"To Be Chosen"

LEAVETAKING

The Conclusion of a D&D Character's Backstory

 

            The moon hung high as Wigbrand descended from his family den at the top of the dragon’s mount.  He climbed and hiked his way down to the base of the mountain road.  If there was any meat to be found, it would be at there. 

            It was a desolate scene.  Fifty feet from the road’s end – or beginning, for the few brave souls who had dared climb the mountain – sparse fir trees sat hodgepodge on grassless earth, growing fuller and more numerous the further from the base of the road they dwelt; as if the forest itself feared to get too close to the path that led to the dragons’ den.

            Wigbrand moved as stealthily as a seven-foot tall, three hundred pound dragonborn could; which is to say, not stealthily at all.  His leather jerkin scraped loudly against his scales, and each soft step he tried only elongated the sounds of gravel crunching underfoot. 

            The dragonborn came to one of the few healthier firs in the outer wood and settled behind it.  “Wigbrand…” he whispered out loud, “…you are certainly no rogue.”

            His sharp ears suddenly picked up the sounds of a horse’s hooves falling rhythmically, with the light squeaks of turning wheels following behind.  Reflexively, Wigbrand looked out from behind the tree.  “A traveler so soon,” he thought, “I thought I would have to wait until morning.  Perhaps this will be my lucky night.”

            As he waited for the faraway cart to come into view, Wigbrand’s mind drifted.  He retreated to the memory of his mother in their den, and what she had just told him.  “You are mine…” he remembered; selectively choosing to ignore both the lead-up to, and the resolution of, that particular conversation.  He smiled at the isolated thought, and as he did, a strange sensation came over him: warmth.  It was not an emotional reverberation, stemming from his confined joy, but an actual physical sensation that spread throughout his body, under his scales.

            He did not have time to dwell on this new feeling, for as it spread, the wagon he heard traveling through the sparse wood came into view.  It emerged from the fuller forest like a tired bear cub, trudging along a lonely road at a weighted pace.  It was a simple cart; open in the back and loaded with filled sacks.  A single horse pulled it, and steering from the box seat was a lone driver whose face was hooded and hid from view.

            “No sense in taking this prey,” Wigbrand thought.  “A tired horse and a human wouldn’t make for good sport.”

            He turned from the lonely cart, when something else caught his ear: the sounds of heavy breathing.  The heat suddenly flooded him again, running hotter than it had a moment ago.  Wigbrand sniffed the air, taking in a new scent that he hadn’t picked up before.  It was different than the scent of the cart: fouler.  It smelled like sweat and blood and filth.  He turned back to find the bearers of this newfound stench.

            A dozen men had appeared from out of the shadows, and they were closing in on the solitary wagon.  One of them, the biggest one, held up a hand to the driver signaling a halt.  The cart obliged and came to a restless stop.  Three of the twelve ran up behind the rickshaw and jumped into the open wagon.  They quickly began opening the sacks and taking what they found.

            The leader signaled again, and the grisliest human Wigbrand had ever seen emerged from the remaining group of brigands.  The ugly man bore eyes that were too close together.  He had a pig nose and only three teeth, with shoulders that rested at a perpetual shrug.  The dragonborn had seen the like of him reflected in his own kind…the result of inbreeding within the clans: an attempt to keep the bloodlines pure.

            The very-possibly-inbred man climbed the mounting step of the cart with some difficulty.  With more force than he needed, he pulled the lone driver from the box seat onto the barren earth.  The leader gave a cock of the head, and the almost-assuredly-inbred one grabbed the hood the driver wore, and fiercely pulled it back.  A collective gasp went up from the group.

            “Oh ho, look’a’this boys,” the brigand captain shouted in devious glee.

            The woman that now stood before the men looked back on them with composed eyes.  Her demeanor was small and unimposing, like a slender sapling.  Yet her long ears affirmed her true ancestry: she was an elf. 

            “What’s an elf lady doing here?” Wigbrand wondered aloud to himself.

            “Wha’s an elf lady doin here?” the crazy-undeniably-inbred one repeated in a high pitch; a clear sign of inbreeding, Wigbrand remembered.

            “Don’ matter, do it Lawrence?” the leader asked.  “She’s here now, and it’s been a mighty long time since we had us any…comp’ny.”

            “Missed me that comp’ny,” Lawrence replied.

            “Wha’d’ya say boys?” the leader rallied.  “Y’all in the mood for some…com’ny?”

            The men all cheered.  The absolutely-positively-inbred Lawrence, Wigbrand could see and smell, pissed his pants.

            “Alrigh Gents!” the leader called, “Signal’s given.  Le’s comp’ny.”

            Slowly, the lecherous brigands began closing in on their prey.  The elf maid did not move, nor did she look at all frightened.  She stood there, calm as before, placidly observing the heavily breathing beasts that inched closer and closer.

            Instinctively, Wigbrand stood out from behind his tree.  The brigands were all facing their quarry, and so none of them saw the giant creature that had just appeared behind them.  And if the elf maid saw him, she did not acknowledge it. 

But Wigbrand did not spare a thought to who did or did not see him.   He was hot: smoldering with an inborn desire he had never known before.  Wisps of steam escaped from under some of his looser scales, and his eyes narrowed with wrathful intensity.  Someone was in danger, and that meant he was compelled to do one thing: protect.

The dragonborn raised his head skyward, and without a second thought, he let out a mighty roar.  The earth shook with the echoes of his anger, and some of the less sure-footed brigands fell over in their clumsy pursuit of unwilling company.  The ones who had not fallen turned back to him now, fear filling their eyes.  Wigbrand had their attention, but he needed to do more to shatter their wanton daring.

Wigbrand looked them all dead in the eye, taking the time to go from man to man.  His eyes settled on the leader’s own fearful visage.  The heat surged through him.  He opened his mouth and roared again, only this time, a cone of fire erupted, ripping through the chill night air.  It extended fifteen feet before him, and would have caught the brigand leader in the face had the man not turned and fled before the dragonborn’s roar was heard.  In solidarity, the other men followed their captain, dropping whatever they had taken from the cart and leaving the Elf maid untouched.

Wigbrand closed his mouth, silencing his roar and snuffing out his combustive breath.  He looked on, after the men as they ran desperately into the dark protection of the fuller wood.  Once they had all disappeared, realization dawned on him.  He stood rooted; holding still even as his mind was awash with countless questions; what had he just done?  How could he have done it?  What did this mean for him…moving forward?

He did not see her move, though his eyes were open.  The Elf woman stood before him as suddenly as if she had appeared out of thin air.  Once before him, she commanded Wigbrand’s attention.  She bore the youthful countenance of the rest of her kind, but her eyes belied an ancient soul.

“Hail friend,” she said, her voice lilting airily as she spoke.  “You have my thanks.”

“You…yes…of course,” Wigbrand struggled to offer.  Her voice had broken the spell of her eyes, and his mind was now free to fall prey to his own uncertainty.

“Is something the matter?” she asked without really asking.

“No,” Wigbrand quickly offered.  “Actually…I’ve never done that before.  Breathe fire, I mean.  I didn’t know I could.”

“You are dragonborn,” the elf said.  “It seems a natural talent.”

“Maybe,” Wigbrand placated, still trying to piece it all together in his mind.  “But I’ve never done it.”

“I’m glad you did it tonight,” she said, resting a hand on his forearm.  “You saved me from the ‘company’ of those men, and I am very grateful.  I owe you a reward.  We Elves are obliged to repay our debts.”

“That’s alright,” Wigbrand said.  “Seeing you in trouble…stirred something in me.  I couldn’t stand by.” He shook his head, trying to loosen the grip all of his questions had over him.  He came here for meat…for his mother.  There was still work to be done.

Wigbrand looked off, in the direction the brigands had run.  He sniffed the air and he smiled.  He still had their scent.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got hunting to do.”  He let his arm fall, breaking their touch, and began walking in the direction of his prey.

“For your mother?”

Wigbrand stopped.  He turned back to the Elf who seemed to show herself to him, in full, for the first time.  She was not the frail, fragile creature he had stepped in to save before.  Now, she radiated with an invisible power that made the air surrounding the pair of them hum.  “How did you know?” the dragonborn finally asked.

“I know all about you, Wigbrand Middleborn,” she said.  “And I did not chance upon this road.  I came for you…to offer you a path.”

“What path?”

“A long one.  Hard.  Strewn with great peril.  But one that can teach you, and help you to grow into something…different.”

“Different from what?” Wigbrand asked, his voice sounding to him as though it were a hundred miles away. 

“From your brother, your sister…” the Elf instructed.  “…from your father.  Who knows?  At the end of it, you may find you have more to offer than mere hunting.”

“But my mother needs me,” Wigbrand half-heartedly protested.

“Does she?” the Elf asked incisively.  “Or do you need her?”

Wigbrand kept his eyes on the Elf’s, weighing her words.  “What must I do?” he felt compelled to ask.

“The first step is both the simplest and the hardest,” she told him.  “Leave here…now…and follow me.”

Her voice was like the sweetest melody he had ever heard; one that was fading and that he wanted desperately to chase into the dark so that it would sound in his ears for all time.  “I can’t leave,” he said, pushing aside the fancy and taking hold of the practical, “I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Elaria Feywing,” she proclaimed.  “And I offer you this chance only once.  After today, I shall never again walk the dragon’s mount in the waking world.” 

Elaria held out a hand to the dragonborn.  “Now…will you follow me?”

Wigbrand felt something familiar under his scales: the warmth from before, when he thought she was in danger.  Only, she wasn’t in danger now.

But there was danger in the air, that much Wigbrand knew for certain: the danger of going with her: the danger of staying behind: the danger of his mother’s neglect: the danger of his own disappointment in himself.  Danger surrounded him and threatened to swallow him whole.  He was lost in the middle of the sea with waves on all sides, threatening to crash in.  There was no way out…no way on…save one.

Elaria held out a hand to the dragonborn, and Wigbrand grabbed hold.