Chapter One: Picois
50 years after Scorching (AS). Future SandWing/SkyWing Border. Oryx.
Ah, Pyrrhus. Its natural beauty only rivaled by its rich history. An old dragon looked out of his cave, at the rocky, grassy savannah that stretched out into the distance.
An herbal scent filled Oryx's cave, his pitch-black eyes glowing in the firelight. The lone source of light and warmth in the pitch-black of Pyrrhic midnight painted his intricate scale patterns of jade and sandstone and obsidian and gold in a flickering glow. His long, elegant horns looked almost crown-like.
Ironic, since he had killed the last scavenger king with his own four talons half a century ago.
Oryx sometimes regretted what he had done. He knew it was the only way, somewhere deep down – the scavengers had become too powerful, and the dragons had to do something or face extinction – but whenever he remembered all those burning cities, whenever he thought about the amazing things that fallen race had done in their glory days, he wondered if it could have been different. Perhaps they could have coexisted? Maybe even worked together? All those things: their castles, their war machines, their weapons and armor, their metal, their farming… it was lost to time now. Civilization, life itself, was set back thousands of years by a few months of fighting, an effort that Oryx had played a major role in.
The dragons had appointed him as their leader for a while. You would think it felt good, to be the king of your race, on top of the world just for a moment. But that wasn't nearly as glamorous as the tales made it out to be, either. The riches and fame wouldn't come back until real governments started to form again, and that could take hundreds of years; time he didn't have anymore. His name would be whispered down through the generations for a while, but that was a hollow thing. One day, someone would say "What was his name again? Onager? Opal? Onus?" and then, he would be truly gone.
History books might have remembered Oryx as a hero, a leader, a founder of his race; but the last history books were burned like so many dry leaves in summer those 50 years ago.
Oryx took his herbal tea off the fire, holding the bowl in cupped hands – a clay bowl older than the Scorching... Some archaeologist someday would probably kill for this. – and took a sip. It was hot, but he didn't care. The night was cold, and he needed something to distract him from his existential thoughts.
Not like it actually would distract him, though. Now he considered the possibility that he would somehow save himself, to pass his wisdom down the generations, and see where this thing he started really went. He had imagined the enchantment in his head a million times – a long, long enchantment, with a lot of exceptions and specifiers, incredibly complex and incredibly dangerous… the last one he would ever make. He had debated it for years and years, whether he would really do this, and even as his final night drew near and the talons of death started to brush against his wings, he still hadn't decided. He suspected… no, knew that he would be dead by tomorrow, that this would be the last chance he would get.
Something clicked in his mind, and he looked up at the cave wall, then back down at the tea leaves at the bottom of his bowl. He had always hated spur-of-the-moment decisions, but his time to think on the possibilities was up… and the opportunity just seemed so good, so perfect.
Maybe Oryx didn't have to make the choice.