The Tale of Cluidhn Malta'i'nour

As a child in the forested elven lands of northwestern New Tiryns, Cluidhn always knew that he was different. Other elves perceived him as an odd one, a dissonance in nature's harmony. He looked different. Beautiful in the elven way, yes, but somewhat... predatory. His movements more like a bird of prey than his graceful kinfolk. His skin a rich buttery gold, his hair gleaming blond, and his eyes an unnatural yellow hue. A gold like one sees in a wildfire, tinged ever so slightly with angry flakes of orange and red. Cluidhn's father Camwyllhs had left during his seventh summer to attend a distant relations' funerary rite in the old lands. He never returned. That summer, the changes began in earnest. Cluidhn's sleep was filled with powerful dreams, every night beginneng where the previous had left off. In these dreams, he possessed the same mind and soul as his earthbound elven form, but his body and experiences were those of a golden dragon hatchling. He broke free of his shell, he squalled for mother, he learned to fly, to hunt, to breathe fire. Enormous elder dragons recited the sagas of creation: how Apsu, the Waybringer, Creator of All, mated with Tiamat to create the first dragons; how Dahak, their first son, betrayed Apsu, poisoning the thoughts of his kinfolk and creating the first chromatic dragons, traitors to the race; how mighty Apsu defeated Dahak in battle, only to be betrayed by Tiamat before Dahak could be slain. Cluidhn's days were spent under elven tutelage, learning the ways of nature, but his heart was filled with fire. The fire of dragons. The breath of Apsu. By his twenty-fifth year, his mother and uncle's interest had focused on his tradition-minded older brother Cadrithon and animal-loving younger sister Tylemyr. Nobody was inclined to speak to the strange-looking boy, easier just to avert one's eyes and go about one's affairs. Cluidhn began to hike to the coast for "meditation retreats" every fortnight or so to escape the ever increasing social awkwardness and exclusion. He found a small cave in a cliffside and built an amateurish little altar, with a crudely hand-carved driftwood dragon to represent Apsu in the back wall of the cave. He would sit there, with Apsu at his back, staring out at the horizon over the ocean, wishing for even just a glimpse of a dragon. This went on fore some years, and the dreams started to come less and less, until Cluidhn's sleep was just sleep and his days dripped slowly by like spilt honey from a table's edge. Cadrithon was confirmed in the path of priesthood, and Tylemyr had begun to excel in her training as a ranger. Then, as things often do, everything changed...

One day, eager as always to practice her training, Tylemyr followed Cluidhn's trail and discovered his sanctuary. Instead of confronting him, she returned to the elfwood and spoke to their mother and Cadrithon of Cluidhn's heresy. The following morning, Cluidhn awoke in his little cave to the pinch of spearheads at his neck. Pinned to the floor by three rangers, he could only watch in astonishment and horror as Cadrithon destroyed his crude altar and prepared to smash the small idol of Apsu that he had lovingly crafted. Seeing the statue of his deity in his brother's vengeful grasp, Cluidhn felt his body convulse. Suddenly, he was filled with an indescribable power. He screamed as fire rushed through his veins and burst forth from his hands, filling the cave and burning everyone and everything inside it. The magic was glorious and, even as his flesh was seared, his soul was flushed with the sorcerous fury. Then all went dark as a spearbutt smashed into his temple. Cluidhn's second awakening that day was a painful one, hazy and confusing. He had been bound and gagged, blindfolded, and tied to a brushwood litter, his burns unhealed. The post-concussion nausea was amplified by the bouncing of the litter as he was dragged through the woods by his outraged kinfolk. After an eternity, the torment ended as the litter was flung to the ground. His blindfold and gag were ripped away. Blinking, he realized where he had been dragged. The sacred circle, a ring of trees where the druids and priests conducted the rituals and mysteries of the elven ways. His extended family looked down at him, faces drawn and grim. His mother leaned forward and spat. "We no longer know your name." As all present turned away in disgust and took their leave, Cadrithon cut Cluidhn free of the litter and freed his wrists, saying "The elders have spoken, he who was once my brother and is no more. If this one is seen within these woods after this day, he will be hunted and slain." Cadrithon yanked his brother to his feet, cuffed his head, and pushed his face close, baring his teeth. "Now run from here, and let not thine feet soil this place again. Run!" Cluidhn ran. He ran until his feet bled. He ran to the coast and he followed the ocean south until he fell. And then he slept. And he dreamed of fire. He was twenty-seven years old...

Cluidhn continued south until he had left his woodland home far behind. He left the coast and headed east. He would go to the mountains. He had seen a faded mural once that showed dragons in flight over the Emperor's Teeth, the imposing mountain range that dominated the island. Surviving by his wits, he scaled the rocky heights, searching for dragons. He found only hardship and starvation. On several occasions, he thought that he saw dragons in flight, only to be crushed with despair upon realizing that they were wyverns, distant cousins to dragonkind, brutish and small. He reached a mountain pass where the rains fed the Sidhe's Blood River. He followed the river, and weak with starvation, he collapsed and lost consciousness. He awoke, choking. An ugly, apish lout was trying to kill him! "Hold still, ya daft elfling, I'm just givin' ya some porrridge! What's yer name, pointy-ears?" said the lout. "I am Cluidhn. I name myself Malta'i'nour." "And what in all the hells does that gobbledygook mean?" "It is elven for Golden Fire." And so he met Aelfred. A half-orc, plying the river in his tiny merchant vessel, bringing the trade from distant Forge and up and down the river. Aelfred, a child of rape and a half-orc, preferred the sailing life to farming or mining, and had sold his mother's cottage and field to buy the Lady Grey only six months before he found the half-dead elf splayed out on the riverbank. He took Cluidhn on as his first mate and taught him the ways of the river and how to use a dagger for more than just carving dragons out of driftwood. The two outcasts formed a complex bond that evolved first into friendship, then into brotherhood, and eventually a father-son relationship as Aelfred grew into middle age and his friend remained a youth. Aelfred enjoyed listening to Cluidhn's tales of dragons and dreams, and life settled into a comfortable routine. For seventy years, Cluidhn lived on the Lady Grey with Aelfred, and as the young elf became an adult, Aelfred became a withered old curmudgeon, salty and brusque. In the summer of that seventieth year, Aelfred died in his sleep. Cluidhn buried his friend as he had always wanted, laid on a blanket on the deck of his beloved ship, and set adrift on the great sea for one last voyage with the Lady Grey. Mourning his friend, and feeling his hundred years, Cluidhn set out on another great journey, alone once again...

He spent many years in the Carven Plains, a vast expanse of tree stumps as far as the eye could see. It was hard to imagine that this desolate, dusty place had once been home to the elves of New Tiryns. It was here that an outcast could eke out a meager existence, taking hunting trips to the sparse woods by Aelfred's beloved Sidhe's Blood river and selling meat and hides to the other outcasts. Over time, though, Cluidhn proved too strange even for the denizens of the Carven Plains. Even with his lack of wisdom, he eventually picked up on the dirty looks and threatening gestures of the folk who called that tortured land home. He decided to make for the city of Gold, and set out once more. He reached the city of Tin and fended off two brigands, a tough and a wizard, who thought him an easy mark. The power flowed through him once more. His hands became dragon claws, and he gutted the wizard and wounded the other, who ran off screaming "Murder! The elf has murdered Indragor!" The wizard's pouch yielded bread, silvers, and an ivory scroll case containing a magical scroll. Knowing full well how the townsfolk were likely to treat a gold-skinned elf with bloodied hands, Cluidhn ran from Tin. As he reached the lake, he heard the baying of dogs in the distance. He shucked his boots and ran southwest in the shallows, evading pursuit. He made his way to the woods in twilight, and slept in the crotch of a tree. As the sun rose over the lake, he examined the scroll. As his brow furrowed with concentration, he felt the power surge within his chest. His eyes tingled, suffused with sorcery, and suddenly he could make out the words and meaning of the arcane symbols. This was a spell that would create a ball of fire, and cast it towards an enemy, where it would explode into a huge magical bonfire. Cluidhn's eyes widened as more of his destiny became clear. He stuffed the scrollcase into his pack and set out southeast along a river, toward the city of Gold. As he approached the city, wrapped in his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, he spotted his erstwhile assailant of the day before, his wounded arm in a sling. The tough was talking to a group of guardsmen, gesticulating wildly with his unwounded hand. Cluidhn pulled his hat a little further down and left the road, skirting the city and walking to the eastward side. There, he saw a line of pilgrims resting next to their wagons and cooking supper. He sat down nearby, and waited for dusk. As one driver rustled around in his wagon, Cluidhn spotted a glint in the fading sunlight. The wagon was filled with golden ore! Cluidhn flashed back to his childhood dreams. He was a young golden dragon, curled against his mother's side on a vast mound of coins, jewels, and precious metal ores. He felt so warm, so comforted by his mother's presence, so loved... "What in the burning eyes of Rovagug? Thief! Thief! There's a bloody thief in my wagon. He's trying to steal our ore!" Cluidhn snapped awake, bleary-eyed and confused. A small horde of dirty pilgrims and drivers grabbed him and yanked him out of... a wagon? "What? No! I'm no thief! I was just trying to warm myself..." The driver interrupted, "This halfwit must have fallen asleep whilst trying to steal our gold! Let's hang the blighter!" Other voices joined in and began chanting "Hang the Elf! Hang the Elf!" Then a deeper voice drowned out the crowd...