The<span style="font-style: italic">still-young-I-swear</span>dragon screwed his eyes tightly shut, attempting to barricade himself off in the deep red sanctuary behind his eyelids. Hot water, fresh from the springs, lapped against his chest. The slinky length of his body suspended in the mineral pool, almost suspended in time, shoulders planted against a worn rock, one arm hooked back loosely behind his shoulder to keep him planted against the edge, although he'd long since forgotten he'd left it there. Steam, from where the heat met the arctic freeze of the mountains edge in a troubled marriage, uncoiled phantom tendrils loose from his dreadlocks like a obsessive compulsive lover. Every passing gale blew a chill into stray wet about the skin of his face reminding him passionately of the sensation of his own skin. This, it all said, this is what it is to be alive...<br/><br/>More than perfect scenery to meditate to. A zen zone in action. A climate of sheer, soulful acclimatization!<br/><br/>And yet...<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œPiiiiii pi-piii-pi-piiiii!â€</span><br/><br/>Screaming.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œIiiiiii-pi-pi-pi-piiiiiiiiii-piiiiiiii!â€</span><br/><br/>Screaming, weeping, shrieking ripped the air to senseless tatters in what felt like every direction. It was keening in pitch, shuddering and gasping in length, a noise whose volume whinnied and  meandered under the howling wind, but to a creature, now as finely tuned to nature as Mireu was, it fell at a constant  ear splitting pitch.<br/><br/>Animal noises.<br/><br/>Like a baby howling to it's mothers ears, the cry yanked at his cats cradle heartstrings until they ached for pressure...<br/><br/>A dry swallow shifted under the skin of his neck.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œPi-pi-piiiiiiiiii-pi!â€ </span><br/><br/>The pale threads of his brow almost kissed for frowning as he heaved every mental effort back into studying the ebb and flow of his own bodies working and rhythm. Serious business, you know, being alive. Loooot of spirituality involve--<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œPiiiii! Pipipipiiipiiiiiii!â€</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">'Nyacht.'</span>a word of ancient and beautiful dragon dialect leaped to mind. One that roughly translates to 'fuck'. Jaw jut, the dark skinned boy let the snowy glare of the world back in and glanced reluctantly over one shoulder, wincing at the suddenness of the light, searching fruitlessly for the source of the disturbance.<br/>Well â€¦ that was that! Here lies peace and comfort, dead in the water!<br/>Literally...<br/>He mournfully inspected the hot spring around him before hauling his dripping carcass out onto the snow, the sensation was an aching shock, like salt to a wound, though he silently supposed the only thing wounded was his ego.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œIiiiiiiiiiii-pi-pi-iiiiiiii!â€</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">'Yes, and you, whatever <span style="font-weight: bold">you</span> </span>are...[/i]' it most closely identified to a bird, or at least what he remembered of them, but after such a long and suddenly interrupted slumber it was hard to say. All the stock bank of memory in his head, the wobbly bit that coupled sense and information, felt dangerously corrupted...<br/>It would be at least eight rotations of the moon before his brain started to once again run at normal capacity.<br/>Once upon a time he would easily have been able to leave earthly sensations behind and meditated through hell and high water, a heard of horses wouldn't have snapped him out of it if they started jig dancing on his skull!<br/>Now... well... Mireu was still groggy and as much as he told himself that nature butchered cute and fluffy things at a going rate of fifty-snuffs-per-hour, he found himself frighteningly susceptible to pity...<br/><br/>Shaking furâ€”sorry<span style="font-style: italic">hair</span>and feathers free of water, Mireu started into a light jog back into [b]his[/i] forests, anxiously following his ears, running on strange and basic instinct now, leaving melting prints under bare-foot.<br/><br/>It took him a grand total of five minutes to locate the culprit.<br/><br/>Traps were set in the branches for as far as the gaze could stretch. To an outsider of magic, they were little more than large spiders webs, like all natural cracks in glass, sculpting out patterns in the shadowy under bush from one twig to the next, but to anyone with a classical mage's education they were nets and there was nothing physical in their making.<br/><br/>Dead center of one of these devices a bird had caught up in one of the lines of energy and, where it had struggled, tangled. Dew drops of unrefined, liquid magick and blood collected around it like beads on a string. One wing jutted at an unnatural angle. It stank of iron, overwhelmingly of iron and fear.<br/><br/>Local shamans required beaks talons and wings for spells and this tiny wag-tail was their harvest. Nothing personal.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œPiiii-piiiiiiiii-piiiii!â€</span>it started crying with new found enthusiasm, scared witless of the appearance of the new, looming creature that had surely come to hurt it more.<br/><br/>Mireu's lips pinched into a tight line and reluctantly he strode over to free the poor thing. There wasn't much hope, despite hushed murmurings of calm in the dragons native tongue no understanding was reached and as he fought to unwind it's frail limbs from the wire of energy, the critter panicked, nipped blindly at his digits and bent it's already broken wing further behind it's back.<br/><br/>Eventually it struggled itself into shock and Mireu managed to pull it's sorry body free, its tiny ribs heaving for air. Poor baba... He cradled it in cupped hands, thumb hovered lightly over it's soft chest testing that racing pulse, running over his next move in his mind, conscience grappling with a still-groggy knowledge of logic and cold nature.<br/><br/>It was dead the minute it hit those traps and he reckoned it knew that too.<br/><br/>The feathers were sodden with fast chilling blood, some belonging to the bird, some belonging to his fingers, pluffs clung to one another like tree sap on a elf childs crown.<br/>In that moment he hates humanity more than words would express. True, it was only their nature to hunt, same as any carnivore, but only they could create such inventive and cruel methods of killing!<br/>A well placed healing spell could have given it a fighting chance, but...<br/><br/><br/>â€œNews!â€<br/><br/>A familiar voice made him leap half a mile from his skin. Mireu turned on his heel just in time to see the figure of a middle-aged, balding man emerge breathlessly from the trees, trailing a stumpy mule on a rope behind him.<br/><br/>The man-shaped-dragon cocked a brow high enough it was in danger of entering orbit, â€œPigeon?â€ he blinked, tipping his head and straightening up, switching from creature of the wilderness to graceful socialite in a heartbeat, â€œYou're early. Six months and nine nights to be precise, but who's counting!â€<br/><br/>Pigeon the begger was aptly named on the grounds that no one ever took a blind bit of notice of the once rich, short tempered old boy, he was a minor pestilence in the nearby village at most. Lost his fortune gambling, no one cried, got what he deserved they said.<br/>Which made him the perfect companion for a dragon in hiding.<br/>When Mireu needed eyes and ears, Pigeon. When Mireu needed the subtle touch that he didn't naturally possess, Pigeon. When Mireu needed gossip, Pigeon. In fact, when Mireu was feeling bone idle lazy and needed<span style="font-style: italic">anything</span>, anything at all, he'd call on Pigeon and pay the man in gold jewelery later.<br/><br/>It fed into his bad gambling habit somewhere down the line, but that, Mireu theorized, was his own decision and nothing to suddenly grow a conscience over. One had to respect the decisions of a grown man. Amen.<br/><br/>â€œNews, master Mireu, I come with news,â€ Pigeon faltered, a very disturbed frown developing on his awkward features, â€œFor the love of decency, do put some clothes on!â€ he wrung the rope in his hands suddenly not knowing where to look and pondering if it was appropriate to cover the donkeys eyes too, â€œAnd just what<span style="font-style: italic">are</span>you doing with that bird!?â€<br/><br/>Mireu blinked and glanced owlishly back down. This revealed two things; the wag-tail had gone quiet in his hands, eyes glazing over like black beads, nut-shell coloured beak parted, breathing softly and secondly, that he wasn't at all completely naked. He was still wearing his rings!<br/><br/>â€œAre you going to eat it?!â€ Pigeon turned green at the thought, but his tone was nothing but daring curiosity. If Mireu didn't know better he was<span style="font-style: italic">looking</span>for a spectacle. Typical bloody human!<br/><br/>â€œNo! Not at all!â€ he snapped back, â€œbut you can if you wish!â€<br/><br/>â€œNossir...â€ Pigeon scowled, raised both hands in defeat and nearly lost grip of the mule as a result.<br/><br/>Mireu regarded him coolly for a minute, tension plain in his shoulders, â€œI thought not,â€ he started to pace and shifted his thumb to tenderly stroke it's head. Little thing had suffered enough, it would be cruel to let it carry on with the burden of this experience... in an instant he clenched his fist. There was a tiny peep and whispered<span style="font-style: italic">snap</span>. Pigeon hissed through his teeth and the little body went limp, spine severed. It was all very quick.<br/><br/>â€œHere,â€ Mireu casually tossed the floppy ball of feathers the old man's way, any old creatures understanding of death was instantaneous and passionless, after a certain age one met with death regularly, it came for family first, then friends, sometimes children, it attended funerals and visited unannounced until one had stared into it's eyes so often it was hard not to make a grim friendship with it,  â€œput it back into the webs, see them?â€<br/><br/>Pigeon flinched away from the bird and had to fish it disgustedly back up from the snow where it had landed with a sodden 'thwump'. â€œWhy?â€<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">'Waste not, dear friend, waste not!'</span>he thought,<span style="font-style: italic">'Best to let the shamans have him now, it's only right to allow a purpose to a life lost, sweet thing!'</span><br/><br/>â€œIs it yours to question my will, Pigeon?â€ was what came out and in none too pleasant a tone at that.<br/><br/>The disrespect for the dead had irritated him, the disrespect for the dragon was adding insult to injury.<br/><br/>â€œIf you say so, master...â€<br/><br/>â€œI'll allow you that one, but be quick about it and don't go making yourself comfortable, you'll upset the wildlife.â€ A long tongue, barbed like a cats, flit across Mireu's teeth as he started back towards the springs and his clothes, not bothering to wait on Pigeon, he'd have to catch up.<br/><br/>â€œAs flattered as I am, you haven't come all this way just to criticize me, surely?â€ he quizzed as he heard Pigeon struggling to keep up with his wide gait, not extending the effort to look back over his shoulder, Mireu had bigger fish to fry. Was there more evidence of the shamans? When had they moved into the territory? What was their purpose?<br/><br/>â€œThe Queen!â€ Pigeon barked breathlessly, struggling to maintain pace and keep the mule going, â€œHer majesty Herself, beautiful and powerful she is, has made bed at the town of Silva, just down the Covallis side of the mountain, no more than a few hours journey from here--â€<br/><br/>â€œYes! I<span style="font-style: italic">know</span>of Silva! I am aware of it's whereabouts, shocking as it may seem to you, Pigeon!â€ Mireu shook his head, grinning in disbelief and rand a hand impatiently through his white hair, â€œTell me again how any of that effects me?â€<br/><br/>â€œI believe she's searching for something... I don't know the full story, but I've come to believe that something may be someone. That some may be you...â€<br/><br/>The dragon stopped mid track, frowning, the cogs of his mind turning at full tilt. Warring lands, old magick awakening and a Queen goes to hunt down a stranger in the mountain... not the King, one wondered if it was even with his blessing or knowledge...<br/><br/>Normally he would have let it go, regardless of whether she knew of his dragon heritage or someone had simply sensed<span style="font-style: italic">old</span>magick on him, no one EVER came to visit Mireu for a cup of tea and a chat. They always made ridiculous requests of him and he had no interest in joining in with human affairs, over seeing was his limit.<br/><br/>Normally he'd have sent them packing or run them on a wild goose chase with no ends asides charred camp sites and written warnings, but the memory on the bird still hung algea-like on the surface of his pool of thought, thick and opaque, he could scarcely see past the anger and the images.<br/><br/>â€œDrop a hint,â€ he fixed Pigeon with a steady, calculating gaze, â€œSend her my way! Let her know of the hermit in the mountains, let her know he knows OF a dragon if asked!â€ a crooked grin lit up his features, â€œGood man. This is... well, it will pass time no doubt!â€ he laughed.