//------------------------------// // The Perennial // Story: The Last Dragon Lord // by TheApostate //------------------------------// ‘In eternity, obsessions are the only things that keep the mind sane.’ -Cerin Ayaera, Prosperin philosopher. Since times immemorial, the Dragon Isles were described for their unique natural wonders; rich escarpments and mountains harboring the most prolific mines of precious gems, only second to those found in the cursed Crystal Empire, were what rendered the Isles the pride of their inhabitants. Where the Empire would share a modicum of its mines’ fruits with Equestria and the world, the Dragons guarded them fiercely for use as exquisite meals for the celebration of the Winter Solstice. During the celebration, all Drakes would unleash their flames at once – except for Cornelia – before the start of their hibernation until the Equinox of Spring, when another feast would be held. The sorcerer clenched his ruby necklace, hiding it beneath his plain-looking apparel, enlacing it with a spell of obfuscation. He knew the foul things could smell it. Yet, in his long life, Maloghurst seldom ventured there to observe those truly wonderful spectacles – everyone seldom ventured there. While beautiful through natural wonders and geography, the Dragons, unfortunately, had taken the Isles as their home. And, in his opinion, desecrated them completely. Sometimes, utterly – the Feast of Claws on Smaug Island came to mind. There, a once verdant island existed once but the Validir had transformed it into the grounds of their annual tournament occurring on the day of the Summer Solstice. Surprisingly enough, Celestia had never been invited by the autonomous Ignovians to the opening ceremony of lighting up the Eternal Flame more incandescently with the black oaks of the western Charcoal Woods. Forests, the Drakes had not settled, preferring the proximity to their feeding source while having a picturesque view to look at. In the Dovashore and the Spiky North, lay the crystal mines the Drakes used for sustenance. However, these only were finite resources. Under the Mountain the Dragon Lord had taken for residence, a secretive group of Drakes known as the Crystal Singers cultivated the precious stones in the immense chthonian depths. The means utilized are only undertaken by those with a great will to withhold the mental duress put on them. For centuries have they been in their act, and not even the Dragon Lord herself could force her will upon them. They are sacrosanct individuals; if harm ever would come to one of their numbers, be it from a drake or one of the small races, you would have the entirety of Dragon kind on your back. The experience of a past Validir exiled to the eastern archipelago and left to die a slow death for simply injuring one of the Crystal Singers was proof enough and a lesson of the seriousness of their status is taken. Ophis had been put, by the Singers’ request, as their group’s nominal leader. Though he never ruled them – the bolstering was enough of a reward in and on itself. The shore made itself apparent in the distance, a black sand beach barely perceivable without getting a few meters from it (or a few apples away, like the Equestrians would tend to say in their [REDACTED] ways). As he landed, he recalled hearing of the Crimson Isle, a part of the greater micro-archipelago of the Eastward Islands, whose sands were colored red from iron deposits. On the Crimson Isle, since times immemorial, the Validir would congregate to lay down their differences without resolving to infighting and senseless feuding through honor duels or simple sport. The Dragon Lord would have typically presided over the attendance, but Cornelia had broken this tradition – she frankly stopped caring for the young ones’ short-sided tribulations and aspirations. Ironically enough, per Drakonian legends, the sand’s vermillion color was a result of the first Validir shedding his blood to signal for the rest of his kin the cost of constant fighting following a series of almost mythological battles that had dwindled the Validir to a shadow of their once glory. He moved inland, letting the hideous things that are the Drakes peer down at him with malicious gazes. Where the Validir and the Magna Dracii are all majestic indeed; almost sculpted to perfection with their pristine leathery wings, immaculate teeth, and sharp jaws. The others – the vast majority of the race and what can be considered as the common flock – are tall compared to other races but still smaller in height than their counterparts. Some were earthbound, most had wings, and of the latter, a portion would have bat-like wings instead of the back-bound wings. Where in other races some individuals would be called beautiful, Maloghurst found it difficult to ascertain what a beautiful Dragon must look like outside very rare exceptions. He had been told as having an utterly divergent sense of aesthetics – and it might as well be true – but he noted what the different cultures and races considered attractive throughout their existences. The crushing majority of which he did not fall into, except perhaps for the dirt-ridden Hounds. But he had to admit: they are indeed diverse in their looks. In this aspect, he considered them beautiful. Immediately, he was greeted with the most iconic sight of the Isles; the Eye of the Mother. The Mountain of Cornelia rests in the center of this truly gigantic geological structure of fifty kilometers in diameters (or a few hundred giant gallons of apple cider made according to the Albion standard) seemingly created in ages impossibly long ago – even before any of the sapient races of the world had evolved. The greater structure was made of an ensemble of ripples formed in concentric circles separated by river valleys said to have been carved by Cornelia herself – but as with most things in her life, she forgot if she had invested herself in its formation whatsoever. Water ran freely, but little to no trees grew on the riverside; the old volcanic rock was too infertile for anything to be sustained in. For the earthbound Drakes to head toward Cornelia, a great path had been sculpted by the Great Dragon – and for some reason, she recalled it quite keenly. Makeshift bridges had been constructed; simple in design and look, but beautiful in their own simple way. Only around those bridges, trees would grow. Squamata, as Protector of the Wooden Lands, insisted to her peers and Cornelia to arrange those passes as a way to properly honor their Mother. Maloghurst approached the Great Dragon’s Mountain with an assured walk, confidence reeking out of him like the stench of his degraded frame. The Drakes smelled his rotting limbs from the distance; it appalled them, liberating his sharp eyes from their sight. The Perennial’s body was somehow both putrefying and stagnating in form and vigor simultaneously. He was not dying, nor was he exulting with life – Maloghurst just existed. And existed he had. Syln, a powerfully built Validir and latest great winner of the Feast of Claws, unbothered by the sorcerer’s stench, blocked the congregation’s path to his Mother. Syln’s deep green scales lacked the threatening feel like others of his kind would at first inspection. However, a more pronounced glance showed scars and empty patches of scales strewing his skin. His silver claws showed the sign of battle wear, and his long tail indicated extensive use. But Maloghurst was little impressed. He only saw the last remnants of a dying strain. Of all the Validir, only three were female; with only one, Derkoma, having a descendant able to bear children. He might be vile to them, but the Dragons’ propensity for self-destruction baffled him for how contradictory it was to the evolutionary norms of every race extant in that world. The Validir asked Maloghurst in a carefully chosen tone to convey his origins before meeting the Great One, as Syln implied. Maloghurst grinned at first, amused to hear such beasts would care for history or know anything outside of their precious islands. He had no desire in disputing the Validir – it was too hot for his liking to display his debating skills. A few days-old volcanic eruptions had yet to have their heat fully dissipate. The sorcerer introduced himself to the Validir with a calm tone, giving off the patience of death and the weight of countless centuries behind every word he uttered. Maloghurst had difficulty completely recalling his origins – if at all. From what he conveyed to Syln was that he once was a Griffon, or possibly a Pegasus, or probably any strain of equine-kind; he wasn’t sure himself – it was so long ago. Maloghurst was there when civiliza­tions rose from the dirt of the river banks upon which the first city was established. He was there when the equine tribes united to form Equestria. He was there when the first nations rose in Griffus. He was there when the fires of Trinity swept the continent. And he was there when civilizations began to delve into the darker mysteries of magic. Cultures were still figuring out the extent to which they could utilize the magical talents of the few gifted with it. Many struggled, particularly those harboring the naturally gifted Unicorns, in those early days – but he had mastered it like none other. He extended his life in all manners he taught himself. Maloghurst skinned, stole the life essence, hacked his rotting limbs to replace them with freshly cultivated ones, cast foul spells of his creation, and evaded countless assassinations. He passed through impossible odds, improved himself, and outlived all those that once challenged him. He was what all his moniker signified – he was the Perennial. If his memory served him right, he had been brought to be an equerry in the court of some monarch in Zebrica or was born as a simple farmer in what is now Vedina. And probably may have been the descendant of the first Thestral dynasty that once ruled parts of northern Equus – the name of which neither he nor History recall, just a few remnants they left after their collapse still tell of a once glorious past for their isolated people. Or simply it was just his victims’ memories playing with his own – who could say. Not even the conclave he once presided over, and his now-dead confidantes could have said. The soul is a fickle thing, acting on its own uncontrollable whims. The conclave had been wrought of the same roughage as Equestria and always dabbled in the deepest recesses of the esoteric that let its users revel in their creations and the liberty it would offer them. For the most part, it had been his life, acting in his corner and untrammeled by the outside in some kind of foul pact strock to provide the means and peace it would assure. He had even gone to the length of protecting the villages under his rule from outside predations during the Great Chaos. But it had all come crushing down when the Two arose. Ever since he had been fleeing the devastation Luna had brought upon him in her campaign to rid Equestria completely of their taint. The power she had showcased devastated nearly all cells his conclave had occupied, with him barely escaping with his life and the few grimoires when the Equestrians moved into his laboratory. They had never aligned with Discord, but the actions of some rogue elements had been enough to incur Luna’s wrath. Many members were often taken off-guard in their personal crafting chambers. There was no clemency shown; Luna was indiscriminate with those beings. For her it was clear; they profaned life and, in turn, did not deserve to live. In his isolation, Maloghurst did not remain idle, however. He toiled in secret with the meager resources at his disposal to retake his place of rightful dominance. To then ascend as head of the disparate elements of the myriad of cults and cabals which, following their nominal leader’s slaying, had been fleeing Celestia’s last push instead of her sister and were hiding away from them. The fact the leader-thing had been slain, to begin with, had surprised Maloghurst. But it was a welcomed gift from cursed Luna’s part nonetheless. However, Syln was only vaguely told of the sorcerer’s ambitions. Lest to say, Maloghurst hated Luna and, by association, her sister as well. Centuries passed, and his hatred never subsided. Syln smiled, but his instincts were telling him to not let Cornelia meet the fetid creature. But she had let Maloghurst move forward; he would never challenge Cornelia’s decision. He knew it was wrong, but the knowing pressure in his mind was telling him to comply with whom he had always called his Mother.