I might not be able to post for the coming week as the holiday will change my usual schedule. But regardless, I hope everyone has a wonderful celebration, surrounded by love and blessings.

Chapter 31

As the colds from the North had made their way down to the lower lands, the changes in temperature and lessening of the days light signaling the coming of the winter months. Such changes to an environment were new, and vaguely intriguing, as far as she regarded. For what felt like an eon, there had been a keen degree of ennui that lingered and permeated the consciousness of her kin that had often led to extended periods of listless torpors and nearly-comatose states of existence that their once-mighty race had progressively fallen into. The loneliness and isolation in the barren mountains provided nothing for stimulation, outside of the occasional disputes of territory or breeding battles.

Here, though, was quite different. In place of howling winds and baking sun heat, there were rolling hills filled with trees and wild game. There were rivers and streams, and birds that chirruped at the first light of morning. It was a stark contrast to the lack of vegetation and sparsely vegetated hills that produced endless clouds of dust and desolation at the slightest hint of wind.

It was the persistent aroma of flesh which hovered in the air, like low clouds, that tainted the natural landscape with its vulgar bitterness. The flavor left the palate with a foul bile which coated the tongue when you were forced to open your mouth. It was an unrefined and rank encounter upon the senses, one that caused her stomach to curdle.

With the onset of the chilling weather, the stink of men and their filth became clearer to the senses, sharper even and more able to be discerned into categorical terms. Her sensitive nose had always been able to sort through the nuances and layers of smells; it was something of a source of pride to her. And though the weather brought with it snow, and sleet, and the occasional rain, it brought with it the lessening of stenches for which she did not care.

Slowly, she blinked as she breathed deep the cold in the air and reviewed her thoughts patiently, one by one as she grimaced slightly at the putrescent stenches she was subjugated to inhale. When this was all over, and she reigned victorious over the smote forms of her opponents, she would collect her younglings beneath her wings and secret them far away from the filth of these pretenders and magicians.

A sound of deep satisfaction and contentment rumbled within the caverns of her chest. Her anticipation grew as she felt warmed inside as she stoked her fires high. Her teeth clacked together as the vibration had risen through her neck and to her vocal chords, and her chuckling broke free.

She closed her eyes lazily and purposefully calmed the anticipation that had risen once more. She had practiced this so many times that it was easier now. The best laid plans were the most carefully formed, and she had been lying in wait for an age to see this come to pass.

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Loren Gresham sighed deeply as he busily righted all the documents atop his desk. The ones he needed most had served their purpose in aiding him in his calculations, but he had taken less care than he normally would in maintaining their organization.

He moved them to the side once more and picked up a personal letter, one that he had read over several times but yet been struck in disbelief over. The brow of the Gresham Patriarch furrowed as he reviewed it one more time, and shook his head. Addressing the topic would have to wait for the 'morrow to resolve; the night had long since fallen, and the fellows dwelling under the roof of the castle had long since lain for their slumbers. It would not do to summon one of the Masters to his study to discuss such a subject.

Loren sighed and placed the letter from the legendary Thamoro Mora down atop the other letters and documents. Ursa hates when I let these become so disarrayed, he mused and smiled slightly.

The letter, written in the ancient mage's own hand, requested the return of Master Mora to her family's home, at what was called "a most dire and urgent matter indeed". The Lord glowered; this was not a juncture at which he could afford to situate the responsibility of training solely on Sirius Black. A Master, or not, there were still four pupils to contend with and only a matter of a few short moons remaining to them.

He slid the paper away from him across the desk, revealing a second letter. It was older, and marked with the distinctive stamp of the great boar, two swords and a shield: The sigil of House McKinnon.

Isidore and Loren both had children around the same number of years, and though initially in gest, Isidore had alluded that his eldest daughter, Merrigan, might prove a pleasant match for Loren's Tyt'o. With some friendly exchanges and an inspiration to invite the House to celebrate upon the beginning of the harvesting holidays, the two had hoped nature would take its course without any aid.

This was, of course, before Loren had usurped the possibility of Isidore's offspring from the chance to compete for the pilgrimage. His treachery revealed, Isidore had made no overtures to follow up with the idea. More was the pity was that Isidore had described his eldest in such a manner that Loren had felt it a good match, indeed. One that would allow for affection to grow there, if given time.

Matches were made often with affection, but more often to secure alliances with Houses. Though House McKinnon was not a House build solely on wealth alone, they did possess a daughter nearer to the age of marriageability than many others did. While many of the Houses unaffiliated with their own political miens, it did still hold an appeal to at least attempt to match the two together.

The Lord fingered the letter lightly; it had been crumpled at one point, and lain flat once again letter. He shook his head at the remembrance of the lost political alliances that had dissolved when he had been entreated by Lucius Malfoy to parlay with him all those long months ago.

Leaning back into the soft of the chair that he used in his personal study, Loren pensively brought his fist to rest his face upon as his eyes roamed over the charts and the scrolls of ancient lore that lay beyond these other missives. The lamps and candles around him flickered, keeping the darkness and dim at bay as best they could, and the Lord of the Great House sighed as he pushed these other worries from his mind and focused on more important matters. He considered the words of his Dragon companion, and the exchange they had shared previously. The numbers he had drawn up made sense; the hatching would be upon them soon. Though Goldoduur's restlessness left him ill at ease, as did the creature's frequent surveying of the lands and mountains, Loren felt more in control now that he had studied the multitudes of charts containing studies of Dragon gestation, left by Dragon riders of generations past.

As Yule concluded and Imbolc approached, they would endeavor to wait for the final calling. Lessons in any earnest study would have to be resolved as the rebirth of the sun approached and the cycle of the year moved around once more. As they hailed the coming of another cycle, so too would they have to ensure that their four students were prepared to pilgrim the journey into the mountains, alone save for their magic and enough supplies to carry on foot. Traveling through the dark, in the night, and all alone.

Loren, though he would not admit this aloud, perhaps to anyone, realized then that he was thankful that there would be the two additional strong young men to accompany his own children. If the long months that they had spent here had shown him anything, it was that despite their affiliations to Houses unaligned with his own, the two young men had proved hardworking, strong in magic, and possessed a willingness to work hard. He would not feel shame or apprehension that the two of them would come to Goldoduur and Imri to be judged as compeer and caretaker to their newborn Dragons.

The memory of his conflicted Dragon returned to him, and he was brought from his reveries to consider again the words that were spoken to him by the ancient and wise Dragon. The disturbance he felt was clear, but the reasons behind it were not. What, truly, did a beast as mighty and powerful as a Dragon have to fear? He closed his eyes a moment and recalled the last time he had seen the golden scales before him, glimmering though there was no daylight. The eyes wild, though he fought his instinctual compulsions.

The Dragons body weaved slightly as its weight and mass shifted underneath it, his head painfully close to Loren's body, and the pose it was held in was reminiscent of acerbity. The man felt as never before in his discomfort around this Dragon, for Goldoduur had ever been but a benevolent, wise, and ingenious presence through his life. And when Loren's father, Brasil, made his final rest, the mantle and Lordship of the House had passed on to Loren, so thus did the position as Goldoduur's rider.

Through Goldoduur's venerable life had nurtured to maturity three Gresham generations, with Loren's children to mark the fourth. Loren, as the standing Lord-current had been born, almost literally, surrounded in the presence of Dragons, and here, for the first time in the whole of his days did he feel the building unease in the presence of his families. The beings eyes, a brighter gold bordering on yellow, burned brightly in their ferocity as the gargantuan form hunkered down to peer at the much-smaller form.

In the shadow of the Dragon, with its now-wild leanings, Loren felt without safety in its presence. Naked, and vulnerable to the whims and impulse of the unbelievably powerful beast. Should it elect to do so, he could be captured within the dagger filled orifice that had neared a dangerous closeness to him.

The glowing and rapid movement of the eyes, with their pupils reduced to a think black slit, betrayed the savage and disorderly nature which had consumed the creature for nearly a year. Its newfound frenzy spurned onward to the point of mania by the perceived threat to its lands, and to its mates clutch.

I smell it in the air. Creeping. Tahrovin. Liiv. Krasaar. The Dragons head moved back and forth in a movement that was more serpentine than it was a Dragon gesture, and the lids lowered momentarily as Goldoduur breathed deeply, flicking his great tongue outward before he continued. Imri smells only the nest. The dovah. His head turned and leered into Loren, examining him from only a few feet away now, and Loren as he edged backward, the Dragon continued to close the distance between them.

What say you, Kro-Fahdon? Smell you this ail poisoning my land? He looked about his shoulders as though searching for something near him. The gesture harkened of something resembling paranoia, but the Dragon leaned back in again, so close to Loren that his hot breath had cause the man to begin to sweat. The tang of Goldoduur's magic swept off him, coating Loren's throat as he even breathed close to the thing. Loren shook his head.

"We have seen nothing amiss, old friend." The Dragon's attention snapped back to Loren at the moniker, and this time the eye was so close to the Lord that his hand could have stroked one of the impervious scaled above the glowing golden eye. The black slit looked him up and down, before darting around the area again, still searching, still unnerved and pacing in its wildness.

Cannot see. The large male grumbled distractedly, moving its head back again, looking higher into the sky now, straight up into the air, and taking several heavy breaths inward through his armored nostrils. The whuffing sound was reminiscent of a stallion scenting the air when it caught wind of a female in estrus; its use was to take in as much of the redolence as possible. A creature such as a Dragon was possessed of a much more refined ability to scent than any mage could ever hope. Only smell. He said simply. Unfamiliar magic.

Loren simply had nothing to offer his Dragon, and felt a wave of discomfort as he realized how utterly superfluous he was to his Houses shepherd. But he made his attempts regardless. "What kind of magic is it that you smell, champion?" The Dragon took one final long pull of air and weaved his head back down to focus back on the man upon the balcony, which the Dragon leaned precariously across.

Old. Dark. Not men. Not Elder. Do not know. The gold Dragon shook his head lightly, screwing his eyes shut momentarily as though he were trying to clear something from his mind. When the lids opened again it seemed, if only for a brief moment, that the pupil had widened and the eye was combated with less wildness, that it drew tight again and that crazed look reappeared once more.

The Gresham Lord was uncertain as to what he could say to allay the concerns of this great and fearsome entity, but as he contemplated a thought occurred to him. "Great Mammoth, the Master Necromancer resides here in the castle, she sees to the training of the children. Perhaps I can bend her ear to assist you?" He suggested. The Dragons head cocked over to the side as soon as Loren had mentioned the children and he looked at Loren head-on.

Ahn Kiir. The children. He breathed slowly, his voice lightening from the constant growling, and his head lowered still until it was nearly laid upon the stone. He blinked slowly and sighed. Tyt'o. He spoke gently. Hermione. It seemed that despite the savage demeanor that burdened all male Dragons once their mate clutched and they became an expectant Sire, and guard of to the new mother, the gruffness grew thinner for just that moment. His complex and higher thinking returning to him if only temporarily. Loren smiled and repeated their names as an echo.

"They miss you." He said. "They long for you. Hermione feels out for you, still every day. She comes to your cathedral sometimes at night, though she thinks herself concealed." The Dragons mouth curved away from the sharp teeth in a gentle show of a smile, and the rich rolling noise of a chuckle sounded.

Little warrior girl. The Dragon breathed out, and Loren sighed as he nodded. The Dragons eyes remained closed as he breathed carefully, and calmly. The tension that had wracked Loren during this most unorthodox visit had disintegrated somewhat, and in the seeming return of his guardians previously absent acuity, Loren hesitantly cupped a scale beneath his hand.

Though this one scale was able to fit beneath Loren's hand, it would have taken a total of eight of Loren's hand to comprise the dimensions of Goldoduur's open eye. His gesture of comfort was not lost to the mammoth being, however, and he gave a little nod.

I will come again. He said stoically, and shook his head once more trying to clear his thoughts. The great beast raised his head once more into the dark of the night, high overhead of where Loren stood on the mezzanine, and he looked down to his mage-friend once more. The wild and glowing appearance of the Dragons eyes had slowly crept back again and he cocked his head to the side as he broadened the wings upward and tested the air by pumping them once, and twice.

With massive force the Dragon slammed them down, the membranes catching the air and the downward force impelling Loren down to his knees beneath the weight and velocity. One, two, three pumps and the Dragon had lifted from the rooftop; remaining cracked and decimated tiles slipping down the roof to the shadowed ground below, emitting soft clanks and shattering sounds when they found purchase on the ground below.

Still watching as the mass of the Dragon reached the necessary altitude to take advantage of thermals within the mountain air and climb higher still. Loren watched, no less in awe at this moment than the first day he could remember seeing the mammoth Dragon take to the sky in a show of mass and control over the atmosphere.

The sight that had slowly faded away from view was one that gave Loren great longing. It had pained him to be without the presence of Dragons for such a long time. For the entirety of his life, there had been a Dragon here in Morvan Rove; Goldoduur had waited by, patiently, as Loren's mother had labored for him, long into a day and night until he had arrived into the world with his diminutive wailing.

The pair had trumpeted and heralded at his arrival into the world, and sang a great song in their joy. It was the song of the great heirs, the same melodies that every Dragon sung at the arrival of a new child. The same song even that Goldoduur had sung on the day that Tyt'o and Hermione had arrived as well.

Imri, the gifted, as she was known, had paced nervously within the valley when she had smelled Ursa's panic as her blood spilling away over the covers in the birthing bed. Unable to do anything more than wait for news, she had clucked nervously as the Lady's life ebbed slowly away into nearly nothing.

The heirs of the House, and the masters of the lands of Gresham were connected just as assuredly as the Dragons themselves were bound to the family.

So soon this greatest of events would come upon them, he realized. So soon would his children have their birthrights realized, and their destinies written in the great histories of their House. His heart swelled with pride as he imagined his children, their arms and hands wrapped lovingly around the slim necks of growing Dragon chicks. The scales still soft like snake skin, and their heads no larger than a horse. It had been an age since a young Dragon had lived here in this valley. Too long, in fact.

The Lord lifted his gaze and cast his attentions across the room; the light dancing around within it, illuminating the fine wood, and the shelves filled with rows and rows of books of varied subjects. It was well past the hour of sleep, and in the floors above his wife would have long since joined the realm of dreams. He mused briefly as he recited his blessings in the forgiveness his wife had bestowed upon him.

Extinguishing the lights in the room, he walked softly and quietly through the silent and darkened halls of the Home he had spent his life living in. Having approached the door to his chambers, he entered to find there was still one lone candle, burning still in the dark at the side of the bed.

To his surprise, rather than a smooth expanse of mattress and quilt, a form lay there beneath the rumpled comforter, having gathered the covers around to tuck in any extra edges that might allow the cold an in. Loren smiled as he noted the long and wavy hair of his wife that protruded from an opening at the head of the heap. Eagerly, he stripped himself of his outer layers and lit a fire at the hearth before he gingerly peeled back the comforter and joined her beneath in the warmth.

He closed in the space behind her as he brought his body flush to hers, deeply thankful that she had decided to join him in their marital rooms rather than continue to sleep alone in the old nursery.

As he stilled against her, he buried his nose in the sweetness of her hair and silently praised the Gods his thanks for this forgiveness he had won from her. That they had seen fit to send him such a creature as loving as his wife, he could never repay them for, but he had vowed often that he would bring them honor in revering her once again.

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Dragon speak, y'all! Here's what that all means:

Tahrovin = danger

Liiv = Decay

Krasaar = sickness

Dovah = Wyrm/baby dragon

Kro-Fahdon – mage friend

Ahn Kiir = The Children or My Children. (being as old as he is, Goldoduur has seen four Gresham generations! He was there (in a sense) for Tyt'o and Hermione to be born, and alongside Ursa and Loren, was one of the first to make physical contact with the children as babies).

Ah, my lovelies! Thank you so much for your readership! I wish you, and yours joy and peace over these days of celebration! Take care of yourselves, and those you love, and be merry!

I do hope to have a new chapter up after the New Year. Thank you for your patience, your reviews/favs/follows! I wouldn't be NEARLY as motivated without you all here to travel this story with me.