★ ── // chronicle arcane )

[peachy keen-]

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Ａ ＪＯＩＮＴ ＮＯＶＥＬ ＢＹxxxxxxxx
u ı ɐ ʇ d ɐ ɔ, I'm Not The Only One, Asherwy,
Folly + Zmija, rosemarrie, and bliss. Enjoy
and feel free to post comments/critique!
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High Tradon is a land of order.
Generations go by like clockwork, knowing what is to be done and what is expected of them
from the moment they are born. Hard work is imminent from the moment you can stand, with
one exception.
Trevet lies in the heart of Tradonell as its capitol. Rumors and stories of this free land reach the
ears of the less fortunate, who either resent the wealthy or dream of joining them.
It is winter and the annual Trevetian dragon migration is upon Tradonell and the city has prepared
for a celebration of the tiny beasts.
However, far north in Arcimeor, one has strayed from the path, only to be found by a young
northern man. It quickly becomes apparent that this dragon is not like the others with its strange
markings and rapidly growing size only heard of in myth. For Thivyen, the discovery is the perfect
excuse to leave home for the far away city, but what he comes to find is an adventure bigger than
he could have imagined, tracking down ancient myths that may not even exist and drawing the
attention of a dark power better left untouched.

[ossa di cervo]

Ｈｕｍａｎｏｉｄｓ

★ ♂ Thivyen Kjøl'ver [thiv-EE-ann kyole-VARE]

descrip
★ ♀ Celeste Trev'dyn

descrip
★ ♂ Falon Trev'dyn

descrip
♂ Scrios [s-CRY-ohce]

descrip
♂ Dryvendel Trev'rei

descrip
♂ Sephiro Trev'dyn

descrip
♀ Zurri Mera'dyn

descrip

Ｃｒｅａｔｕｒｅｓ

[ʞ ɔ ǝ ɹ ʍ d ı ʞ s]

ｔｈｅ ..... ｃｏｎｔｉｎｅｎｔ ..... ｏｆ


landscape // capitol // patron // race
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/ar-SEE-me-or/

snow; meadows // kaldere // kveski // human

The northern most part of the continent, separated from Tradonell by a prominent mountain range. Having a vastly different landscape than their neighboring country, they receive lumber, metal, and meat in exchange for "snow crops", a wide range of powerful healing plants that grow only in the north. Unlike those in Tradonell, magic is rarely in Arcimian blood and most born there stay there their entire lives.

/tra-DON-el/

desert; moorland; forest // trevet // caldor // human

Being in the heart of the continent, this country is the main hub of goods tradeable with Arcimeor. Because of past conflicts, tension between regions are high and natives are forbidden from leaving the country. Any person gifted with magic is required by law to attend the academy in Trevet. there is an annual dragon migration through the center of Tradonell. the people of Trevet make a celebration of it while poachers on the outskirts run webs of black market dragon goods.

/za-VEE-shan EYE-als/

forest; swamps // no capitol // no patron // fae

Very few have ever traveled to Zavet. Most in the north don't even believe it exists and those in the south are either afraid to venture into the dark landscape or have no reason. The few that have crossed the isles were in search of Dientamè, the land of the elves, but no one has succeeded in reaching this land as the currents bring them right back. The muggy, shadowed land is home to pixies, sprites, nixies, nymphs, imps, and many others that remain unknown, all of which hold powerful magic. The humans leave them be, and they do the same in return.

[ʞ ɔ ǝ ɹ ʍ d ı ʞ s]

ｂ ｌ ｉ ｚ ｚ ａ ｒ ｄ ｓ ............ ａ ｎ ｄ ............ ｂ ａ ｄ ............ ｆ ｒ ｕ ｉ ｔ

Lightning flashes illuminated the gray sky and turned it purple for a precious moment of beauty amongst a storm. A clap of thunder followed a mere second or two after, the rumbling causing tiny beads of snow to roll from their hills. The air was dry and crackled with thin static. Autumn was coming to a close with winter fast approaching, which meant only stickier snow and months of darkness in the far north.

A young man hacked at the ice beneath him with a metal pickaxe, straightening up and peering into the distance. He narrowed his eyes against the sharp wind and saw the clouds rolling in at a dangerous pace. They seemed to have stayed longer than intended. He was accustomed to the deep rumble of thunderstorms and hadn’t noticed the hours gone by, intent on the task at hand.

Looking around, he noticed the worksite was practically deserted, save a few men loading up the last of the equipment. He pulled his scarf off of his mouth and nose and hefted his heavy tool over his shoulder with a grunt that sent a white cloud of cold breath billowing before him.

Though he was wearing a fur hood, his thick black hair still whipped at his face as he made his way sluggishly towards the cart. He had been staring at stark white snow and ice for gods know how many hours and struggled to adjust to the dark shapes of the other figures. Looking down, he cursed under his breath as he realized the snow he’d wandered into was knee-deep and he struggled to lift the leather and fur boots he wore.

As the last man loaded the cart, he was a mere twenty feet away and rushed faster for it as the snow underfoot thinned. He waved his glove-clad hand high in the air until he knew one of the men had caught sight of him and told the others to wait. He boarded the wagon and sat heavily, snow clotted like burrs onto the fur of his weather-resistant garb.

He leaned back and put his elbows up on the sides behind him, legs tingling after the effort of trudging through the snow.

“How was your first blizzard, Thivyen?” One of the men called out.

Thivyen turned his head to the owner of the voice, who sat diagonally from him, and himself offered gave a deep, sarcastic laugh. “You know better than most this is far from my first blizzard, Goran,” Thivyen called over the howl of the wind.

The man called Goran met Thivyen’s gaze with green eyes, ringed with dark gold and nearly identical to younger man’s, though his stringy, wind-blown, shoulder-length wavy brown hair was on quite the opposite of his. “Aye, but your first time working in one!” Goran called back.

Thivyen could not deny him that. He had worked clearing ice for the boats since he was a boy, but never long hours and never in a storm. There was no need to work to death in his family, for his mother was an esteemed artisan with a wide range of skills. She made paintings, jewelry, clothes, anything that could showcase her sense for beauty and elegance. Her father had been a mapmaker when she was younger, always coming back from long trips with exotic materials for her to do with as she pleased, and ultimately her work began to please others as well.

However, his father did not have it so easy as a child, and was never one to neglect the importance of hard work. So, when Thivyen was old enough to hold himself up against a strong wind, his father had him out on the ice, breaking it apart for trading ships that came to port.

He and his family lived a ways north in Kjøleth. It was not until a few months ago that he took it upon himself to join the big leagues further south in Kaldere, breaking up ice for the main port town in the country of Arcimeor.

“Have you gotten yourself any shiners from the hail yet, boy?” Another man piped up this time. He sat to the right of Thivyen, and his name eluded his mind at that particular moment. The older man was blind in one eye from an obvious injury that startled Thivyen every time he saw it. Now, he drew a breath to speak, but had apparently been silenced by the man’s deformity longer than he thought.

The half-blind man laughed and slapped Thivyan on the back, causing him to lurch forward. “Don’t you worry, it won’t do this to ya!” He said, pointing at his bad eye. “Twas a pixie that did this to me! Nasty little things,” he grumbled.

A groan sounded collectively from the other three men. “Come now, Opus!” Goran scolded. “Enough of your stories! You’ll only confuse the poor lad.”

“It’s no story!” Opus insisted, openly offended. “A fairy took me sight!”

“You just said pixie,” a man not much older than Thivyen pointed out.

“Well whatever it was,” Opus said dismissively. “All the fae look the same to me.”

“That’s because they’re all in your mind!” Goran insisted, leaning forward accusingly and motioning to his own head. He leaned back again and looked to the newest member of their group. “Don’t mind him, Thivyen. The ice does strange things to a man’s sense. We’re sure to end up just like him some day, the lot of us.”

“Aye,” the other two muttered with slow nods of agreement.

Thivyen wasn’t sure if the words were meant to be comforting, but he was only further unsettled. Recently, the jokes thrown around about being stuck here until death were beginning to make him uneasy. The idea of living out his life the same as everyone else here with nothing but the vast white landscape to look upon was not a future he was content with. He tried not to dwell on it, however. The only reason anyone ever left this town was to attend the Academy down south in the city of Trevet. It could take weeks on end and be utterly perilous, so it was only a journey made by the wealthy, experienced, or those who attained magic and were required to attend by law. Sure, his family could muster up the money for it, but it would be futile considering his most prominent skill was swinging sharp objects at inconveniently frozen things.

Trevet Academy was out of the question. There was nothing for him down south. Everything he’d ever known was in Arcimeor. He took a deep breath and stared down at his folded hands with wide eyes.

Meanwhile, the conversation carried on without his attention. Another man had taken something from the younger one and thrown it with a powerful arm into the snow, out of sight before it even hit the ground.

“Hey!” He cried in protest. “That was my lunch!”

Goran burst into a roaring laughter. “You should know better, boy!” He pointed out with a hint of seriousness. “You don’t eat khildan fruit for lunch!”

“And why not?” the young man fumed.

Goran looked confused for a second then leaned forward towards the offender. His smile slowly faded as he spoke. “The juice inside does things to the mind. Makes a man see unholy apparitions before him. Figures that should never touch this world.”

Opus burst into laughter. “Who’s scarin’ lads now?!” He scolded. “Why do you always have to be so serious, Goran?” He turned his attention to the young man. “Khildan fruit is just fun and games as long as you don’t start dependin’ on it. Had me share of the stuff,” he declared with a haughty smile. “Down in Trevet.”

Thivyen head snapped up instantly, his attention snatched at the mere mention of the city. “You’ve been to Trevet?” He asked, trying and failing to choke down his eager tone. He could feel Goran’s eyes flicker to him but he ignored it.

“Indeed,” Opus answered cautiously, leaning back. “You got some interest in it, boy?”

“What’s it like?” Thivyen burst, ignoring the question.

Opus made a grunting noise of distaste. “Loud. Crowded. Every single Trivetian’s marbles were lost a long time ago. They probably wash up on the daily in Dientamè.”

The two older men on the other side of the cart burst into stern arguments as soon as Opus said the last word, their voices lost to the wind as well as to that of the other. They snapped their mouths shut the second the cart came to a halt moments later. Goran stood up and glared at Opus a moment before glancing at Thivyen with a gesture of his head and walking off the cart.

Hesitantly, Thivyen stood to follow and gave the other men a small nod as they did the same. The snow had stopped falling but the wind was still strong. Kjøleth was a quaint little town that, he would admit, was easy to be content in. The firelight escaping the cottages flickered a warm golden glow against the white landscape. Since it was on the coast of the barren north, the supplies necessary to build wooden houses and other structures were brought via ship from Tradonell.

Thivyen ran through the building snow to catch up to Goran. He was tall himself, but the older man was taller yet. Though it wasn’t by much, Goran’s seasoned and brisk strides were difficult to keep up with. Eventually, they came to a small house and hastily swung the door open, slipping inside.

“Grida!” Goran called out. “Where is my dinner woman?!” He called with a playful smile, prepared for equally playful backlash.

Thivyan smiled at the familiar banter, thankful to be done with the tension on the cart. Soon after he called out, a slender woman peeked her head around the corner with a childish smile. Her hair was down, as always, and a bright golden brown just as Goran’s, but less dulled with age. Her eyes were blue as the northern sea, shining with a smile.

She rounded the corner to approach them, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Aye, brother of mine!” She shouted, comically dramatic. She put both hands on Goran’s head and pulled it down to kiss his forehead. “Son of mine!” She shouted, doing the same to Thivyen but tippy-toe-ing rather than pulling down his head. “Don’t you dare get snow on my floors,” she said, pushing them both back out the door.

The two stumbled stumbled as they was shoved back into the harsh weather. Exchanging amused glances, they stomped off their boots and brushed off as much snow as possible before returning into the fire-warmed house, free to shed heavy layers.

Soon enough, the sound of hasty steps descending the stairs could be heard. “Thivyen!” A small, breathless voice called out before the boy even was even revealed. The eleven year old ran up to the older boy, who swept him up with a wide smile before dropping him back to the ground and ruffling his hair.

“Get into any trouble today, Ervind?” Thivyen asked, pulling off a fur jacket followed by his gloves.

The boy shook his head. “I only read,” he said before adding in a whisper, “Mother said it was too cold to go outside.”

“Isn’t it always?” Goran grumbled under his breath, catching Thivyen’s jacket before it fell to the floor and hanging it on a wooden coat rack.

“Reading about dragons again?” Thivyen asked with a smirk.

“Dragons of Dientamè,” the boy said dramatically. “They’re huge!” He said, throwing his arms in the air.

“Dragons aren’t big,” Thivyen teased.

“Those ones are!” Ervind insisted. “I’ll find them someday,” he said determinedly, balling his hands into fists with excitement.

“Ervind!” He heard his mother’s call from the kitchen and the young boy perked up and glanced back to his brother once more before running towards it.

Noticing his uncle’s uncharacteristic silence, Thivyen glanced over to find Goran tight-lipped and otherwise distracted hanging things on the coat rock. “Is something wrong?” He asked curiously.

“Agh,” Goran grunted, half-heartedly tossing a glove to the floor and putting his hands on his hips with a sigh. “I do wish your father would stop encouraging this Dientamè nonsense. I’d hate to see you boys wasting your potential on something that does not exist.”

“You just don’t want us to end up like grandfather,” Thivyen pointed out, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “Besides,” he he continued with an innocent shrug, “How do you know it doesn’t exist?”

“Thivyen,” Goran said frankly, gesturing with his hands. “There is no proof. No one’s been there. Nothing has come from there. Every time a ship tries to leave Tradon they come right back. It does not exist. They’re just stories.”

“What if the dragons come from there?” The younger man countered.

“The dragons come from the west,” he pointed out. “Besides, elvish dragons are said to grow larger than the Academy itself. Real dragons are four hands, at the longest.” He said with a wave of his hand before walking past his nephew.

“All stories come from somewhere,” Thivyen mumbled under his breath before letting his arms drop to his sides with a sigh of defeat and trailing the older man.

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[Asherwy]

ｏ ｎ ｅ ............ ｕ ｎ ｅ ｘ ｐ ｅ ｃ ｔ ｅ ｄ ............ ａ ｃ ｑ ｕ ａ ｎ ｔ ａ ｉ ｎ ｃ ｅ

The young, black haired man awoke from his slumber, catching wind of the cold drift that seeped in through a faulty window pane, defiling the toasty room in which he stayed. With a stretch and a satisfying yawn, Thivyen heaved himself out of the animal skins and dragged his drowsy feet to the glassed aperture to contemplate this snowy morning, a sense of mild dread dawning on him at the thought of returning to the bitter ice cap that stretched across Kjøleth’s coast, belonging to the Frosset Sea.

He then remembered with a start that the trading ships porting this morning would be that of the herbs and medicines. Making a note to visit the docks after his dawn shift, which consisted of hacking at the stubborn ice that accumulated during the night, he pulled on his day clothes and under garments before rushing downstairs. The familiar creak of Tradonell's imported wood mingling with Arcimeor's own brought some life back into his chest, ridding him of whatever dread he had felt earlier.

Snatching a piece off the loaf of Grida's specially home-made Hvete bread, he was half-way to the door when the low, gruff voice of Goran caused him to halt in his tracks. "You thinking of leaving without your uncle, son?" The heavy-built man grunted and slid out from his seat at the dark wooden table crafted in Kjøleth itself. Thivyen could remember the time Grida and Goran bought it like it was just yesterday. There were a mix of brown and cream coloured crumbs peppering Goran's bristly chin, bouncing off as he stood up and stretched heartily. He must've eaten some of the hvete loaf as well.

"Come on then Thivyen, there won't be an end to it if we keep our dear ol' Opus waiting." He laughed jocularly and reached for his pickaxe as he tugged open the door.

Arcimeor's sun hadn't risen above the horizon as of yet, so the entire village was covered in a deep, icy blue blanket while the sky prepared itself for daytime. Thivyen couldn't help but gape at the vast amount of snow that coated the ground of Kjøleth. It was at least up to his chest from where they were standing. In fact, the cottage entrance was clogged up with white snowflakes, seeming to chuckle at the pair's bewilderment.

"Seven hells! It'll take an hour for us to even get to the coast like this!" Goran exclaimed, gesturing dramatically towards the snow. "Autumn is 'round the corner, and we get a snowfall like this?" He shook his head and sighed. It was to be expected; after all there was a blizzard just yesterday.

But Thivyen's mind was too set on retrieving the herbs from the trading ships, a strange sense of urgency pushing him on. "Can't be helped now." He said dutifully and began to plough through the thick snow. It was indeed getting stickier by the day, and it wasn't even sunrise. It at least aided him with more stabilised footing.

Goran grinned widely in approval. "Thatta boy! Not letting the deepest snow keep you from your job." Following the young man, Thivyen huffed slightly with the effort, a white cloud escaping his mouth with every exhale.

At long last, the pair finally arrived at the harbour, and with just the top of the golden disc touching the horizon. To their surprise, some of the men were just gathering around a fire as well. Opus, of course, was settled in the middle, his mouth opening and closing rapidly as he told another one of his far-fetched tales. His one eye flickered over to them, pausing in his passionate storytelling to pick on the two men.

"Aye! There they come! Even an old fart such as me self beats all you youngsters to the docks eh?" He released a throaty chuckle that verged on the edge of a croaking frog. "Now that reminds me! There was a time not long ago when I encountered an authentic Iskald wolf I did..."

Thivyen tuned Opus' enthusiastic chatter out of his ears, marching across the winter beach after warming himself by the fire. Several other men began to trail after him as well, Goran once again telling Opus to quite blabbering his tall-tales.

The one-eyed man barked an indignant reply. "It's true! The lot of it I tell ya!"

Paying little attention to the two grown men, he raised his pickaxe and brought it down on the compact ice with a grunt, delivering a few more blows before finally finding his rhythm. A small while later when the sun was hovering just above the mountains, Goran shuffled over to him and chucked a relatively large ice cap into the freezing water. "You seem to be awful focused today, Thivyen." He commented casually.

Thivyen only mumbled a reply and continued his work. He couldn't help but feel that something would happen today, couldn't help but feel a tug urging him to finish his shift as quickly as he can just to get to the herbs.

Goran noticed how fidgety he was. "You itching to get to them medicine shipments?" He asked, "Don't worry son, they won't be docking until later, you've got plenty of time to get there early once our morning work is finished." His uncle could read him like a book, but his words provided only a morsel of reassurance for the young man.

Instead of sighing, Thivyen gave him an appreciative smile and returned to hacking at the stubborn ice. After all, he just had to distract himself until then. The ships wouldn't even be able to dock unless they rid the frozen waters of this god-forsaken ice.

It was just a few hours before midday by the time they were done with their work and each man was suffering from hunger pains as they trudged back to the snowy coast, clutching their stomachs in discomfort.

"I swear by th' Queen I tell ya," One complained, "If I don't get me some grub I'll pillage the docks!"

A couple nodded in agreement. "Aye."

Thivyen said nothing, for all he was thinking about were the ships that were due to port not long from now. He was itching to get his hands on every remedy they provided. Even as they ate the warm Gul meat stew, the boy just couldn't sit still and kept glancing over at the docks to check whether the ships were there yet.

"You feelin' alright boy?" The crackly, seasoned voice of Opus somehow managed to reach his ears. "Yer like a sheep before feeding time!"

Not feeling up to a snarky reply, he simply smiled and glanced over at the frosted ocean yet again. Opus peered at him, his one eye glinting skeptically as he turned to Goran. "Somethin' biting the lad?" He asked.

Goran shook his large head, spooning another bite of the steaming stew into his mouth and chewing. "He's got his eyes on them herbs is all, nothing to get tied up about."

"Hah!" Opus cackled, "What man would need he-"

He was interrupted by Thivyen's abrupt shout of excitement, the younger man practically leaping out of his seat. "They're here!" He announced in jubilation. As if on cue, shouts drifted from the harbour, indicating the arrival of long-awaited trading goods for the people of Kjøleth to initiate Virksomhet, a word for 'business' or 'the exchange of wares.'

"Indeed, the Virksomhet is about to begin eh?" A man called.

Goran took a mighty, unattractive sip from his mug of hot cocoa and exhaled in contentment. "Go on, Thivyen. We ain't gonna stop you." He winked.

With a smile of gratitude, the boy took off, leaving his unfinished stew for Opus' taking. "All mine, how thoughtful of 'im."

Opus' voice grew faint as he raced for the harbour, several grand ships already making their appearance through the dissipating morning fog. The ship bells rung through the calm air of the village, luring curious little faces away from their homes to take a gander at the marvellous event of Virksomhet.

On the way there, Thivyen bumped into a couple of children frolicking about in the still-dry snow, hurling packed balls of white powder at each other and squealing in delight. Something hit his shoulder and an explosion of snowflakes engulfed his vision, mischievous giggles reaching his ears as the flurry of snow dispersed. A small boy was rolling another ball of snow in his woollen mittens, grinning at him with a rascally glint in his eyes. "You wanna play with us mister?"

He shook his head and wore an apologetic look. "Sorry kids, no time t'day."

Smiling at their youthful joy, he was just about to continue his dash when a shrill scream sounded from where the children were playing. The girl who delivered the frightened note pointed at the ground a few feet away from her and began running away. The other children's faces contorted in fear as soon as they saw what had scared her and sprinted after the girl. He had to get to the docks quickly, but he wondered what had alarmed them so.

Curiosity got the better of Thivyen in the end. Cautiously edging towards the little dip in the snow where the girl had pointed, he circled around until he laid his feet on ground where the villagers had already shovelled away the bleached flakes and leaned over to have a quick peek. He was skeptical of moving any closer in case it was a Arcimeor serpent or snake.

To his astonishment, it was neither, but none other than a dragon. Or at least he thought it was; maybe all those tales were seriously getting to him after all. Gawking at the small creature in disbelief, he ventured slightly closer and inspected its anatomy. It resembled a lizard, but with wings and a spiked tail. What really caught his eye were the gently gleaming markings on the creamy gold scales of the creature, they were like elven symbols. Not to mention those intimidating, jagged features on its head. Now he was certain this was a dragon. But how did an Elven Dragon find its way up here?

A low growl emitted from the little dragon, it looked no older than a few months, weeks even. Golden eyelids flickered open to reveal sharp amber-coloured irises, slicing through him like a serrated cleaver. Backing away instinctively, Thivyen kept a watchful eye on the dragon's movements. Even though it was just a little larger than his hand; he was not in the mood to get mauled by a foreign, flesh-hungry dragon today.

The pair stared each other down for a while, neither of them daring to make a single move incase of provoking an attack. The young man took this time to contemplate his 'opponent,' marvelling at its exotic figure and majestic wings. He squinted, noticing a disfiguration in one of its wings; the bone was terribly warped to one side, resulting in the majority of the wing to have an irregular hooked shape. The tip was angled upwards as well, a pool of blood beginning to soak the surrounding snow to a deep crimson. It must've landed here not long ago.

Now there was a real reason to retrieve those herbs and medicines. Gulping slightly, he shuffled carefully over to the dragon, trying to keep his voice from crying out at the creature's intensified snarls. What am I doing? He asked himself, over and over again until he was in range of the dragon's razor-edged fangs. For some unknown reason, it didn't attack. Feeling a bit more comfortable, he stepped a little closer only to jump back in shock when the dragon hissed and recoiled, staggering only a few centimetres before collapsing on the blood-tainted snow.

Pursing his lips in determination, Thivyen recovered from the short-lived fright and tried once again, this time he was armed with a Storfekjøtt jerky he had been saving for himself. With a trembling hand, he reached out towards the dragon and extended the jerky. Eyeing him suspiciously, the creature hesitated for a few moments before scooting over and snatching the food away, noisily gnashing it in its jaws. A shiver scurried down Thivyen's spine, imagining it wasn't the jerky between its teeth, but his fingers.

Brushing away the thought, he swallowed excess saliva and attempted to take on an inviting pose so that the dragon would crawl over. He looked like a retarded walrus, and the creature merely stared at him with a condescending glint in its amber eyes. Eventually it gave in to this strange man and warily made its way over to Thivyen, allowing him to scoop it up in his large arms. I'd've thought it would rip me to pieces by now. He thought, But then again, it might be a kid. What if it's actually an adult though? Elven dragons might be smaller than we think...

He bandaged the dragon on the way to the port, it was small enough to avoid any unwanted attention after all. Once the bleeding was controlled and the wing was secure, he tenderly placed it in his Hjort hide bag, careful not to jumble it about. As they arrived at the bustling harbour, Thivyen could see that the merchants were already setting up shop, customers practically pouring in to have a glimpse at the foreign 'high quality' products. He was just here for the healing herbs.

The dragon squirmed in his bag, the commotion from the port market seemed to pique his interest. There were multiple signs reading: 'Welcome to Virksomhet' all over the marketplace which induced the lively atmosphere. After weaving between stalls and meandering through crowds, they finally found a cluster of booths selling remedies and herbs imported from Tradonell, some from Trevet itself.

"Son! You there! Looking for some of the top medicines in the continent? Well I've got it all here!" A slender man with blonde hair, buck teeth and pale skin gestured to a large array of goods spread out on his table. "These are from all over Tradonell, these are from North Arcimeor and these..." He motioned for Thivyen to come closer and raised his hand to whisper in his ear. "Are from the deepest forests of Zavet. You will be amazed at the efficiency of the herbs there!"

Thivyen's eyes widened in excitement. "You've been there? It's real?"

"As real as myself!" He exclaimed, leaning back. "Now! What'll ya have?"

Both of them spent a fair amount of time bargaining against certain medicines and poultices, Thivyen taking a look at other stalls once in a while before returning since the rest weren't good enough. In the end, he paid a rather equitable price for a handful of different herbs from all three regions and went on his merry way.

The boy decided to do a quick trip back to the cottage before returning to work, just to drop off the herbs. And the dragon. It didn't take long for him to conclude that he'll keep the dragon in the barn around back; no one ever uses it anyway. The dragon sparked a fire in him, and he was reluctant to give it up so soon after discovering it. Hastily treating the creature's injuries in the barn, he rushed upstairs to tuck away the herbs and left as soon as he made sure the dragon was okay. He was lucky today, Grida was out plucking the bakery for quality bread as she always did about this time of the week.

Yes, the dragon'll be alright in the barn. With that final reassuring line, he dashed off towards the ice where the men were already hitting away.

a skip and a hop later

Thivyen returned from work just as the sun was setting, casting a long, ominous shadow upon the land. As soon as he dragged open the barn doors, he knew this plan wouldn't last for long now. He trudged towards the creature, exhausted from the day's work. It responded by bounding up to him energetically, settling down in front of Thivyen. The dragon was nearly at his hips now, and Grida would have to be either deaf or blind not to notice a upsized lizard sleeping in her barn.

"Well." He sighed. "Time to move ya."

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