Content Warning: Mythology-implied vore, castration/nullification, disfigurement/body-modification, exile, etc? I guess?
Before the Rise
“The Histories of the Traveler Nation”
by beforethefall [Inkbunny]
The ancient dragoness settled near the bonfire, her star-field scales the subject of centuries-old rumors that suggested them to be made of the same stuff as the night sky itself. She chuckled fondly from behind her mask to her old Arvian friend; the nine-foot-tall bipedal were-bird was dwarfed against the laying dragoness' shoulder, having just asked for her to help pass the evening with a story of her tribe's history.
"...Quite a grand story, you ask for, fellow storyteller! We'll see how far we can get this evening, before either the story tires, or I do," she laughed merrily. The dragoness briefly erected herself, stretched, and considered the fire from behind the inky-blackness of her mask's eye holes for a fretful few moments. Then, a simple wave of a fore-paw sprung the ring of stone around the fire into motion, to impossibly rearrange itself, climbing instead into a massive stone hearth around the fire, as the packed dirt grounds of the festival site furrowed in the flickering orange firelight to resemble the texture of wood grain; the area soon a visage of some comfortable gathering in an ancient inn, stationed at distant crossroads between realms. The illusion faded simply into the late night's blackness beyond the reach the fire's light, beyond which the dull midnight blue of the star-lit sky continued unbroken. The denizens who had come to listen found themselves simply gathered atop their blankets or bare backsides around the hearth as if that place had always been so arranged.
If a Traveler's stories are to be heard, then they will be told by Traveler custom.
Somehow, this change seemed compliant within the physical bounds of the space, as if it'd always been that way. The denizens of Ir'resthel were no strangers to dragon magic, and such a minor illusion scarcely draws notice from many in the southern villages; all were confident the space would be back to its normal corner of the festival grounds well before the night's end. The midnight dragoness tossed her immense, branched antlers, clattering the dream catchers and jewelry too precious to speculate upon the value of within their heavily laden forks. Though no movement of jaw could be discerned beneath the intricately carved bone mask that covered her face, her voice rung clear, its rich and paradoxically sultry, maternal tone weathered by the rich draconic accent in spite of her clear common-tongue speech.
"A tale of greed, gifts, fire, ice, desperation and salvation greets you tonight, Travelers," she extended the honorary welcome, a temporary acceptance into the tribe, to become part of her story circle. An invitation extended to the crowd to consider themselves as one among the great dragon tribes for the evening. “Tears may not be shed, nor hearts deeply moved, but know that every word spoken is Truth as our tribe knows it, as it has been passed down before the shards of our gods for ten thousand generations,” Did the lights just go down? Nah, probably not. It's fine. “So begins the histories of the Traveler nation.”
Oooh, so brooding.
“In the earliest of ages, a great panel of gods ruled over the boundless heavens. Together, their dominion spanned all nature; their pure light shone down to drive the very forces of nature to their will. Sky and Earth made love, and the the Mountain was born. Rain and the Abyss bore the Sea, Rain and Earth bore the Forest, Fire and Earth bore Wind, and Wind taught his brother Forest to sing. They brought forth each and every piece of their world in turn, and rose their children as they saw fit.
"However, of the first gods, one found himself barren. Hunger had been forever doomed to yearn, unfulfilled, for meaning and purpose. He had to make his way alone, unable to father children, unable to find a sacred, celestial match to his yearning need; he was a lone god in a world of thriving, branching families that seemed to see no end.
"But, as the gods do - as we all do, ultimately - he found his way, as best as he could. Hunger served the gods at his table where they would feast for centuries together, basking in their shared light and joy; sharing tales, drink and food together as Hunger stood at the head and feasted alongside them. He heard their stories, laughed with their jokes, and celebrated their great milestones as one. As a family. And the other gods welcomed him, and he felt at one with them.
"But...after every great feast, eventually the other gods made their way back to their duties and the watchful tending of the world they'd given rise to, together. And Hunger was left alone, again and again, in his grand hall that felt so, so very empty without the warmth of his kin beside him. So he sat, and he ate.
"Unfulfilled.
"Empty.
"And he ate.
"And he ate.
"Hunger consumed the food at the table. He drank the wine, then turned on the bones that had been left behind, and found himself still yearning. Still empty. And he finally abandoned the thought to stop, and accept his defeat in loneliness and want yet again. He consumed the table, and the great fire, and the very fireplace within which it resided. Yet he was still empty, and hollow, and unfulfilled.
"He was Hunger. It was his fate.
"His sorrow turned to sickness. His attention turned to the forests, consumed in an evening. The oceans, drank dry in a single sunny afternoon. The land was devoured, and then the heavens; the fire, the abyss, all fell under his desperate need. Under the grinding fist in his stomach that begged for more, that knew only to devour. And then, his sickness was turned upon the other gods.
"Try as they might, they fell, one by one, under his sickness. The gods were powerful, but not all-powerful. Their omniscience over the world beneath them granted them little power against one of their own, and soon, all had been lost.
"Hunger had won.
"The grinding, desperate need within him to consume everything had goaded him to a world filled with naught but a new desperation. He floated, utterly alone, in formless nothingness with only himself and his nature to keep him company. He never again felt the warmth of his kin.
"Hunger wept and understood, truly, what it meant to be Hunger at the end of all things. It was not his purpose, nor his place, to consume. His hunger, his desperate need wasn't to consume, and wasn't to be fulfilled. It was to yearn for more, for a better world, to be fulfilled, to love, to share his wealth with others and find satiation through the joy and company of others. With this revelation, his perfect hunger called him now to a great sacrifice. He would not be the end of things.
"He would be their beginning.
"Hunger folded upon himself, and consumed his own tail; he devoured himself down, and down, until even his godly form could no longer contain it- and burst forth, scattering all that he'd taken to the skies. But, they were different, now, changed by some celestial transformation within the depth of Hunger himself - the new stuff of the universe was imbued with the powers of the gods and their young. Melded together into new forms, and blended into new, novel combinations. An infinite variety, born from the pit of misunderstood greed and pang and ache to give rise to all creation for the benefit of all dragons and the lesser tribes to celebrate his sacrifice, even if they may never learn of it; by simply being. By sharing their love and companionship, by coming close, and sharing a meal, or a story.
"By laughing together, and raising their young in their image, as they see fit.
"By building a world to be proud of; and by sharing it with those dearest to them.
"By honoring the seed of godhood that is imbued within us all, to effect change in the mortal world through our own actions.
"And so the world rose again. The great civilizations rose in the East as Creation found its foothold again, as shards of god-stuff continued to rain upon the world. None will ever know why some are so quick to stain a gift so pure.
"In the ages when these shards of godhood were still finding their way to Creation, a band of dragons walked in exile, their wings cut, over the great northern ice to an unknown fate.
"Their crime? Having dared to be chosen by a shard that had reached them," the ancient dragoness leveled her masked face toward a pregnant blue-feathered dragonkin in that moment, the bipedal offspring of a Traveler and a member of the lesser bipedal tribes, "One I believe someone in our company tonight may be familiar with, if they followed Traveler tradition! This shard was stolen away from us the moment it was discovered. It was the shard that healed the wounds inflicted upon them by the royal caste; the shard that returned to them the Gift that had been so selectively stolen away by the great rulers and royalty of the long-dead world to the East.
"The exiles' caste became able to bear young again after thousands of years of subjugation and slavery; having been bred to be used as trinkets with which to trade, or coax the negotiation of great deals between powerful lords and royals. A servant race that had the pride whipped out of them for generations. Sterilized so they had no legacy to live for, and so the great royals and nobles and pure bloodlines needn't fear some bastard heir that muddied their pure blood coming to claim his due centuries beyond the deed.
"The young that came shortly after their healing were considered impure by the high-born; an insult to the will of the gods they had distorted to their own whims over the course of millennia. The high-born, who placed great, nearly singular importance upon one's lineage over one's true purpose; they were enraged, and sought to destroy the young ones. That caste, however – the Travelers' ancestors – now had something to live for. They defended their legacy with all of the might and ferocity that lives in the heart of every dragon. They found their Voice, as they now had a precious gift to defend.
"Despite their motivation, they lacked organization. Passion, untamed and raw, was their fuel and soon many of them lay dead, and many more captured, and their wings ruined to serve as a badge by which to identify the exiles by. They were sent onto the frozen northern seas, never to return. The estimates vary with some, but most keepers of the Histories agree that fourteen thousand, three-hundred and eighty dragons were sentenced to near sure death by exile over the frozen oceans; to build new life elsewhere or die in search of it, either by exposure, starvation, or by drowning in the spring when the ice mercifully retreated and eased their suffering.
"So much sacred life was lost during those cold months. Day and night drove their path west over the ice. It was then that the Travelers found their reverence for the Cycle that permeates all aspects of our culture to this day.
"Three thousand, six hundred and fifty two dragons looked up on the day The Burning Mountain returned to creation. They watched him sail, flaming, through the skies over their heads. Monahven lit the beacon on the horizon, and announced his arrival with a great roar and gust of hot wind that gave the exiles promise of sanctuary.
"The exiles followed the light, and found him – the Mountain for which one of our friends in this very camp is named for, dears – standing vigil over the frozen northern forests of Ir'resthel. His flame burned bright and cast warmth upon our ancestors. It was salvation; rivers of molten rock spilled forth from his mouth, an invitation to the forests and frozen waters around to thaw, to provide life-saving sustenance for them in those final weeks of the winter.
"Monahven gave us our strength to find the Trail. The great migration that, traditionally, the Lost Travelers wander every year, north to south and back again, following the stars and seasons. The path that saw our tribe grow from a few thousand survivors to tens of millions of thriving dragons.
"The path that saw us outlive those who once subjugated us. For we understand the Cycle for which they had such contempt. The path that helped us teach the Cycle to our friends in the lesser tribes, its peace and unity by which we all benefit.
“This is the path that gives us our Names, and tells our stories. The one that brings our kind together in times of need, and plenty - to share ourselves, and everything of ourselves, with one another. It is as much a celebration as a meditation. The Cycle encompasses all.”
The old dragoness tossed her horns again and stared down into the fire as a stone crumbled from the hearth and fell back to the perimeter of the fire pit's ring. Another followed, moments later, landing perfectly in place. “...For the Trail is the Traveler way. It is our Cycle, like the moon and sun's path across the sky. Season, to egg, to young, to old, to death and ultimate rebirth. The gods who choose us, who inhabit us and give us our power as their mortal vessels; they understand the Cycle as they ride atop the waves the Cycle creates.
"It is shine's call to tarnish. In fact, that and that alone, is why Travelers value silver over all other so-called precious metals. Silver understands our Cycle. Gold is unchanging, and as such, it is reserved to honor the memory of our dead.”
The hearth continued to crumble as the old dragoness spoke, and by the time the dragoness' final words had fallen upon the still night air, the festival grounds had returned around them, finding the dragoness somberly staring into the fire from the abyss behind the eyes of her mask.
"...And now I'm homesick. Has anyone seen the bards? We could use some nice music."
-END-
![HellCatIllustrations - Escape Key [g]](https://sf.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/medium/5483/5483081_beforethefall_the_band_noncustom.jpg "HellCatIllustrations - Escape Key [g]")
