper and metal in his mouth. He knows he has to do something. What can I do? The bow and arrows isn’t enough. I have to save him, I HAVE TO. As these thoughts race through his mind, Larry’s legs begin moving without his consent. His mouth aches with a sharp, buzzing metallic tang. He quickly closes the distance, the Blade beginning to come down on Bishop. 

He launches as the blade falls, grabbing Seraphiel’s wings. From his throat comes a roar, unleashing a blinding storm of lightning as thunder tears the grove apart. He screams pure thunder and lightning into the Deva.

The Deva suddenly collapses. Headless. 

It falls to the silent forest floor, sudden eerie calm over taking the dead grove. Larry sits where he landed next to the angel, breathing heavily, wondering what just happened. 

That is… until he hears Bishop give a wet cough behind him. Larry stands slowly, feeling a deep, bone-heavy ache as the adrenaline ebbs. He looks to Bishop, and sees the runic blade embedded deep within his chest, nearly cleaving off his left arm. 

Larry quickly goes to him and pulls out his emergency kit, and begins frantically putting cloth and herb poultices on the wound to try and stop the bleeding. Repeatedly stopping to wipe his eyes of the tears blurring the work.

Bishop puts a weak hand against his, pushing the cloth away, and giving Larry a half-grin smile. 

“Do me a favor kid, grab me my flask. This shit hurts.” Bishop says, his voice weak but still joking around. 

Larry reaches into his coat, pulling the flask from his right pocket, still intact even after the battle. He opens it gently and puts it to Bishop’s lips, giving him a sip.
“It’ll be ok kid. We did it. Spent my whole life after that one. The others were a pleasant surprise, but now I can die happy. Larry, kid, listen. I love you.” He coughs again, violently and wincing at the pain. He looks at Larry with a smile.

 “Dragonborn or not, you’re my kid. You keep going. You carry me with you. In the house, you’ll find everything…” Bishop whispers, his voice going in and out. The last sentence comes out a faint whisper, as Bishop looks up towards the sky.

“I love you too, Bishop.” Larry says through his tears, watching the light leave his mentors eyes. 

“From herein, I shall be Larry Bishopson.” 

He stands alone in the ruin they’ve left behind, the worded blade glinting as the sun pierces the fog.