Drachenschwertlied

The Dragon Sword Song

Thomas was not born with the title he now bears, but it was said he was destined for it. The weirding witch, old and bent as the gnarled trees in the deepest woods, who scattered the burnt bones of a waterfowl and spun tales from the tellings of tea, foretold from an early age that Thomas would one day slay a mighty foe. A declaration that seemed as likely as the river itself set aflame.

From the looks of it, the feeble stableboy with a self-effacing demeanour and a body more suited to labour than to legend appeared destined for a life of obscurity. Forgotten. He did not have many friends and even fewer family.

Thomas was an orphan. Adopted out of pity, he was taken in by a kindly farmer and his wife, who offered him the shelter of their humble home.

Thomas was quiet and kind, traits that endeared him to some but made him an easy target for others. His kind heart won him the favour of the villagers, even though the laughter echoed and drowned out the words of the weirding witch's prophecy that lingered in the air.
Despite the hard work in the fields, the farmer and his wife were not wealthy, so as a family, they ate little. As a result, Thomas could not run as fast or climb as high as the other youths. The children of Belle, full of immature vigour and unbridled cruelty, mocked him mercilessly.

But the witch saw what others could not… She had seen it in the way the stars migrated across the night sky. Thomas was the son of a fierce and powerful warrior and, like his mother, had a fire in his blood.

Nonetheless, Thomas led a life unaware of the total weight of his heritage. He went about his days with quiet resolve. Each task of the stable, every chore on the farm, and the meticulous nature of keeping a farmhouse free of mud and dirt was undertaken with diligence.

Only in the dead of night, underneath the same stars that seemingly spoke of his future, could Thomas feel a pull he could not yet understand. He would count the minutes while the village slept and savoured the time alone.
In those quiet moments, he could almost hear the whispers of the witch carried on the wind, breathing secrets, stirring dreams of battles and heroes. Singing of swords and dragons…

Thus, Thomas's tale does not begin with the clashing of weapons in the heat of battle or with the accomplishment of some glorious deed (although Epics rarely do), but with the heart of an unremarkable boy on the precipice of greatness…

Act II

The seasons turned, and Belle carried on with its simple rhythms. Life for Thomas remained as predictable as sunrise. His days were filled with the familiar tasks of tending to the animals, mending fences, and ensuring the delicate balance of order was upheld. All the while, the prophecy of the weirding witch, thought often forgotten in the humdrum of daily life, loomed like a distant thunder in Thomas's future.

One autumn evening, when the first rains had just passed, providing a much-needed drink to the parched fields, a band of strangers arrived in Belle. They were knights, resplendent in their armour, carrying a banner of some far-off realm. Their captain rode a mighty steed, looking down on the infantry with pride in their formation, stopped their movement over the low crescent hill adjacent to Thomas's farm. Villagers gathered to stare in awe at the harbingers of change.

News spread quickly. With no allegiance to any kingdom and due to its geographic innocuity, Belle had always enjoyed the quiet serenity of neglect from significant armies. All companies that arrive in the town are met with celebrations of glory, proclaiming the visitors "heroes of the land," the foreign legion included.

The festivities commenced at nightfall, and as lamb was roasted and eaten, the knights regaled the villagers with tales of their victories and of their newest conquest — to slay a fearsome dragon that had laid waste to a nearby kingdom. The wyrm's rampage had left nothing in its wake save the ash and carrion of its victims. Some spoke with a dreadful reverence, describing its iron scales, razor claws and teeth, fiery breath, and eyes that burned with malevolent intelligence.

The knights' arrival stirred something deep within Thomas. He felt the same pull that embraced him on the nights when he was alone, a tightening in his chest. The words of the witch seemed to scream in the crackling of the fire, echoing in his mind and could not be ignored. A call that pumped the fire in his blood. The stars, it seemed, were aligning.

Thomas's heart pounded as he approached the captain. As he approached, he could see that the soldiers' armour was not as lustrous as it had been from afar. Deep grooves ran across the plates, their faces and arms bore scars, and their eyes were sunken as if they cowered from the horrors they had seen. Those hollow eyes turned to the scrawny lad standing before them, a silhouette in the backglow of the turning spit.

The captain regarded Thomas with a mixture of amusement and scepticism.

"What brings you before us, boy?" His voice was deep but softer than Thomas expected.

"I wish to join your quest," Thomas paused, testing the gravity of his following words. "I wish to slay the Dragon."

Laughter erupted from the knights and villagers, but the captain just stared. And Thomas stared back. The uproar lasted for many minutes, to the point where the festivities continued, all feeling uplifted in the hearty humour of the simple farmhand.

Thomas nor the captain moved a muscle.

"And what makes you think you are fit for such a task?" Though several feet apart and the din of the party, the captain's words reach Thomas with no trouble.

"It is my destiny."

The captain studied Thomas for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Prophecies are fickle things, boy. Many who have sought to fulfil them have failed."

"How did you–" Thomas began.

The captain rose abruptly and closed the distance between the two of them. He stood a head taller and nearly twice as broad as Thomas.

"Have you a sword, boy?"

“Ne’er judge a warrior whence he’s been, now standing fast on glory.”

Warrior Proverb

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