Liam Swann

[catch]

Few there were who were like to remember the Swann farmstead known as Dragon's Fold, a perfectly fanciful name that did little to accurately describe the peaceful, rolling downs and crags. In truth, there had never been any reports or sightings of Dragons in the area, who (it was said) seemed to prefer towering, granite mountains, and not gorse-laden sheep country, but the Swanns often liked to boast of some distant relation - a second or third cousin, perhaps - who was known for killing a dragon or two in his time, and the name irreversibly stuck.

The stead itself dealt in sheep; wool, mutton, a prize ram or two, with a smattering of home-spun yarns and knitted, crude tapestries and wall-hangings, whatever produce would take in that rocky, alkaline soil, and whatever grew their naturally. It was not a great swathe of land, being surrounded by a cluster of more prosperous farms, somewhere this side of the river between Newford and Foggy Bottom, but the Swanns were proud of their hard accomplishments, and made due.

Tragedies, however, seem abundant in Myrkenwood. These things take time; it was almost a month before distant neighbors noted that, yes, it was rather odd that none of the Swanns had seen fit to travel abroad lately. It usually seemed that one could find at least one or two of the brood, tucked away in a tavern or road-inn - for, in the most sensible fashion, the Old Swann had decided that he could simply produce his own hands to work the farm, and had set about that task with such enthusiasm that it caused the elderly woman to collectively cluck their tongues with sympathy every time Goodwife Swann, drawn and harassed, showed up in public.

Of course, once friends and neighbors had convened and discussed, a group of young men were sent up to the place, to see if anything was amiss. They went armed, with cudgels and boar-spears, for Myrkenwood bred a hard folk, and even peaceful farmers learned by now what missing folk usually meant.

Their expectations were not disappointed...

The lonning linking Dragon's Fold to the rest of the world had long grown over, a little more than a worn dimple in the ground where grass grew vaguely brown. Here and there lay the evidence of such a road, known only to those who knew where to look; a pile of winking, pale-rose quartz here, a rotted pole of wood that had no natural reason of existing, in that place, there. There was some evidence of travel; the local boys often liked to dare one another to approach the place, usually under a full or new moon, and attempt to stay in the ruins the entire night.

Such had become the Swann's monument; a confident dare, a cautious approach. A couple hours spent, tremulous among burnt wreckage and a scorched ground, jerking awake at every owl's hoot and fox's chatter, until the brave soul decided enough was enough, only to gallop back down the path and lie to his fellows about how long he was able to endure.

The man who traveled now, then, couldn't be part of the local stock, couldn't have heard the stories and history of the place that not even the gaffers wanted to get near, their weathered faces only growing grim and eyes distant at the mention of it, followed by a rough, cryptic "by, stay yon awaay".

Yet, this hooded figure did not move like a man lost, or some curious towny looking for cheap thrills. Hidden as the path was, spurred boots - though there was no evidence of a horse - seemed to find their way entirely from memory. The frost hung heavy in the air, the silent monotony broken only by the warble of a wild turkey gone a-wooing, the wind growing strong enough to rustle the yellow gorse before subsiding once again. Once a sheep, ancestor to the domestic stock that was once herded here, appeared as a slow-moving dot on the crag int he distance, disappearing soon after.There was only the sound of his footsteps, made heavy by whatever burdens he bore, in addition to the greatsword slung across his back. Protection, perhaps, from whatever lurked at the farm; then again, it seemed foolish for travelers to make their way through Myrkenwood unarmed, and perhaps it was not such a strange sight after all.

Now and again, the tall man would halt in his stride, and a gloved hand with bared fingers would stretch forth, to run - almost lovingly - over one of the many scattered posts that would have let visitors know that they were on the right path; a stump with a crude, rampart swan etched into it's face, a cracked and broken clay statuette of a dragon, curled about a rock, shiny piles of quartz and - rarer still - coral brought all the way from the sea by a shrewd merchant.

Memories.

He remembered that fellow, at the Midsummer's fair; a sly and ratty man, with a pointed face and a greasy beard, who had strung up the coral - along with colorful, blown-glass beads from New Dauntless, spotted-cat's fur and exotic mouflon's wool from the Sikasoons. His Uncle hadn't liked the merchant, either, and had grumbled and muttered the entire time about wasting coin on a women's fancies. He was fairly sure no one was meant to overhear that last remark, and so he had not commented on it; but, like everything else he observed about his overlarge family, he had tucked it away for study on the long, lonely nights of lamb-watching.

Memories. That's all they were. brief, fleeting images that came about by a simple touch, a fragrant bit of air that wandered to the nose.

This was his final test.

The man came, at last, to what remained of the welcoming arch, a pair of rowan-trees flanking the road, the brief sputters of wind causing their branches to rattle together like old bones. In wonderment, his footsteps paused, gripping at one of the waxy-green leaves that blossomed on vines, carpeting the rowans from head to toe. His touch bruised the leaf, releasing the pungent-sweet smell of sap and rotted, white flowers.

Jasmine. Just as exotic as the coral, and it was the only thing his harried mother insisted on having. She had always asked for little, received less, but the gift of these by his father had spoke volumes of the man who, outwardly, seemed to treat her as nothing more than a vehicle needed to spawn more of his brood.

That they survived, all this time...

He pulled the leaf from the vine, fingers curling, crushing it further. He brought his fist up, lips pressing against his knuckles as he inhaled the heady musk, bringing forth memories of delicate white flowers, set adrift in pools of tea, the traces of the Autumn that loomed in the air forgotten in favor of the wild joy of late summer, where every growing thing seemed to be at it's peak.

To throw everything away! He was here, now. The jasmine still grew; sheep could be bought, a home could be rebuilt. The horrors of that fateful night could be dispelled, brought to nothing in the wake of that smell. True, he had already sacrificed much, but maybe... maybe...

Unbidden, unnoticed, his feet were already moving. Deep in his mind, even as it wavered with uncertainty, he knew what he needed to see, knew that there was no turning back from his course. The man would call it divine providence, the proof that his God, unlike the unfeeling bastard - or bastards - that had stood idly by that night, knew him. Saw him as His child, plucked from that terrible fate, to live as His instrument.

So, when his eyes finally opened, those memories of a life past - of a family of thieves and honest farmers, scholars and drunkards, as varied and diverse as any city - fractured like the light across a droplet of rain, abandoning it as it smashed to pieces along the unforgiving ground.

Not much remained of the Dragon's house. The men who had come had had the decency, at least, to remove what they could of the blood (along with whatever possessions wouldn't be easily missed), and yet it's sour stench still hung on the air, under the char and ash. The central stone pillar of the gathering hall still stood, a pile of rot marking where the roof had collapsed in. The gorse had wasted little time reclaiming what had been taken generations ago, and - as with the rode - the only evidence of a multitude of rooms, storage, a family, lifetimes.

His fingers uncurled but slowly, the last shreds of his hopes reluctant, perhaps, to let the past drift away as the bruised jasmine did now, fluttering to the cold ground like a child's forgotten toy. His sap-stained hand lifted to pull back his hood, as if doing so would give him a clearer picture, would not blinker him to things that he needed to see. A fair face, handsome, with a square jaw, raven's hair, a hawk's intense stare; if he had been bothered to confront his neighbors, to ask for directions, no few of them would have grown white and called for a priest.

He was a Swann, through and through. And he had perished with the rest of them, his bones scattered on this cursed ground, everything he is and was little more than a pile of ash and debris. And he knew, then, why had had been brought here. Why his God had set him to this task. Memories were memories, as fleeting and cruel as the justice this world meted out, with no rhyme or reason, even to those who's only crimes were living, life, being human. He had become more than that; he *had* to become more.

He had taken the first step, when his God first whispered into a boy's ear in the long days that followed, when no one came to Dragon's Fold for nearly a month. This was his final test.

[catch]

From under his cloak, his right hand finally emerged. A mockery of a man's arm, a mockery of a dragon's, it was enormous and twisted, a melding of metal and flesh tipped in three serrated claws where fingers should be. Effortlessly, the monstrous digits encircled the standing pillar's girth, smothering the stamped symbol of a twined swan and dragon.

"I am ready." He need not speak, for his God thrummed in his very bones, approving, encouraging, but it was comforting in the silence; this momentous occasion required the touch of human words, if only to harden his heart, strengthen his resolve.

And in that monster's grip, the pillar crumbled to dust.