A story etched in stone and flames.

Erika Badura

I have been around for a long time. I have seen many adventures fail, and some adventures that changed the world. I have seen the sky go red in flames from the Rogues. I have seen towns go up in flames, but equally I have lived through the times of peace and prosperity of my people. Many people I have known are gone, but I have not forgotten their kindness. They will always be in my mysel'. I will always cherish the memories of them. One of the girls I met was especially kind. A ragged thing she was. Curly black curls in a boy's haircut covered her head, mud caked every part of visible skin. Her eyes we're kind but melancholy, like she's seen more than any girl her age should have. She rarely spoke; not because she couldn't, because when she did it was always clear and beautiful. Like a song that no one else knew the lyrics to. She wore clothes of a servant but carried herself as a lady, her posture sublime. She was like a gentil soul, gliding gracefully but always guarded. When she stayed with me, she usually helped me with tasks that I couldn't do so well on my own: gardening, cooking, sewing. in return she would tell me stories of where she came from. She wove tales as if she'd been doing it all her life. Tales of the lapses, and how the forest looked when it rained. All the beautiful sounds the animals made. And the dragons. How you could see the dragon race from the mountains, and how she would sometimes ride them.

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She stands there, her black curls framing her pale complexion in a pixie haircut. Dressed in a dragon-riding kit, she exudes an air of adventure. The leather jacket, adorned with intricate stitching, fits snugly against her form. It's pockets hold maps, a compass, and a small flask of pivo. Her trousers, reinforced at the knees, allow for ease of movement as she straddles the saddle. The boots, sturdy and worn, bear the marks of countless storms and hard times.

Around her waist, a belt secures a pouch containing dragon treats—dried fufler's liver and burnt semaphine eyes. On her wrists, leather gloves protect against her dragon's scorching scales. And there, pinned to her lapel, a dragon emblem—a symbol of courage and kinship.

Her eyes sparkle with anticipation and excitement as she approaches the waiting dragon. Its iridescent scales shimmer in the sunlight, and its wings stretch wide, ready for flight. She whispers a few words in the ancient language, a bond forged through trust. The dragon rumbles, acknowledging her presence. It reaches out into her mind, silently beckoning her to join it.

And so, with a leap and a beat of wings, they take to the skies, Seraphiné somehow in control.

How did I get here, you ask? Well, it's a very complicated story that will take some time. I am Seraphiné. I am am the dragon-rider who changed history. This is my story.