Outriders of the Fairy Wars

As they crested at the edge of the spire, Wing Under-Commander, Krundar Ralp mounted aboard the giant battle dragon Skltu was painfully aware of the Fairy Wars dragging into the second century in just the lower dark continent; the upper continent of Eropia and across through the eastern ravages were well past three centuries of torment, death and laying waste to all that surrounded that which was once of beauty was mirrored by the ache of the poorly healed chest crushing that resulted in his losing his first dragon and best friend when the Horalith Bomb had exploded over the beautiful city and countryside of Sarahar, instantly turning the entire plain to glassed sand as it stays today.

Krundar, and his soul mated dragon Klth, had been flying in from the west and their billeting in the Altas Mountains for some much needed rest and leisure. If they had been just a little more efficient that morning about duties, flown just a little bit faster, a little bit higher they would have been caught in the complete blast. As it was, only a half of the former Fairy-man had survived. Whether it was due to the brute bulk of the human genetics from his mother, or the longevity and health of his father’s genes as a fairy, nobody knows or cares; Krundar lived to fight on, and on, and on until with a dead heart, numb body and a dragon he hardly knew anything about but just rode, he was more of a machine of mercenary maniacal death from above than a soldier fighting for belief or country.

A piece of his soul did debate the sores that were unhealed, and would continue forever where there had once been beauty, arts, health and prosperity that had nothing to do with the world of the Fairies, nor the vanities of whose daughter was the most beautiful to be crowned for bragging rights only; until the first blood was drawn, then the first death, and the first vast area of beauty vaporized in the use of machines that combined fairy arts, dragon power, and the nature of the raw energy that controls the planet. The first which was the entire kingdom of GoiBy which was not the center of hell itself, where the glass fused from raw sands took the imprint of a vision of lush ferns and flowers that were mirrored until the tenuous bond be broken into granules.

The Horalith Bomb was so destructive that tendrils of death sometimes reached out for the distance that a strong dragon could fly in two days. But the massive destruction of structure, flora and fauna was as utter as the death of a Score beetle under the heel of a commander’s boot, on the stone floor in the morning. To fly high over the edge and see the lush green of forest, jungle, or only in few cases farms that were just coming back after a hundred years or more; then turn and look for as far as your dragon could fly in a few days, nothing but searing heat and sand that is strangely made from an amalgam of earth, vegetable, flesh and bone that in a moment became all in one, never to be fertile, never to be productive, always to be a monument to vanity, greed, power and corruption. These are the great wastelands that pock the face of the dying planet. These are the sores that bore through the souls of men, fairies, pixies, trolls, dragons, birds, and the large animals caught up in the wars without end.

The last claw released the stone, as they two tipped as one into the valley that would become a cauldron of death, as the greying commander, like three hundred other Out Riders, drew their Fairy-Lightening sticks, shouldered pulse rifles, and readied small bombs to bring death. Today, there would be no change in the direction of a world that was spun out of control by those long dead, and now kicked to wobble harder by those that will be dead by dawn of the next day, with still no hope, care, or worry about a “new” day. Only today and death counted. Long ago, Krundar had forgotten who exactly it was that he fought for, as probably those that he would kill or be killed by today.


About Baer Charlton, FrameWrite

As a multi-media artist, focused on wood and the written word, almost anything can be inspiration. How a dragon acts and thinks can come from a little "chest time with dad" as my Abyssinian cat sits purring on my chest at bed time. The flow of a detail on a picture frame may come from a broken branch in my back yard or the way a twist or turn feels on a mountain road. Stories, and characters; well, if you can't gather them from that which is going on around you . . . you must be dead. (Which, I must admit, the obituaries have become a fascinating place to go find names.)
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