play again?
Roland awakens.
His crypt is quiet. There are no intruders, no occupants but for Roland and Durendal.
He rises, disquiet and uneasy, preparing for a journey, bringing all he owns with him,
because he may not be back.
Roland may not be back? This tomb was Promised to him, eternally, by the one who
could promise and change the world. It was Promised, and now it is gone, like dust
in the ... like Dust against Blood. But still, it was Promised Roland would always
have a home here in the south. And now home is stolen.
Who would dare steal Tloluvin’s home?
Outside the tomb, Roland feels somewhat refreshed. It is a crisp winter day in the
south. There is no weather but for the bright sun and cold wind. The chilled air
fills Roland’s lungs, once, twice, and then he begins to jog northwards, to the sea.
His fists clench and he swings his arms in an easy four-count rhythm. The exercise
and tour jacket keep Roland warm. He can keep the pace for hours, for hundreds
of miles.
Red dragons come into view eventually, collecting on the shore. There are none in the
air but for the ones who are landing. There must be over a hundred. Six breaths apiece;
that’s a lot of dodging, even for the Grand Master of Flowers. Perhaps Durendal grants
Fire Immunity in this incarnation. Roland closes with them. Their group is the only
feature on the plain of snow and ice. Something woke Roland’s sleep;
something is gathering red dragons.
The dragons loom very large, as if Roland had slept for a long time and the growth
of no dragon had been threatened the entire sleep. Roland slows, but continues at
a fast walk, fearlessly, until he is within yards, feet. Roland avoids their eyes,
but keeps his attention on their faces. None look away from him. They hold their
breaths.
Dragons say nothing. Roland says nothing. They are afraid, but too proud. They will
die fighting before they withdraw. None of the dragons awoke Roland. They were afraid
before he arrived; their fear was gathering them on the shore. Some of them look over
the sea even with Roland within reach.
Take me north, Roland commands.
An uneasy silence fills the winter day. No one breathes. Roland momentarily looks over
the waves of flux, wild and formless, knowing he cannot swim and stay what he is.
Maybe the Pipe-Full-of-Fun or Mr. Fixit Toolkit, whichever he owns
in this incarnation, maybe this item can be used to make some flux into a boat with
oars What a boat it would be.
Motion draws Roland’s attention. A larger dragon is closing, moving forward from the
middle of the group. What were they doing? A convention? Why do dragons meet on the
edge of the sea? What would gather them in fear? The creature before you has seen
battle, has been scarred and torn by forces great as he. This large ancient ubound
red dragon looms over Roland, who looks into his face, but does not meet his eye.
He stares down until Roland smells sulphur in the chilled air. Roland stands
motionless for a minute, ten, and hour. The other dragons withdraw.
You are Roland. I know you. I will take you.
He lowers his wing. “Sobriost,” he says. True Speech. Mount.
The other dragons watch the north uneasily as Roland alights on the winged stair,
coming to a rest behind the dragonking’s head.
What could clamp like a vise and hold terror so barely constrained in so many unbound
dragons. These dragons have no master. What seed was sown here and was it planted by
the Homestealer?
Once he is hours aloft, with four stiff hands holding the red scales against winds no
mere monk could master, Roland’s ears are assaulted by thunder in the form of a
dragon’s laugh. Welcome to the end of the world.
Laughter bubbles from Roland, and he draws Durendal to swing her wildly above his head,
feeling suddenly more alive than ever before.
95.03.02
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