Ballad of the Dragonling
Gather 'round, friends. Let my lute weave its spell, and give heed to the tale of our beloved Saskia the Dragonslayer in her younger days. (Not that Upper Aedirn's queen isn't still young and alluring, mind you, with hair of amber waves, eyes of crystal blue and lips like a ripe plum…but I digress.)
They say dear Saskia learned all she knows from her father…but he hardly taught it all in a day. It took many rosy violet dawns to orange-bathed dusks for the old veteran to sculpt his only daughter into what she is today. His dear mate tragically lost in childbirth, he was determined that their child grow up strong. Who could have foretold that the seed he planted would grow into a lovely and mighty oak to rival even Bleobheris? No one could, save perhaps one.
Our tale begins one rosy morning, when the Aedirnian fields rang with the sound of father and daughter's sword clashes. She'd lunge, he'd parry. He'd counter, and she'd strike. Pride in his eyes, he'd declare that if he knew no better, he'd say she was born with sword in hand! She'd laugh in her girlish way, and remind the old man that swords don't hatch from eggs. What she meant, esteemed guests, I leave to you to surmise.
Little Saskia's sword swung true that day, to be sure, but Fate deemed an even greater lesson in store for her. For not far from the glade where stag and fawn sparred, a grave misfortune ensued. A hapless craftsman en route to Vengerburg, waylaid by highwaymen, his cries did reach the lass' ear. The thugs, unsatisfied with the trinkets the craftsman carried, decided that his life would have to do instead. Neck bound to rope and rope bound to tree, his fate looked grimmer than that of a troll in the Temple of Eternal Fire!
Our princess bade her father that they flee, for she believed a great wyrm would soon descend from the sky on sure wings and punish the evildoers in a tempest of flame. The veteran shook his head. "Nay, young Saskia," said he. "What would man think when he sees evil usurped by evil? Once he's freed, he'd only gather his friends and seek the destruction of the very wyrm that saved him. Salvation must come at human hands, at the tip of a human's sword." He raised his own shining blade high and charged. The craftsman was spared an unjust death, and the thugs lain to reconsider their cruelty in the company of earthworms and flies.
The craftsman kneeled in gratitude before the heroic veteran, not stingy with his exclamations of thanks. He turned to the flowering maiden at his rescuer's side, and planted a kiss on her pale hand. He told her that her father was indeed a great champion, and yet the craftsman was ashamed for he had no means to repay his kindness. Instead, the craftsman promised our little Saskia that one day her greatness would outweigh her father's by tenfold. His premonition made, he set about on his own way and vanished over the next hill.
Was it a blessing? A prophesy? Only the spirits residing in that Aedirnian grove could say for sure. But there can be little doubt among us that the wayfaring craftsman's words resounded with pure crystalline truth. The fledgling Saskia took wing that day into legend. She learned well that human liberty may be achieved by human hands alone, and she deftly became the human to achieve it. Now she roosts in the hearts of her people, with the slaying of a dragon and the emancipation of Upper Aedirn added to her expanse of great accomplishments. But those are stories for another time.