Recently Realm Runner Studios ran a creative writing competition. The idea was simple: using the image above for inspiration, write a short piece answering the question, “what happened here?”

I wrote and submitted my entry, but didn’t win. The winner was discord member Silent-Sifu with a lovely poem about the unity between fairies and dragons. However, I was pretty proud of my little story, so here it is:

The water flows on. And on.

The valley inhales a breath of bitter ice mingled with the tang of those few weeds hardy enough to outlast this dark winter. The unmistakable reek of brimstone hangs in the air. The valley holds its breath for a moment, then exhales a raspy breath. The tattered flag, still clinging on desperately to its proud mast, whips around. The mast rattles, a hollow laugh ringing out into the air.

The river runs like a crack through the Earth, gliding ponderously over smooth stone.

Many years ago this valley teemed with life. The valley breathed slowly and easily. Alpine flowers wove a carpet on the valley floor, while mosses and lichens clung to the limestone crags. Noble nue stalked the grasses, while furtive funguar spun chrysalises from jagged thorns, in preparation for their chromatic metamorphosis. Ancient redwoods stood breathtakingly tall while impundulu chased cirrus across a sapphire sky. The river rippled, projecting shards of cool, shimmering light. Colour abounded.

Then a plague descended of scale, claw, and sinew. Their lungs were forged of fire and ice. But their hearts were not cruel. The dragons landed softly, brushing aside webs of silk and morning dew. They made the valley their home. For a while, there was an uneasy equilibrium. But it did not last. Redwoods were felled and not replaced. Rock was hewn to build temples to unwelcome and apathetic gods. Unwitting ratites were hunted until their numbers collapsed, the last few cowering in stark angular quarries or behind the charred stumps of trees. Then one day, they were gone. The dragons’ had become heavy and slow, their footprints deep. The colour began to fade.

With each generation of hatchling, the young fledglings accepted the world into which they had been born. The baseline shifted. Chroma was a power that had to be managed and maintained. It didn’t fall from the firmament or spring from the soil. The valley had become a simulacrum.

Achrom promised an easy path to power. What choice was there? Had it not always been this way? Wars waged across the realm. Lands were smashed. Dragons fought drakes. The lucky ones turned to stone.

They drew breath and scorched the land with fire and ice. The sky filled with ash, and an unnatural winter set in. The drakes departed and the dragons planted their flag in the dead ground to mark their pyrrhic victory. This was their land, their valley. And then they too departed, their feet finally lifting off the barren wasteland.

They call this Draco Planum, the realm of the dragons. Ha! The arrogance!

Improbable karst mountains jut into a steel grey sky, gesturing upwards, pointing their fingers of blame. At their feet, soft fresh snow and permafrost hide frozen seeds, optimistically dropped by the last of the redwoods. The ash in the sky blots out the sun, but it will settle. One day.

The water flows on. And on.