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Full Version: "My Sorrows Do Multiply" - A Fable of a Dragon
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Years had stretched out beyond all knowing. Age ceased to matter when one lived in a cave and did what one did for years upon years. They fell like grains of sand through an hourglass for the one direly touched by Hyatt's fury. Many had wondered at her, marveled at what she was, who she was, and where she came from.

Not that it mattered to her much in the end, anyways. They all burned away, erased away from existence by her own mind, which could only keep so much contained within it. Names slipped unfettered through the cracks, little details lost, until only the joy of living and the simple process of eating was one to take pleasure in. That, and the fire.

But that's merely a story of now, and you want to hear a story of before the fire, of before the fury running through her veins. I suppose we can tell that story, then.

Hyatt was a powerful god. A powerful one indeed, whose form touched many a man, woman, and child and warped them in his own image, some far more than others. Some of these turned into dire creatures, wandering the dark parts of the world, barely better than their progenitor, but blessed, or perhaps cursed, with a vital spark that burned longer than almost all others thanks to the touch of Hyatt running that much more strongly in their veins.

Almost all of these creatures are dead. They are threats to the civilized world, and thus, shouldn't exist.

But one Hyattr knight, a long long time ago indeed, met one, stuck in a trap, and saved it, removing the threat and nursing it back to health. In that moment, a kinship had formed between them, a kinship that turned more and more into love. That love climaxed into a child, laid as an egg, that hatched into the one known as Paravir.

She emerged as a Hyattr, but as one that was indelibly marked by the legacy of her god: Scales upon scales dotted her form, forming into rock-like spikes jutting from her flesh. The knight died of age, as all normal men do, and the monstrosity likewise died, of countless other attempts to slay it. But the child, she survived.

Living on the outskirts of society and picking off cattle, deer, or whatever meat she could find, she grew strong in the heights of the mountains, living in her cave and thinking little of comforts of the flesh. Many adventurers, lured by tales of dragons in the hills, sought her out, and finding her not altogether hostile, ended up conversing with her, teaching her, and otherwise feeding her knowledge of many things. Some came with less honorable intents, and attempted to slay her. Such attempts ended up failing miserably, as evidenced by the fact that she is quite well and alive today. Throughout the years, she had little contact with the world, until something seemingly coaxed her from her mountaintops, to come down and see the world at large.

Her age is unknown. Even she doesn't even remember anymore. It's been so long, after all. So many faces. So many names. They all blur together, like a thousand brightly colored tiles of a mosaic appearing brilliant up-close, but from afar, merely appearing as a massed jumble without form, pattern, or substance.

But what do I know? This is just a myth, after all.