298-303 (Ralquez, i-vi)

The Introduction of Everyman, Mutiny, The Isle of Raksh, the Galvanized Dragon

Ralquez is a world to which I have run away many times. I began developing it when I was in my early teens. Picture the world you would expect a boy who loved Christopher Paolini’s “Eragon” to invent—it’s that. Your typical fantasy realm, of elves and magic and dragons and myths; but it has grown from a copy of Tolkien and Paolini, Dungeons and Dragons and other medieval RPGs, to a mythos of my own of which I’m not only fond, but proud.

In its most ‘canon’ of tales, a young nobleman of Lewellen, Wrenogal, loses both his reputation and homeland—wrested from him by one named Zlyr, once a significant ally. Their chief split occurs at sea, while Wrenogal leads an expedition into the dangerous southern ocean, over which legend says dragons still fly. Zlyr convinces most of the voyagers to return before landfall, as supplies dwindle and morale dissipates. The Wren (as Wrenogal is sometimes called in poetry) and a few loyal individuals continue on, and discover the isle of Raksh, where once was a wealthy civilization, but now a dragon dwells.

These sonnets cover about that much, and are prefaced by a writer who goes by the chosen name “Everyman”. Everyman’s story intersects with Wrenogal’s, and the latter is responsible for a pivotal juncture in Everyman’s life. It is this intersection that convinces Everyman to forego his old name and ways, and turn from brutal mercenary, wielding the terrible flaming sword of Locrien, to a humble chronicler. Here, Everyman undertakes to tell the story—a story that, he believes, changed the course of Ralquez.

~~~

A broken brute, who healed, wrote history,

and all the great adventures of his time,

and how a humble man made misery

repentance that was worthy of a rhyme.

His name he never referenced for himself,

who knew that it would mar the tale he wrote,

but hung his shame high up upon a shelf

and nailed his name in reaches far remote.

Tho ‘twould appear in stories you will hear,

the author is not known to hear it now,

for many men are burdened by the fear

‘The Sword of Locrien’ could once endow.

So this balked, broken brute records the day

his heart was moved to walk another way:

~

When Wrenogal, who sails the sinking ship,

embarked upon that failing southern sea

there was that nemesis who would soon clip

not only his, but all four feathers, free.

“I say, sea-frenzy has our captain cowed,

and not fit for his captaincy,” said he.

“His agued mind will not now be allowed

to lead us in this perilous south sea.”

So Zlyr stole all but few of that good crew

and went back to Lewellen’s harbory,

while they, the rest, still southward, empty, flew,

by daring and by doom upon the sea.

Yet not for naught was this fleet made to fly

when on the isle of Raksh they were to spy.

~

‘twas Wrenogal and good Naerendal, too,

and Taladen, and Beyrg, and Melody,

who were the few of that inspired crew

that set foot on that isle in that fay sea.

But wiles of that wild hemisphere were wont

to break a band of many more than they,

and soon but two were left with all the daunt

that death delivers to the souls who stay.

Naerendal, faithful to the last and least,

could only do what fate would let him do,

and finally, at last, fell to the Beast

that only Wrenogal would soon subdue.

For seraphim would notice presently

that hero that was lost upon the sea.

~

Thus so, alone, the promised to the throne,

lone Wrenogal sought shelter frantically,

and found a home within the crumbling stone

of some great castle that, great, used to be.

Within, an ancient people had retired

before some unknown, dire calamity.

And there were forges that had once been fired

to build bewitching arms and armory.

So, with said bounties of that wild isle,

young Wrenogal took sword and shield and spear,

and, raging, and in desperate denial,

called out that Beast, the dragon, to come near.

And with a crack of lightning, or of wing,

came, roaring, that fay dragon, answering.

~

The storm of Prydien in tandem poured

upon both dragon and young prince of none,

while crashed her lightning, and her thunder roared,

and blotted out the judgment of the sun.

But Wrenogal could no more match the hull

of that great Beast than water to a ship’s.

Its scales make dull his arms as like the full

coronal rays around a pale eclipse.

Shield cast from arm, sword sheathed into its chest,

spear pierced in side, leg broken in by its wrest,

then with one arc across a thund’rous sky,

the lightning bolt of Prydien swept by

and met the sword embedded in its heart

compelling it to die—and to re-start.

~

So roared the dragon, and removed its wounds,

and threw them strewn to wash beneath the rain,

and looked to he who’d cast his two harpoons,

and thought it saw rebirth in he who’d slain.

And formed a canopy above his head,

but leaving room for rain to wash wounds out.

and stayed for days to guard him from the dead

who would have surely taken him without.

A splint and dragon to recover with

will make a long but sure recovery,

and sets a strong foundation for the myth

that dragons still are found in the south sea.

For when, eventually, the Wren returned,

there would be many myths for him to earn.