Editing Periodic Table of Dragons/Stories (section)

==The Legend of Saint Gilles de Mont-Eiresen==

Hark ye now, children, to the history lesson for today. It is the anniversary of Saint Gilles de Mont-Eiresen, and we honor his memory by keeping it alive within our hearts.

Long ago, when our kingdom was young, still but a single hamlet underneath the awning of Mont-Eiresen going by no more regal a name than Riverton, young Gilles Urena fell foul of a mayor of supreme political misguidedness. You can still see the scars upon the mountain's peak, where the Uranium dragon Horkelen fought the Neptunium dragon Jelmno for supremacy over the pass between the crags.

Much trade passed through this pass, and our town was founded by the traders, and for long years, each mayor of Riverton swore allegiance and paid tribute to Horkelen, for the mountain had always been his, and Horkelen for his part ensured that no bandits or warlords molested the peaceful town. Mayor Brennan broke tradition, thinking himself more clever than he was, and, perceiving a vulnerability in Horkelen, allied himself with Jelmno in secret pact. With Horkelen gone, Jelmno swore to take no tribute, wishing only to slay his Uranium rival. Mayor Brennan promised to lure Horkelen into the open with a lie of some kind in turn, so that Jelmno might take him unawares.

The two came to blows, but at the last possible moment, Mayor Brennan unleashed a stolen spellbook upon both dragons, mortally wounding each. In their dying throes, they savaged the town, but Brennan emerged triumphant. The ambitious Brennan became dictator, marshaling the scum of the surrounding regions to his banner, and purchased Riverton's loyalty with stolen land and coin that no longer went to dragons. With the bandits now working for Brennan, the land came to know prosperity for a time, stabilizing the tyrant's rule.

Gilles was driven from the town, trapped on the other side of the pass when the dragons collapsed it. By the time Brennan removed the rubble, Gilles had long been forced to seek his fate elsewhere. 

Gilles, friendless, without family, with only a few coins to his name, wandered the world as he grew to manhood. Serving in many armies, he developed a reputation as a capable fighter, and a man who other men would follow. High in the foothills of distant lands, at the end of a campaign under Emperor Alessandro the Majestic of Delarmien, Gilles was promoted to captain in the Delarmien Guard, and as was customary for those that earned their promotion in the field, permitted to claim a single artifact for themselves from the spoils of war, dragged from the vaults of distant lands.

Great jewels were there, born in the guts of Chromium dragons, and plates of shining Gold forged from a Gold dragon's scales. More beautiful than all else were glass artifacts of brilliant color, forged by Uranium dragons of a distant era, and a breastplate made with a single scale from an Osmium dragon was hotly contested. Goods of a more mundane nature were plentiful as well, but what man would turn down even an echo of draconic majesty?

Wise Gilles chose instead a simple spine from a Tungsten dragon, impossibly hard and sharp, which he fashioned into the head of a spear. Upon the campaign's conclusion, he thanked the Emperor for his generosity, and swore to return one day to serve under him once more.

The spear served Gilles well, and now at least he cleaved true to his innermost desire. Ever since he was a small child, watching his family be murdered by two rampaging dragons from the pass where he herded sheep, Gilles desired vengeance upon all dragonkind, since Horkelen and Jelmno were forever denied him.

Gilles is renowned as the only known human in all of history that slew five dragons, the Sulfur dragon Hes-Sarran, mighty Skethel the Leaden titan, cunning Fliqua of the Mercury breed, and the Boron dragon Chten the treacherous, who spoke of alliance with the dragonslayer, but instead betrayed Gilles to the mercy of all-consuming Quelkien the Francium terror.

Quelkien nearly killed Gilles, who managed to turn the tables on Chten and use his corpse for defense against Quelkien's radiant breath. With the scourge of the Southlands dead, Emperor Alessandro contacted Gilles once more, offering him a deal Gilles could not refuse.

With such honor heaped upon Gilles, now a known dragonhunter, and with such gifts bestowed him by the Delarmien nation, how, said Allesandro, could Gilles refuse to lead his army to war... against Brennan's Riverton duchy, squatting like a boil upon the mountain and river trade routes fueling fully a third of Alessandro's empire?

Alessandro's plans were clear to Gilles now. Gilles was to deliver Alessandro the land of his people, bringing them bloody war in the guise of liberation. Instead of Brennan's boot, it would be Alessandro's golden scepter pressing upon Riverton forevermore. Without Gilles' knowledge of the land, skill at arms, and reputation as a dragonslayer, no man would follow Alessandro into the valley flanked by peaks still glowing from dragonfire many years before. Riverton was a name of fear, ruled by a tyrant and perhaps haunted by the spirits of wrothful dragons.

Who else could dare the risk, but Gilles? And who else could have built Gilles' reputation, but an Emperor who recognized a dragon-killer in the making...

Though Gilles quailed at the thought of making war upon his hometown, he saw no way to extricate himself from his situation. Emperor Alessandro made it clear to Gilles that either he would conquer, or his spear would find a new home between his ribs. With a heart heavier than the tip of his spear, Gilles took command of the Southern Division, and marched to war.

The campaign was short, and without much interest to historians. All Alessandro needed Gilles for was to lead the army through the Mont-Eiresen pass, the disciplined warriors of Delarmien delivered the inevitable conclusion to Brennan's rabble.

Heartbroken at the carnage, Gilles entered the fray halfheartedly, playing his role by breaking down the doors before Brennan's hovel-turned-"palace", and slaying the would-be tyrant where he cowered before the throne.

Now, all that was left was to await the arrival of a true tyrant of men, Emperor Alessandro, who would arrive in person to officially claim his prize, and by his presence, convince traders that the pass and river were safe once more.

Gilles busied himself with the rebuilding of the town, at last having a job to do that didn't sicken him. Inwardly, he was thankful that none remembered who he was, for those that knew him were now dead.

In Brennan's personal records, Gilles found something curious, a series of messages to a bandit leader, detailing how merchants and bandits alike were going missing in the pass, their bodies never being found. Looking at Mont-Eiresen, Gilles noticed what others had not, too busy in banditry or keeping their heads down. The mountaintop was brightly lit, not merely by lingering radiance, but by lightning. 

Gilles climbed Mont-Eiresen, telling his men that this would add to his reputation in order to calm their suspicions. Let them think him a glory-hound, so long as they let him climb alone.

About three quarters of the way up the immense spire or rock, Gilles found what he had hoped, though it chilled him to the bone. A swarm of Carbon dragons, entwined in their mating rituals, sending sparks into the air with wild abandon.

Steeling himself for what must be done, he descended into the rocky depression upon the mountain's shoulder.

Before he had gone three steps, it seemed that a piece of the mountain air itself had come to life, and was at his throat, hissing a warning in wordless tongue. Gilles had heard rumors of such creatures in his travels, of the oldest Carbon dragons, and now his hopes were confirmed. One of their old ones was perched upon his shoulder, observing him with the calm detachment of one who knows that it is in no danger whatsoever.

Gilles spoke no words, for the Carbon would surely kill him for interrupting its children's rituals, merely proffered the hide of Chten, preserved for years in Gilles' backpack. The Carbon dragon's gemstone eyes widened, and it sniffed the hide cautiously. With this, he could enter the radiant regions, and clear them out for his children to inhabit. With this, they could make a temporary stopover into a home, safe against detection by their many predators.

Gilles merely stepped back, and gestured that the Carbon should take the hide.

Now, the Carbon spoke, asking Gilles in a voice like broken glass what prompted a dragon killer to call upon dragons, for any Carbon who reached old age had eyes and ears in many lands, where Gilles' reputation had spread.

Gilles offered the hide, the mountain, and safety for all time to the Carbons. He offered them allies in the world of men, should they desire them, and the promise of easily accessing the crops of men, which the Carbons covet for nutrition.

The Carbon stared at Gilles for long moments, and with a hiss of crystal on flesh, slipped the Boron hide over himself without a word. Disappearing into the gathering night, the Carbon was gone.

Gilles feared the worst, but at least his conscience was assuaged. Whatever came now, he had done what he could.

Emperor Alessandro came upon Riverton on a bright and clear summer's day, regal in his gilded armor upon a majestic steed. Stepping to a podium, he gave a speech now lost to history, proclaiming his control over Riverton and the wealth that would surely come to them under his rule.

Though the legends are shrouded in mist, all are clear on one point. Midway through, Alessandro stopped, and rubbed his throat as if to clear his lungs. A thin line of red blood emerged, and his head fell from his shoulders. As his army, the assembled nobles, and the village looked on in horror, men began to die. A hot wind came down from the Mont-Eiresen peak, carrying a black cloud of choking dust, and the eyes of men were blind.

Something invisible passed among them, killing whom it would, a capricious spirit of wrath and horror, and a great wail of fear arose from the town.

When the black mist passed, only Gilles stood upon the stage. Only Gilles was free of the black dust. Only Gilles was illuminated by a brilliant beam of sunlight, spearing down from the church spire, though the sun was in the wrong position in the sky. If one looked carefully, one could see the spire twinkling and flickering, and the townspeople cried out that an angel had chosen Gilles to free them, and this is what the remnants of Alessandro's army told the nation of Delarmien, as they fled, never to return to Riverton.

Now, though Gilles revealed the deception to his people, we proclaim him as a Saint to all the lands around us. If ever an enemy enters the mountain pass, our "angels" swoop down upon them, and the river runs red with blood. 

Our kingdom has grown since then, absorbing much of the Southlands of the dying Delarmien Empire. Without their king, and with the cream of their army dead, Emperor Alessandro's aggression came home to roost with a vengeance.

Once the breakers of nations, Delarmien is broken in turn, and its ruined lands are spoken of only with fear that it should not happen to the tale-teller.

Saint Gilles never broke his word to the Carbons, and every year we pay them a tithe of our produce. The rich river soil provides more than we need, and it is a trifle for the gift we receive in kind.

The blood of Saint Gilles remains with us now, his lineage strong and proud throughout the centuries.


How did the Saint die, you ask, if not at the claws of the Carbon, or the blade of Alessandro?

The true test of Gilles' allegiance came in the bitterly cold winter of Common Era 1327, a year when the skies darkened with soot, and the ground shook with such force that roofs and walls tumbled like matchsticks. A cadre of terrible Fluorine dragons descended from the heavens, ranging further south than any memory had ever recorded a Fluid dragon before. They wrought such havoc upon the Carbons, for they were desperately hungry, that even the old Carbon himself could not protect his kin. Gilles charged upward into the tempest, braving thunder, ash-dark, and the hellish breath of the Fluorines, armed only with his spear, and his courage.

None can say what transpired upon the mountain peak, but you have merely to look upon the pitted, corroded remnants of his spear, enshrined in the center of town, to know that not a single Fluorine dragon escaped his wrath. The old Carbon, himself a smoldering wreck of a beast, brought it back to us, and left without a word. We know not if he still lives, but the treaty Gilles signed with chisel, and validated in blood, is honored to this day.

Now then, I think I hear the Honor Bell tolling. It is time for the procession.