Short Story: The Trek of the Zephyrites

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The Trek of the Zephyrites is a tale written by Angel McCoy.

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Scribe's Note: The following journal page was retrieved, undoubtedly without permission, from the Zephyr Sanctum, and in 1326 it came into the hands of the Durmand Priory. The author remains unidentified, and the veracity and authenticity of this account has not been verified. Believe at your own risk.

09 Season of the Scion 1320

Exhaustion and heat may kill us before we get out of here, if the minor irritations don't get us first. The desert winds blow sand into everything. The grains are like tiny biting mites that get between your skin and your clothes, cling to your scalp, and grind between your toes.

My companions have remained taciturn throughout our journey, and as we approach the battlegrounds, we've stopped conversing about anything nonessential to our survival. We're too exhausted to do anything but plod onward.

It's as if the wind, sun, and weather were conspiring to slow our progress. I'm beginning to understand why someone keen on security would make this the location of her lair.

10 Season of the Scion 1320

Our trek into the Crystal Desert has taken weeks longer than expected. The weather has proven unpredictable, but we have finally arrived at our destination.

I write this now from a hill overlooking the battlefield. An air of solemnity rises from the sand in waves like the shimmer of heat, making it difficult to breath. This is where Destiny's Edge confronted the crystal dragon, and where our protector died defending us from her Elder kin. I imagine I can see the crystalline remains of her corpse from here. Tomorrow, we will know.

11 Season of the Scion 1320

Our predecessors, the dwarven Brotherhood, knew she was different. They forged an alliance with her and let her into their minds. They guarded her legacy for as long as they could, but sadly, their race was not to live forever. Destiny decided otherwise, and thus the torch was passed to my ancestors. We hid ourselves away for hundreds of years, helping her as we could and keeping her secrets. It breaks my heart that we did not witness her final moments. She'd lived for millennia, and yet was gone in the blink of an eye.

We're coming here to retrieve whatever remains of her magical corpus, so that her sacred bones won't fall into the wrong hands. Dragons consume magic, but they do not destroy it. They hold it within themselves like a sponge holds water. I only hope we're faster than the scavengers and power-mongers who would use her body to advance their own evil or selfish plots.

I know now what great value there is in her crystal remains. Holding a portion of her in my hand, I was able to walk on the wind, ride the lightning, and channel the sun to my will. We will take her back with us and build a new sanctum where we can rise above the mundane violence of the world. There, we will foster peace and seed the crystals we make with touches of her magic, so that others too can experience her legacy.

I write with some confidence that once we leave this forsaken desert landscape, I will never return. It's everything we are not: inhospitable, lifeless, and cruel. We'll take her to a resting place with fresh breezes and gentle sunshine. She deserves nothing less.

She was as old as the Shiverpeaks, older than the gods. None will ever hear her true name spoken properly. And so we will remember her only as Glint, the one and only dragon who fought the destruction of our world. While we live, she will never be forgotten.

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