TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 47 (RAW)

Chapter 47 - The Calamity from the Skies

With the birth of the Bone-Dragon, the Dragons were horrified and unwilling to play any further part in the campaign. Having lost one of their number, they felt the first pangs of newfound mortality. The great lizards left the short-lived races to their fate and flew back across the ocean to their high mountain homes. With their departure, the war returned to a grinding stalemate.

As casualties mounted on both sides, the Republic began to lose its appetite for war. Even with necromancy filling the gaps in its ranks, the constant attrition was beginning to wear on the people, some of whom now demanded that they heed the elves’ earlier offers of amnesty. The Steward of the Republic, feeling the pressure of his people’s cries, searched for a way to end the war and force the invaders back.

- On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar, circa 103 AC.

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl. 21)

STR:

DEX:

CON:

INT:

WIS:

CHR:

LCK:

48

26

52 [53]

30

12

41

26 [32]

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

808/808

90/90

17/17

1789/4600

[Skills & Proficiencies]

Swords

Bows

Crossbows

Throwing Weapons

Dodge

Improved Critical Hit Mastery

Improved Riding

Monster Taming

Herbalism

Daggers

Unarmed

Rest

Power Strike [10]

Slings

Polearms

Medium Armor

Heavy Armor

Blind Fighting

Stealth

Dash [10]

Power Throw [10]

(lvl.5)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.2)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.4) [Imp. 1]

(lvl.1)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.2)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

Spells & Magic

Heal [5]

(lvl.5)

Silent Casting

(lvl.3)

Wail of Judgment

(lvl.3)

Crystal Dagger

(lvl.5)

Mana Regeneration

(lvl.4)

[Gifts]

Strength of the Old Ones: 

+25 Strength

Legacy of the Dragon Turtle:

+1 Constitution, +1 Luck, -5% Water Damage, -5% Physical Damage.

[apologies Google isn't playing nice with tables!]

“Milly, what exactly do you mean when you say a Dragon has been sighted? There should be absolutely no reason for such a creature to venture this far south,” Seraphina snapped sharply, her emerald eyes fixed intently upon her anxious maid Miriam.

Miriam swallowed nervously, straightening her posture as she replied. “According to the most recent reports, milady, the Dragon has already devoured an entire herd of cattle and paused for rest among the northern hills. Judging by the scorched trail it left behind and its current trajectory, it appears to be making a direct path toward Meridian.”

Seraphina clenched her jaw in frustration, letting her elbows rest heavily upon the richly polished darkwood desk that dominated the center of her private chambers. The wood, polished to an almost mirror-like sheen, was cool beneath her forearms—a stark contrast to the heated agitation rising within her.

This turn of events was entirely unforeseen and bitterly vexing. Dragons were creatures designed to be encountered late in the game, formidable foes whose defeat was possible only by a protagonist who had ascended to peerless heights and accompanied by the most elite allies that the in-game cash shop would allow. That such a creature would cast its shadow now, threatening Meridian, defied any and all expectations.

Her brow furrowed deeply as she pondered her next move. “Has Eloise returned yet? Where on earth has my silly lady-in-waiting run off to now?”

Miriam fidgeted uneasily, clasping her hands tightly in front of her apron. “I'm afraid she has yet to return from her embroidery club, milady.”

Seraphina released an impatient sigh, drumming her fingers on the wooden surface. This was simply intolerable. 

This upcoming “event” threw a wrench into many of her carefully laid-out plans. For a start, Dragons could fly swiftly, breathing fire capable of reducing entire cities to ashes. The mere thought of facing one caused her a moment of pause despite her carefully maintained composure. The scale of devastation would be enormous, catastrophic even.

“How many know about this situation?” she asked sharply.

“Only a select few, milady,” Miriam replied hurriedly. “Primarily the higher ranks among the King's Rangers and possibly Headmaster Hegandia.”

“Our source?”

“A well-connected retired Ranger was the first witness, observing the beast near his pension. His credibility is beyond reproach.”

Seraphina pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging gently to quell a rising headache. “Have preparations begun for evacuations of our people?”

“I was just about to organize them, milady…”

“Hold off on that for the moment. For now, Milly, find Lady de Laney immediately. That is a priority. If she ends up overcooked I will never be able to explain it to her family. Also, what measures is the King considering?”

“The latest intelligence suggests that the King intends to dispatch a contingent of Gryphon riders to lure the Dragon away from Meridian,” Miriam stated hesitantly, her voice betraying her doubts about the efficacy of such a plan.

Seraphina’s frustration threatened to boil over at the pathetic absurdity of the King's response. “What good is sending a bunch of children mounted on oversized lion-birds against a flying reptile larger than a bus?”

Miriam tilted her head in confusion. “Milady, forgive me, but what exactly is this 'bus' you speak of?”

“Something very big,” Seraphina snapped dismissively. “Now, silence, Milly. I need a moment to consider our options.”

Closing her eyes, she delved deeper into contemplation, running various disaster scenarios through her mind. But the nagging question remained—why was this Dragon headed for Meridian at all? Dragons typically existed aloof from the affairs of “lesser races”, proud and indifferent to mortal troubles. Yet, at their core, they were still beasts driven by instinct…

Suddenly, realization dawned upon her, prompting a fierce scowl. “That insufferable little witch, Este Lize! She has utterly ruined everything! Milly, do we have an accurate inventory of the beasts that troublesome girl has recently acquired?”

“Well,” Miriam began uncertainly, mentally recounting. “There was the Manticore, the Greater Cockatrice, the Landshark, and…”

“Did she obtain any eggs?” Seraphina interrupted sharply, her expression darkening.

Miriam hesitated before nodding reluctantly. “I do recall hearing that they secured several large, unidentified eggs…”

Seraphina slammed her hands forcefully upon the surface of her desk, causing the ornate furniture to shatter spectacularly beneath the impact, sending shards of wood scattering across the polished marble floor. “A Dragon’s egg! That idiotic trollop dared to steal a Skylord’s egg! Her foolishness will doom us all!”

In harmony with her mistress’s anger, Cornelia—the twin-headed serpent coiled protectively around Seraphina’s neck—hissed menacingly, scanning the room for potential threats.

“Can we eat her, mistress?” Cornelia hissed eagerly, hunger radiating clearly through the telepathic link binding them together.

“All in good time, my pet,” Seraphina murmured soothingly, running a gentle finger along the serpent’s scaled back. “When the opportunity arises, she will be yours.”

Miriam watched the young noblewoman anxiously, concern etched clearly across her gentle features, the soft brown of her eyes more expressive than most could manage with words alone.

Before Miriam could utter a word, Seraphina preempted her sharply. “'What shall we do, milady?'” she mimicked scornfully, irritation bleeding heavily into her voice.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Seraphina assessed her predicament. Retreating and evacuating meant abandoning substantial investments. Meridian served as her strategic cornerstone, from which she intended to influence all of Aranthia through her carefully orchestrated media campaign. Abandoning the city was simply unthinkable. Yet, fighting came with risks—but also immense potential rewards. The title “Saviour of Meridian” held undeniable allure, although she loathed the idea of prematurely revealing her hidden strengths so early in her carefully arranged political game.

A shrewd politician at heart, Seraphina knew emergencies were fertile grounds for ambitious maneuvers. She thrived in such chaos.

“Milly, organize our key individuals to shelter within the mage training grounds at the Academy. Capitalize on the inevitable panic—purchase property from those eager to flee at ten percent of its market value. We must secure our grip on the city in every way possible.”

Miriam nodded nervously. “Understood, milady. But we likely have only a day or two at most.”

“Then it seems,” Seraphina sighed dramatically, steeling herself for the challenge ahead, “that I must slay this Dragon personally.”

She smiled, coldly confident, eyes glittering with ambition. “Spread word throughout Meridian—ensure the populace knows their beloved Saint is the cause of this disaster, but also make certain they hear clearly that it shall be Seraphina de Sariens, the future queen of Aranthia, who resolves the crisis.”

“Milady…” Miriam started, apprehension coloring her voice.

“What now, Milly?” Seraphina said impatiently.

“With respect, how exactly do you intend to slay a Dragon?”

“Why, Milly, you dear, silly creature,” Seraphina replied smoothly, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “With a Dragon Slayer, naturally. Now summon Frest and my Knights immediately—we have urgent preparations to make!”

***

Passing through the lush fronds and verdant foliage of tropical plants from lands distant, they arrived at the concealed entrance just after midday, as the noonday sun blazed fiercely through the Academy's glasshouse dome. The air was thick with the heady scent of warm, resinous sap and the sweet, faintly musky perfume of exotic blooms, all mingling in a sensory tapestry.

Seraphina pressed her gloved fingertips to a precise sequence of Zajasite crystal lights, each milky-blue crystal flaring momentarily at her touch. With a soft, mechanical sigh, a segment of marble flooring tilted open, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling into darkness.

Seraphina descended first, the hem of her dress brushing the cold stone, her escorts forming before and behind her. Sir Ferdiad Frest, all steel edges and quiet menace, took the lead at her side. The armored footsteps of the Knights echoed down the passageway as they pierced their way through this ancient place.

The air was musty and stale, a contrast to the ardent life of the jungle. They were a few people short as Miriam was busy with emergency measures and acquisitions, while Sir Galio Gravens had been sent to find and protect Eloise. All of them, save for Seraphina, were heavily armed and armored in the full panoply of war. They made for a very intimidating party.

“I have learned to keep my doubts private when it comes to your knowledge of things, milady,” Frest murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried to the ranks behind them. He swept a thick cobweb aside with one gauntleted hand, sword ready in the other. “But you are certain the Dragonslayer lies hidden beneath this place? Legends tend to be poor sources of the truth.”

Seraphina’s answer came wrapped in a cool smile. “In all legends lie a kernel of truth, but in this one, Sir Frest, they are most certainly rooted in fact. Besides, I seldom gamble on unknowns, and rarely without stacking the deck.” Her confidence was a torch, as bright and as constant as the crystal lights they possessed.

They pressed forward. Moisture beaded on the ancient stones, and every breath tasted of earth and forgotten incense. Carved alcoves lined the walls, each containing a marble bust or a copper death mask—solemn effigies of headmasters from centuries past. A distant and forgotten time. Their hollow eye‐sockets gleamed in the torchlight, as though silently judging the students and wayward teacher who dared disturb this subterranean sanctum. A shiver of déjà-vu rippled through Seraphina; the last time she’d had “adventures” underground had been far less than pleasant.

There was a sudden gust, the type that would have snuffed torches of mundane flames at once. However, expensive Zajasite lights did not suffer such weaknesses, and Seraphina was once again glad that she did not have to suffer as the common adventurers did. 

The party’s azure lights revealed more of the crypt’s macabre décor: weather-stained sarcophagi etched with fading sigils, chains of blackened silver draped like garlands between statues of stoic archmages, and floor tiles inlaid with star charts that glittered faintly beneath the dust of the years.

Despite the relative chill, Seraphina felt Cornelia shiver, her pet and familiar sharing in her excitement. Ahead, the corridor widened into an archway barred by a monumental stone door. On its surface writhed a mosaic of scaled wings and coiling flame. It was the unmistakable sigil of an ancient Dragonslayer order—or the Mercenaries’ Guild as they were known in this time. At that sight, the hardened Knights inhaled sharply. They knew not doubt their mistress, but to see proof of a legend with their very own eyes was another thing entirely.

Seraphina let the hush linger, savoring the tension like the first sharp note of a symphony. Then, with a decisive nod, she addressed her company. “It seems that this time there was no need to fend off the unquiet dead.”

“This time? And unquiet dead?” her Knight Filippe asked, a tad confused.

She waved airily at him. “I had thought that crypts would stir and whatnot and the dead would rise, that sort of thing,” she answered with deliberate nonchalance.

“Oh, this is the part where you leave me. Make your way to Mage’s training halls. The Wards and the Dullstone will protect you and should be safe,” she added as if she were ordering a light lunch.

Frest’s expression tightened. “With respect, Lady Seraphina, I can not leave you here alone. I am responsible for your safety,” he warned.

“This is a direct order. What I do now goes beyond such orders. What I must do, I must do for the good of the Kingdom. It is my duty first and foremost as the future mother of this nation,” she said sternly, iron in her ringing voice.

Against all reason, her words steadied the men, their armored fists tightening instinctively on the hilts of their weapons in a silent salute to this unexpected display of pure noblesse oblige. In that moment, she embodied not merely a noblewoman but the very essence of a true monarch, and they felt it in their bones. Seraphina was fairly certain she caught the glimmer of womanish tears in their eyes, though it could have been nothing more than a trick of the Zajasite light. Before her Charisma and such a direct command, even the doubtful Sir Frest could only shake his head in silent capitulation. To defy her command now would be as futile as opposing the inexorable flow of the River Aran. 

“As you command, milady,” Frest murmured at last, his voice taut with the weight of acceptance.

“Oh, and do be careful on your way back. The dead are not always keen on letting living company go,” she added with a cheery smile.