The Lost Child
3 Tarsakh 1492, Waterdeep
Companions:
- a Pinebrook human monk
- a Pinebrook halfling rogue
While I await the evening hours before my viol and I begin to ply our trade, my restless mind compels me to put my pen to use and describe one of the few adventures I have had in my nearly-thirty years. Only recently had I amiably parted ways from my aunt and mentor—Kara Graybrook, a bard of some renown in faraway Impiltur—and I had been traveling on my own for some months, meandering aimlessly while I sought my purpose. While visiting the northern city of Mirabar, I heard word that a dragon had recently claimed a mountaintop lair near Pinebrook, a village at the headwaters of the River Mirar. When I inquired as to the wyrm’s nature, none could say with any certainty, though given the frigid climate of the Spine of the World’s peaks, I doubted indeed that it was a Red as had been claimed by some.
Adventurers who seek out dragons often have very short lives, but I am and have always been fascinated by dragons, for nothing else in all the world so perfectly embodies the magic and mystery of existence. Some scholars believe that dragonkind are the oldest beings in all of existence, and if one is ever so fortunate as to ask a dragon their opinion on this—as I have—she is sure to agree, though one can never be certain if she truly believes it to be so or if it is merely her pride which requires her to claim it, as there are few forces in all the Realms as mighty as a dragon defending her pride.
I reached the village of Pinebrook without incident and sought lodging at the only inn in town, where I found the accommodations to be sparse but comfortable in the solitary private room available. Due in no small part to the remote location, visitors to Pinebrook are rare, with the previous renter of my room—a map-maker who left town as quickly as he arrived—having been already four months gone.
Inquiries within the village were of no more use than those within Mirabar, for none had seen more than just a fleeting glimpse in the distance or a brief pass of a shadow across the sun. Or, more correctly, no one reliable made any claims greater than that, for a man others quickly informed me was ‘the town drunk’ seems to have been the source of the rumors that the new resident of nearby Cloud Cutter Mountain was a fire-breathing red dragon.
As is so often the case in a community as remote as Pinebrook, defense of the village is up to its residents, and I was informed that instead of having dedicated guards, those able-bodied citizens with the courage and martial skill to do so volunteer on a rota to patrol the forest and river banks. While roving goblin bands are the most-likely enemy in this area, orc raiders from the now-dissolved kingdom of Many-Arrows have been spotted by scouts, though none have been known to cross the river in recent years. Indeed, the greatest common foe imperiling the goodly folk of Pinebrook are the ice trolls which once called Cloud Cutter Mountain their home, but which have since been driven out by the newly-settled dragon, if the rumors are true.
When I inquired about the dragon—and the ice trolls—with the only full-time guard employed by the people of the town, Captain Emmajeen Kole, she informed me that the forest patrol which returned late that afternoon had seen footprints they believed to have belonged to a troll, so she intended to lead the patrol the next morning. Upon her lament that the patrol was “a man down” for reasons she did elaborate on further, I volunteered to join the patrol as well, and she was happy to accept.
The next morning, I joined Captain Kole at the northern edge of town with two locals: a halfling woman who had once worked as a bounty hunter and a human man who had once been a sailor. We followed a well-traveled path through the forest that went near to the base of Cloud Cutter Mountain before swinging westward to the village’s mining camp, then arced around to the loggers’ staging area before following the river back northeast into town. We’d gotten barely more than a mile into the woods before Captain Kole halted our progress.
Moments later, a beautiful wyrmling emerged from the undergrowth, and the bits of shell still stuck to his head indicated he was only very recently hatched. I confess to a complete and utter lack of professionalism on my own part at this moment, as instead of volunteering to my companions what I knew of dragons, I merely gazed at the young Silver in wonder. Fortunately, the former sailor was well-traveled and able to voice the information I failed to share: we had been greeted by a very young silver dragon.
Metallic dragons, as many know, do not typically seek conquest and destruction as do their chromatic kin. Of the various metallic kinds, the silver ones are the most-likely to befriend the shorter-lived races of elves, dwarves, and humans, and given their strong preference for the cold, they often choose to live in caves above the frost line. In this, Cloud Cutter Mountain did indeed seem a suitable lair for a great Silver.
Kole had come prepared, of course, and had with her a battered copy of a tome titled The Practically Complete Guide to Dragons—a reliable source tells me the volume is practical but hardly complete—and used it to confirm for herself the former sailor’s claims. Quickly taking stock of the situation, Kole deduced that the dragon which had taken up residence in Cloud Cutter Mountain was a Silver, that the wyrmling had come from her lair there, and that the young one needed to be fed and escorted back to his mother as soon as possible. Rather than send any of us back to the village alone to report on the situation, Kole left her book with the halfling, then set off back in the direction we came.
The sailor—who had spent some time training as a monk, I soon learned—found the wyrmling’s trail while the halfling rogue and I gathered berries from nearby bushes. The wyrmling ate all that we gave to him and began babbling “Mama!” at us in his native tongue. We then set off through the forest to find an entrance to his mother’s lair.
A branch off of the main path led us straight to the entrance of a cave at the base of Cloud Cutter Mountain, and we could see immediately that this had to be the place, for it emanated a cold far too deep for the late summer air. Before we could step beneath the overhang, however, we were beset by a quartet of living icicles, a sort of minor air elemental with only rudimentary intelligence. As I later learned from Captain Kole—after returning to town at the conclusion of the adventure—the ice trolls who once inhabited the cave were known to use the nearly-mindless creatures as sentinels.
The wyrmling huddled close to the halfling rogue as she loosed her arrows at the elementals, while the monk put his shortsword to use and I hurled bolts of fire magic at them. The battle was thankfully brief, and we defeated all foes with the only injury being my own when one of the monsters clawed at my face. Unsure of what else we might encounter as we ventured further into the mountain, I decided to merely staunch the blood, for it was quite a minor wound and I feared we might have greater need for my magic later.
Not far inside the cave, we found a tattered pack hinting at the fate of the map-maker who visited those four months past, for it seems he fell victim to the ice trolls who had then inhabited the space. The nearer we approached the tunnel at the back of the cave, the more excited our youngest companion became, calling out again for “Mama”, though I suspect he was reacting less to her scent and more to her magic: the cave was unnaturally cold, leading me to conclude the Silver was likely a skilled sorcerer or wizard even beyond the might of her heritage.
With torches lit and held aloft, the four of us made our way into the tunnel, which curved around the mountain as it rose higher and higher, offering an easy ascent. Perhaps fifteen minutes of steady movement later, however, our path ended abruptly in an ice-covered wall in a tall cavern. The torchlight did not extend to the ceiling above, but the vision I inherited from my elven father allowed me to peer into the darkness and confirm there was an opening in the wall in front of us, but it would be a long climb to reach it. As neither citizen of Pinebrook could see in the dark—and as only I possessed an earring enchanted with feather fall to protect me should I slip—I volunteered to scale the cliff with a rope, that I might fasten it above and ease their ascent.
The ascent was indeed treacherous and I nearly lost my hold at the top, but once on the platform near the ceiling, I secured the halfling’s rope around a stalagmite and tossed the free end over the edge. The monk and the rogue soon followed, and the young wyrmling made the ascent by clinging to the pack the rogue carried, for despite being the smaller of the two companions she was the more stout.
We once again faced a tunnel which curved upwards, and again we set forward to guide the young wyrmling back to his home. Only another ten minutes into our trek, we found ourselves facing a wall made of solid ice, and any possible doubt about its magical nature was quickly dispelled when the translucent barrier became a mirror, and in that mirror our visages were reflected as though we three soft-skins had been reborn as dragonborn. The halfling’s reflection was as a clever Copper, while the monk shone as a steady Gold. To my fascination and delight, I was reflected as a Silver, whereas the young Silver accompanying us was mirrored as a human child!
That was not, however, the last shock to come from this most peculiar barrier, and here I must confess once again to having been of absolutely no use to my companions, for I soon lost the ability to speak at all. A new figure joined our reflections in the mirror, appearing as a young human man in a monk’s robes and accompanied by seven goldfinches, and I knew in my heart I was seeing the avatar of Bahamut, the great platinum dragon god of the metallic dragons.
The Grandmaster of Flowers—for indeed that was the aspect of the greatest of greatwyrms we currently beheld—asked my companions to name in the dragon’s tongue that which we escorted back to the mother’s lair, and in my awestruck state I could not compel my mouth to answer. Fortunately, my companions were less stunned and the monk soon recalled that Kole had left the rogue her volume on dragons. The book’s brief glossary of the Draconic language offered up the correct answer—orn darastrix, a silver dragon—and the divine avatar disappeared, taking the frozen wall with him.
The splash of cold water from the sudden melt had two immediate effects: it refreshed my wounds and magic as though I had just taken a brief respite, and it shocked me out of my stupor. I surely babbled something to my companions about the awe-inspiring visage we had all just witnessed, but found to my embarrassment that neither was nearly so impressed to have been visited by the god of dragons, or perhaps they were irritated to learn from my exclamations of wonder that I was fluent in the Draconic language and had merely stood as a mute observer while they fumbled with Kole’s tome.
Though many assume that my profession calls me to name Milil, god of music, as the god who is closest in my heart, he is not the only goodly god I wish to honor through my life’s work: I have reverence also for Deneir as the god of scribes and seekers of knowledge; for Lliira as the goddess of joy; for Merila Taralen as the elven goddess of bards; for Sehanine Moonbow as the elven goddess of secrets and the protector of moon elves; for Eilistraee as the drow goddess of outcasts and a patron of the blending of swordplay and dance; and for Bahamut as the god of metallic dragons and a champion of justice.
But I digress, and our quest to return the lost child to his mother had not yet ended. The tunnel within the mountains soon became steep and treacherous, forcing us to slow our pace considerably. Just when it seemed as though we might be unable to proceed further without returning to Pinebrook for mountain-climbing equipment, the passageway leveled out and brightened, transitioning into a tunnel of smooth semi-translucent walls blending directly into an arched ceiling no more than ten feet in height and half that in width. We knew without question that the tunnel was magical, not natural, and the light refracting through the walls and ceiling was sufficient that my companions were able to put out their torches and move easily in the dim, blue-filtered light.
We were soon confronted with a new problem, for the tunnel before us branched three ways: to our left, ahead, and to our right. Each tunnel curved to the left out of view, but none seemed any different from the next. The monk noticed that our youngest companion seemed disinterested in the tunnel to our right, so we ventured into the one on the left, hoping that we might soon find our way to the dragon’s lair.
We were not so fortunate: the tunnel branched many more times, none of which seemed to be any better of an option than did another, and more than once did we reach a dead end which forced us to retrace our steps to our last turn. Attempts to chart our path proved fruitless, for none of us had the training to make such a map and our scribbles on a scrap of paper quickly became useless nonsense.
Our young companion was soon drawn to an odor which pleased him immensely, and before we could stop him, the wyrmling scampered away around a bend. When we caught up to him at another dead end, he was happily gulping down pieces of what appeared to be a well-preserved slab of salmon.
Eventually, the rogue hit upon the idea of leaving a ball bearing from her stash at each tunnel we departed, but fearing that if the floor were not truly flat we’d be even more lost if the ball rolled away, I suggested we use the charcoal we found in the lost cartographer’s pack, instead, and we began immediately to mark our path behind us. This proved beneficial within only a few short minutes, as we all soon got the distinct impression that the four-way intersection we now faced was, in fact, the very tunnel from which we had entered this labyrinthine cavern.
Turning about again, the monk advised we stick to right-hand turns only, but as we approached the first new branch we had not yet explored, he thought to ask me if, with my admitted-to command of the young one’s tongue, I could get a sense of the child’s preferences for where we should go. Cautioning him that the wyrmling’s nose had led us astray once before, I nevertheless attempted to ask our youngest companion where we should go, but his one word—”Mama?”—did not discern between the two paths before us, so we kept with the monk’s advice and turned right.
Thereafter, we checked in with the wyrmling’s superior nose before we defaulted to a right-hand turn, and once more the child’s enthusiasm for food—a few pieces of jerky, this time—overrode his desire to return to his mother’s lair. At long last, we came to another four-way intersection and as the wyrmling had no clear preference for any tunnel and the monk was losing faith in his right-hand-turns-only plan, my companions asked me for my opinion.
Put on the spot, I could offer only the observations which my darkvision could afford in the dim lighting: the tunnel to our left was the longest I could see down but it had many branches, the tunnel ahead ended in a two-way intersection, and the tunnel on the right had but one turn to the left. Resigning ourselves once more to the practice of taking the right-hand path, we followed that lone tunnel to the right, and were soon rewarded by its opening into a huge, sunlit cavern.
While we had at long last found the dragon’s nest, we were unfortunately not alone in the great room: two white-skinned frog-like monsters the size of horses stood before us, one of them clutching a stolen silver egg in its webbed forelimbs before lowering the prize back to the ground. My mind immediately went to the worst-case scenarios—Tailless trogolodytes from the Underdark? Some kind of slaad?!—but as the creatures hissed at us and advanced in great leaps, it became apparent they were some kind of monstrous frog, no doubt created by the experiments of an unknown wizard. For what purpose, we could not be certain… beyond the snatching of a dragon’s eggs, of course.
While the wyrmling huddled protectively behind us, my companions and I put our blades to work, slashing at the monstrous invaders. As soon as the monk and I dispatched the first, the second seemed to decide to cut its losses and attempted to leap away, though whether it sought to seize the egg it had set down earlier or simply to flee via some as-yet-unseen passageway, we could not tell, nor did it matter for the halfling quickly put an arrow through the base of its skull.
The little one understood that his unborn sibling did not belong on the floor away from the nest and began to nudge the displaced egg. Taking the wyrmling’s cue, the monk carried the egg back to the nest and placed it in one of the two empty depressions beside its still-untouched companion, while the wyrmling curled up into the space still bearing the fractured pieces of his own egg. The monk reported the young one had apparently closed his eyes for a nap, and though he joked about joining him—as he had taken vicious gash during the fight and was feeling a little woozy—he moved to join the rogue and me in exploring the large cavern.
No sooner had he stepped down from the pile of gathered snow which constituted the dragon’s nest than did the lady of the lair make her grand and dramatic entrance, and apparently having just witnessed a figure leaving the environs of her nest, she was furious.
If you’ve never had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of a full-grown dragon’s displeasure, allow me to assure you that this is nothing you would wish to experience for yourself. When a dragon seeks to cow a mortal being properly, they are able to put forth an aura of such terror that one feels the muscles of their body lock into place and their very vision narrow to naught by the majestic and fearsome beast which now commands their full attention. It is difficult to look away even though the deep parts of their brains which control their survival instincts are commanding that they turn and flee.
As the magnificent wyrm demanded we answer for our presence, it occurred to me that had we not crossed the cavern to look around but instead remained where we first entered, perhaps the dragon would have immediately seen the slain egg snatchers and realized we were not the ones who had threatened her young. Fortunately, as the small folk tend to be the bravest among us, the halfling found her courage first and answered that we’d killed the real threat to the nest, saving those two eggs which remained while also returning the young one who’d already hatched. When the dragon expressed mild surprise and confusion, the overwhelming fear we were all feeling lessened enough that we each found the strength to gesture toward the bodies of the egg snatchers we had slain.
The mischievous young one took this moment also to awaken from his brief nap and babbled excitedly at his mother, informing her that we had indeed taken good care of him in our trek, though of course his immature vocabulary consisted exclusively of the words, “Mama”, “food”, “walk”, and “safe” and a bunch of nonsense words that are the draconian equivalent of a human toddler’s “baby talk”. Nevertheless, the wyrmling’s mother got the gist, and she released us from her thrall.
Leaping into the air, she sealed the upper cavern entrance with a plug of ice produced from her mighty freezing breath, then settled back to the ground to cast a spell which bathed us in healing energy. She then explained that she had been out of the cavern chasing the thieves of her first egg—and at that, she carefully placed the egg we hadn’t noticed her carrying back into its dimple in the nest—and that she can only assume that the first egg hatched not long after her departure. The curious wyrmling then found his way to the secret escape tunnel in this area, which would have quickly deposited him at the base of the mountain on the forest floor.
Realizing she had forgotten to do so already, the silver dragon introduced herself as Hysvearorn and invited our smaller mouths to style her simply as Rorn. She lamented that her eggs likely remained in danger, but before she could get little more than that out, as one the three reunited eggs began to shiver and crack, and within minutes there were four silver wyrmlings gathered about Rorn’s feet. We were then invited to partake in the very great honor of retrieving some pieces of frozen meat from a nearby metal chest so that we might feed the newly-hatched wyrmlings their first meal, though we of course were also asked to select a fourth morsel so that the curious youngster who had first hatched could be fed again.
As the wyrmlings ate the offered meat, Rorn laughed at her eldest child’s antics and decided his name to be Venastrinothosvear—Venastri—a name which could mean both “seeker of small companions” or “seeker of dull rocks”. As I already knew and as Rorn explained for my companions, there is an expression among dragons that one who fills her hoard with treasures that are not precious metals and jewels is considered a “venastrinotharstrix”, or a “hoarder of dull rocks”.
Rorn then displayed her gratitude by rewarding each of us with a non-dull rock—an uncut diamond drawn from within the depths of her nest—then declared her intent to watch over the people of Pinebrook for many years to come. In exchange for her protection, she wished to be able to bring her young down to the village to meet and play with mortals—especially mortal children—and to learn the songs and stories of their people. She further asked that she be informed in detail should anyone learn anything further about the cavern complex into which she had chased the first group of egg snatchers, or of any wizards creating abominations like those mutated frogs, or of any collectors of exotic eggs.
Finally, Rorn showed us to the escape tunnel hidden behind a boulder and offered to place a spell of feather fall upon us before we entered it so that we would not be injured by the speedy descent. Since I knew my companions did not speak Draconic, I used that language to ask Rorn for her continued indulgence to answer a few more of my questions, noting also that I had my own feather fall enchantment and she need not cast the spell again on my account. At my subsequent explanation in the common tongue that I wished to remain behind a little longer so that Rorn and I might converse, the monk and the rogue departed, intending to return to Pinebrook and bring word of our success to Captain Kole and the village elders.
Rorn and I had a pleasant conversation, though I’ll not detail it here as some of what was discussed was private to us both. I did ask her about the food left in the ice maze, which she explained she had left there as a game for the wyrmlings when they hatched and decided to explore; she certainly had not expected Venastri to find the chute first, and promised she’d block access to it once I had left so that none of the other children would similarly escape. Any exploration to the lower caves should have been blocked by the ice wall she had enacted near the top of the icy cliff, and when I inquired further about the avatar of Bahamut within the mirrored ice, she explained that she was a priestess of the Platinum Dragon and had meant the wall to keep the wyrmlings in, but that Bahamut in his great wisdom must have altered the spell that we might safely pass with the wayward wyrmling.
I returned to Pinebrook later that evening with a great sense of satisfaction, for my whim to travel to this remote village had not been in vain. Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from this adventure was how to be an observer, rather than a participant, as though my instincts often tell me to freely offer up my knowledge and skills to my companions, if indeed I am to function as a witness and scribe for the true heroes of the Realms, I must act only in defense of my companions when they are directly imperiled, and offer up my opinions and advice only when directly asked.
I will surely fail at this many times, I know, but I shall endeavor to do so nonetheless for it is what I truly believe I am called to do in this world: witness, record, and share with all. I am a collector of dull rocks, and my collection will be these stories.