Sweet Drake

Part 1 of Vegapath's Heroes

The old oaken door swung open on screeching hinges at The Crook and The Crone as a young man pushed his way inside. Limned by the dying light of the day, the man was not imposing. Not tall, nor heavily muscled. His brown hair was short, and his clothes were not expensively cut. He wore no hat, and the only jewelry upon his person was a distinctive silver pendant in the shape of a harp with golden strings. He carried nothing in his hands, and his back was empty of instrument, cape, or cloak.

Nevertheless, all eyes within the seedy tavern turned to regard him upon his entry. Lustful and hungry they yearned for his presence like a drowning man for dry land.

The man remained in the doorway for a heartbeat longer than necessary before letting the thick wooden door swing closed behind him with an ominous squeal. He strode into the overcrowded tavern, weaving his way through the silent and still parishioners of this place. As he did so, he met the gazes of several people. The benevolence of the smile upon the clean shaven young face leaving those it was turned upon feeling welcomed and excited.

The man approached the back corner of the common room where a tall stool had been set, along with a pewter mug of wine and a bowl of the night’s dinner on a small table. The man took his seat, and as he did so the rest of the room did as well. Leaving the man perched well above those who had found seats for the evening. For several more minutes the tavern remained silent as the man took up his bowl and ate. He then lifted his mug, and slowly drank until both were empty. The soft sound of metal on wood carrying through the low ceilinged room.

“I don’t believe I’ve told you any tales of the Sweet Drake?”

These words, spoken strongly with a costal accent, were answered by the gravelly voiced owner. A middle aged hard knuckled human, his overweight frame nestled in his customary place behind the old bar. “Aye, Salm, that ye’ haven’t.”

Smiling widely, Salm began.

“Many of you have heard my tales of Fort Vegapath, the Fortress of Many Paths. Of the wonders found therein, and of the brave heroes who carve out destiny. Princess Ayula Waveborn, last of her line. Aceso Mendinghands who, even now, dwells within this city providing aid and comfort to those who seek it. Holyhale and the Descendant Shell of Lathander. These great names and more who fight to reclaim the Moonshaes from the scourge of Elriza Blackheart. Elriza the Defiler. Elriza of the Blood River.”

The mention of Elriza caused the first stirring of the crowd as jeers and curses rose up from several people. These were quickly silenced by still more as their attention was drawn back to the young speaker.

“However, even these great people stand within the benevolent shadow of the one who leads them. Her name is Telissmol. Known by her soldiers as Captain or Commander. Named Tel by her friends and allies. Referred to in screams of terror by her enemies. Called the Sweet Drake by those with knowledge of such things.”

Pausing for a moment to lift his empty mug towards the owner. The large bartender weaved his way through the crowd with another full mug as Salm continued in a powerful voice.

“Clad in silver armor, forged by a Great Silver Wyrm from its very own scales. She carries a shining blade crafted by the ancient kings of Delzoun. Telissmol commands the forces of heaven to strike low, all who dare face her wrath. And mighty that wrath is to behold. I’ve witnessed as the undead burst from within at her call. Demons of shadow pulled forth into holy light to squirm and writhe under her unforgiving stare. The spells of great and evil wizards part and collapse into nothing at a swing from her glowing sword.”

Pausing for a moment to sip his wine, the sound of his voice seemed to linger in the air for longer than the crowded space should have allowed.

“I was once witness to a great battle within Fort Vegapath. The enemy, skulking and slithering through shadow and darkness, taking a thief’s advantage, stole into the Fort when many of our heroes were further south contending with the Defiler’s minions. Few remained within the Fort when demons in overwhelming numbers crawled out of the Abyss itself to assault the mighty walls of Vegapath. Cries of the damned filled the air from the tears in our world, and the war cries of our brave heroes of Vegapath rose to meet them. The battle was hard fought and bravely so. The walls were overrun. Its mighty gate, torn and bent and pulled asunder. Ceaseless was the sound of the ballista firing heavy lance after heavy lance into the unending throng. Each shot sending a vile denizen of the Abyss back to its hated home.”

The tears in Salm’s eyes upon recalling the battle seemed to sparkle with an inner light as he took several shaking breaths. His hand shook as he lifted the mug to his lips once more before softly continuing.

“A high price was paid, that night, for the freedom we now hold onto. Brave soldiers gave their precious lives to push back the putrid tide. Their dreams of seeing a better world cut short by rending claws and tearing fangs. Even as I watched them die, I saw none lose faith. Not one died in regret, but rather with smiles on their faces as they knew, even amidst the chaos, that they would not be beaten. Not with her there.”

His voice lifting up once more as though in reverence to what he witnessed in his mind’s eye, Salm cried out with joy.

“There she stood, a blazing light within the darkness. A wall unto herself that the enemy could not tear down. A sword of vengeance the enemy could not avoid. At the center of a maelstrom of demonic flesh, she remained unbowed. Untarnished. Defiant in the face of annihilation. And, in the end, she proved her strength against Elriza’s horde. Destroyed and driven off, the surviving taint slithered back to their holes. The tears in our world healed as they fled back to their dark home. The enemy’s corpses, piled to the top of the Fort’s massive walls, melted into pools of putrid filth before their bones were returned to the Abyss.”

The crowd sat, silently, drinks and food forgotten as the young man’s voice fell to a whisper. Lowering his head to his hands the somber tone of Salm’s voice seemed to carry even to the farthest corner of the room.

“As I said, the cost was high that night. Soldiers lay dead and dying among the disintegrating demonic corpses. Grievous wounds, shredded bodies, missing limbs. Pools of blood mingling together. We’d won, but at what cost? How could we go on after such an attack? Yes, there were still soldiers. Those in the field that were not there for the battle. But, the Fort had been breached, and we did not know if or when the enemy would do so again. And our dead… even if a hundred demons died for each hero we lost the enemy would gladly pay that cost to lay low these brave soldiers. Our heroes' morale was devastated, and no war has ever been won on the back of lost morale.”

Allowing silence to hang in the air, several stifled tear filled cries the only sounds. Suddenly, head lifting once more, Salm leapt from his seat, the stool crashing to the floor. Lifting his mug of wine, he drained it in a single pull slamming the empty vessel back onto the table with a loud crack. Empty hands raised to the sky, he tilted his head back and shouted in a voice filled with triumph.

“Amidst the cries of the dying men and women of Fort Vegapath, there she strode. Tel, captain of the famed Fort, commander of these brave soldiers. Power surged forth from her like a divine river. From a pouch at her hip she drew forth tiny candies, wrapped in golden foil. Every soldier she fed was healed of injury. Severed limbs regrew under the guidance of her hands. Maimed and burnt flesh was restored to new luster. How was she doing this? I had never seen a miracle performed in such a manner. She walked among them, feeding them, and they were renewed. The air around each soldier no longer smelled of the dying and the demon horde. Instead, the smell of sweet honey and lavender filled the air. When she finished healing the injured, we all watched as she approached the dead. Once again, her hand fell to that same pouch. From within she drew out another candy. This one sparkling like sunlight off ocean waves. Like lamplight through cut diamonds. Into the mouth of the dead she reverently placed the small, sweet, gem. The light flowed from it like honey, and soon after the dead began to glow with a similar light. Unfelt winds lifted the dead from the ground and they hung in perfect suspension before the captain. A beam of purest golden light split the night sky to bathe Tel and the dead. So bright we were forced to cover our eyes for fear of blinding. Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the light was gone, and there kneeling before their commander, the dead had been brought back to this world.”

Collapsing to sit upon the floor, the energy drained from Salm. He was breathing heavily, as though he had performed a day’s hard labor. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and it was some time before he would speak again. During that silence, a small voice called out from within the crowd.

“Is she beautiful?”

Another would add. “I bet she’s tall. All warriors in the tales are tall.”

From further back, a halfling’s voice would chime in, “Are you sure about that?” to the laughter of those around her.

Like an open floodgate, the talking turned to shouting as everyone sought to add to the description.

“Obviously she’s an elf of great power and beauty.” “Bother that, a Dwarf I say. One what’s seen ‘er fair share o’ battle.” “Didn’t you hear Salm, she’s an angel for sure. Sent by the Earth Mother herself to save us.” “She’s probably not even real. I mean, she’d have to be a dragon to be as powerful as all that.”

“No.”

That simple singular word, faintly spoken from Salm’s lips, seemed to radiate out from him. Like a doused candle, all other conversation stopped and the gathered throng refocused on the young man. Slowly, in the silence he’d created, the man would climb to his feet, lift the stool back into position, and sit heavily atop it once more.

“Though you sir may be surprised by having the closest guess. The appearance of Telissmol is not that of a powerful human, or elven queen. She is not even one of the Ffolk.”

A statement which was met with incredulous murmurs from the gathered Ffolk.

“She came from across the sea. A scion of the Sword Coast, and member of the Lord’s Alliance. As many in Fort Vegapath are. Her noble bearing, brave heart, and absolute aura of leadership bely the humble frame of her race. You see, my friends, Telissmol is a kobold. One you would no doubt have seen as lowly. You may have even thought to drive her from these lands, or kill her on sight for being such. Though your lives would be forever changed for the worse if that were your intent. This noble woman, commander of the Fort, slayer of demon hordes, with the power to call back the dead, is smaller than the stool I sit upon. Her hair isn’t the color of fresh spun golden thread. She, in fact, has no hair, but tiny delicate scales. She does not turn up a proud nose to those around her, but rather lifts it up in order to meet the gaze of those who tower over her in stature. Many there are, however, that have learned through life's hardest lesson that size simply does not matter.”

Seeming to conclude, the young man would slide carefully from his perch upon the high stool. He had nothing to gather, as he had brought nothing with him but a tale, freely shared. Instead, he paused to look out upon those gathered there to hear him speak. Wherever his eyes lingered a feeling of rejuvenation would come upon the person like spring’s first warm rays of sun.

“The stories of Telissmol and those she leads may seem fanciful to those of us who lead a normal, protected, life. You all have seen for yourselves, though, in these dark days that the lives we lead can be fleeting and fragile things. The safety of these tavern walls, of the fellowship created by those around you, can be taken away in a blink. But it only takes a brave few, willing to stand against the encroaching enemy to ensure that these walls, and those friends around you remain standing, remain strong.”

One last time, Salm would take his empty mug and lift it high to those gathered. Many of those with drinks still remaining joined him in the customary salute and bellowed out in unison.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffered for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. We offer this humble thank you in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

As one, the crowd would tilt back their heads and drain the remnants of their glasses, cups, and mugs and slam them down hard three times in series upon whatever surface they could find.

Salm would stride from his corner, weaving through the rousing crowd. A man’s hand would clap his shoulder, or a woman would squeeze his hand as he would pass. None would attempt to stop or slow his progress as he would make his way to the door. The screech of the hinges as Salm would pull the door open would be drowned out by the excited chatter rising from within The Crook and The Crone.

The young man would not look back as he would quickly step through and into the evening’s cool night air. The faint smell of fish and salt would waft from the docks as the nondescript man would make his way on to his next destination. He had many more stories to tell.