In a copse situated deep in the thickly forested foothills of The Spine, a lone dragon swooped deftly to the ground, his thick silver claws tearing massive rents in the loamy brown earth.
The dragon was very young, not yet old enough to breathe fire, but was exceptionally large for his age; though the copse was fairly sizable, the massive dragon could hardly breathe without scraping his sides against the trunks of the surrounding trees. His smooth, ebony scales gleamed like opals in the bright afternoon sunlight, and the silver spikes that ran down the length of his long neck and covered the tip of his tail shone like finely polished pikes, beautiful and deadly.
The creature was a magnificent sight to behold, but his fireside-story appearance was rendered somewhat horrific by the copious amounts of hot, sticky blood that was spattered all over his body, blood belonging to long dead assailants who had learnt the hard way that his splendid silver claws were as lethal as they were handsome.
Snaking his neck around, he moved his head so it was barely inches away from the limp figure strapped onto his broad back. The figure was that of a young woman, who too was covered in scarlet blood, only the blood that covered her flowed freely from the various puncture wounds scattered over her thin frame.
A dismayed snort escaped the dragon when he realized that, far from clotting, the girl's wounds were as fresh as they had been when the knife had first sunk into her body, confirming the fear he had dared not entertain until it became painfully obvious, as it was now: the blades which had inflicted the young woman's wounds had been coated with a slow acting poison, one which prevented it's victims wounds from clotting. As a result she was loosing much blood too quickly; if the poison did not kill her, she would surely bleed to death first. The dragon noticed for the first time the corpselike pallor his Rider's face has taken on in the harsh afternoon light.
As though by the power of her dragon's penetrating gaze alone, the young woman began to stir in her sleep, gradually coming to. After several long moments, her blue eyes flickered open to meet the black gaze of her handsome dragon, who was much disheartened to find her eyes clouded over with pain. Lifting a thin, white hand, which was somehow much heavier than she could ever remembered it having been before, she ran a long finger down the silver stripe that divided the dragon's handsome ebony face in two.
I am dying, Vanilor, she said softly over their mental link, her weak voice tinged with an eerie sense of calm her dragon found most unsettling—it was as though she had already given up hope, as though her imminent demise was a certain and well known fact.
No! he rejoined sharply, trying valiantly to keep the panic and desperation he felt from reaching her over their connection. I will find someone to heal you, Ophelia. I will not—cannot let you die.
Seeming not to have heard him, she continued on in the same vein as before: I am not concerned for myself, Vanilor; it is you who I worry for. You always seem to get into the worst sort of trouble, hatchling.
Hark who's talking, said Vanilor, her words drawing a bitter laugh from him.
Shaking his reptilian head, as though to clear his thoughts, he said fiercely, Without you I do not exist, Ophelia. I will find a way to save you, even if it takes every ounce of strength I have left in me.
Taking a deep breath Vanilor attempted to calm the maelstrom of emotions he was reeling in. He knew he must be strong, he must keep his head or Ophelia, his beloved Rider, the only thing he had ever known, would be lost to him forever.
Turning abruptly back to Ophelia, he inquired gently, Are you tied down tightly enough? Speed is of the essence, and I do not wish for you to fall.
I can stay on, she assured him, her voice beginning to waver as her consciousness faded. Struggling against the darkness that was pressing down upon her like a weight, she gathered what little strength that remained at her disposal and forced herself to speak: Where…where is it that you plan on—on going?
The Burning Plains. You told me that you heard of another Dragon Rider, a pair who have sworn allegiance to men, elves and dwarves, and that they had recently took part in a battle—on the side of the Varden against the Empire. Someone told you he defeated a Shade. If he can slay a Shade, he can heal you, Vanilor said, the conviction in his voice absolute.
Starting abruptly, Ophelia said harshly, No! You cannot go to the Varden, Vanilor! If you go to them, they will bring me back to health just so they can keep us prisoner and force us to fight their war against the Empire for them! If you go to the Varden, they will make us their slaves!
If I do not take you to the Varden, you will have no life at all! You will die! What would you have me do, Ophelia? Vanilor demanded, his voice rising in anger, a hint of his desperation shining through for the first time. I will do anything it takes to keep you alive—anything! Even if it means exposing our existence to the rebel group! And I know that you would do the same for me! So do not waste your energy on arguments and anger; rest and save your strength. You will need it.
With those words, he blocked her from his mind and launched himself into the air, headed in the direction of the Surdan coast, where the Burning Plains, along with his last hope, lay.