Toyhouse

(This story is true to OU2. The tale varies from world to world)

The Origins

21st April, 497 BC. Somewhere on the ocean.

My name is Marcius Summanus. I am a soldier of the "ninth" legion, though we are technically only a band of the lowest soldiers sent out to collect rare ingredients. We named ourselves ninth because we are the ninth group to be sent to this godforsaken land of ice. What the healers do with what we are to collect is beyond me, but to travel this far, and to send so many men - no matter how talentless they are - must mean it is important.

We are to find a dragon of the northern wastelands and take it's body back to our base in Albion. They told us to bring it back whole. However, from the few survivors who arrived back before us, I feel that will be impossible.

I strongly suspect we will not survive this, either.

26th April, 497 BC. Spitsbergen.

We moved in, surrounding the cavern. With shields and swords ready, we searching but found no entrance, and the hole we had looked through yesterday had been hidden by fresh snow. We must have dithered there for an hour before a low rumbling became apparent. It was coming from the cavern. Soon, a dragon poked their head from the top of the snowy mound, snow piled on their head, saw us and retreated back to the cave.

Now that we knew where the entrance was, a group climbed up to find it. I stayed behind, watching from a distance. One by one, I saw them vanish from where they were walking and heard the screams and snarls from within the cave. Only moments after a dragon, then another and another flew up out from the mound, their wings making a horrendous sound in the cold air. They wheeled around and dove straight for us. A few of us stood and fought, lending gashes to the undersides of the beasts and gaining gashes in return, but the rest of us ran for cover. Our archers rained arrows on them, very few of the arrows actually piercing the scales. In only a minute it seemed that the entire sky was full of dragons, all flapping, snarling, roaring and swooping. Many of our men fell, dead or fatally injured. We knew then this would be the death of us.

Evidently, I didn't die.

The sun was still in the sky when I awoke next. There were no roars, no shouts. There was, in fact, silence. This time there were no clouds in the sky, so the light was blinding.

There was a weight on my chest preventing me from moving, which when I glanced down found was the dragon's head. The bulk of the beast was slumped in the snow, cold and seemingly dead. No breath steamed, the eyes remained shut. Its blood pooled around me, mixing with mine and the snow. I tried to push it off, but had not the strength to do so. And anyway, the pain from my wounds was too great to move.

I cried for help, but my voice was hoarse and quiet. There was no one left to hear me.

I'm writing all this down now. I managed to pull my codex and pencil from my pocket and have my codex rested on the dragon's head. I hope, if I die here, someone will find this and take it back to my father.

Someone, being the next mission doomed to die.

27th April, 497 BC. Spitsbergen.

At least, I think that is the date. No one has yet told me.

I woke again with the dragon still on me. This time, I managed to crawl out from beneath it. Picking up my pencil and codex, I shoved them in my pocket and surveyed the area. Everywhere was red, everywhere there lay my comrades and dragons. Everywhere I saw death. So much death. Too much death.

I stumbled through the snow, making my way vaguely towards where I hoped the ships would be. I didn't notice at the time, but I left no trail of fresh blood and my wounds were not weeping as they should have been. Pain was still there, though. In every step. In every movement.

I made it to the ships and, to my surprise and relief, some of my comrades ran out to help me aboard. They told me they had ran when the dragons came and they were ashamed that they had done so, but that they were also glad they had so they could help the few survivors who returned.

I was taken to the medical bay, where the only doctor aboard checked me over. He was silent for most of the time, frowning when he saw how fast the wounds had healed. He gave me something to ease the pain and a poultice to apply to the wounds then sent me on my way to my room. I was glad of the warmth, of the food, of the soft blankets. Even, oddly, of the memory of the dragon's weight on my chest.

1st May, 497 BC. Spitsbergen.

I rested for days. I heard that more survivors came from the gossip my comrades brought, that they were either in the same state as I or that they died soon after. I healed fast, the doctor said, too fast for normal.

A few decided to set out and bring a dragon corpse back to the ship. I watched from the deck as they dragged two back over the snow. One was a small, blue creature with one of its wings missing and the other was grey with curling horns. I couldn't help but turn away as they manhandle them onto a ship. I don't know why I couldn't look, I don't know why it made me sick to the stomach. I had seen worse than dead bodies before.

That night, or what was counted as night when the light only dimmed, I crept to the boat where the dragons were. They were in the hold, lying at awkward angles with limbs askew. I knelt by both in turn, saying my silent apologies to them. How could we, as a race, have killed another race so mercilessly? They had been defending their home, their lives, as any being would and we had gone in and slaughtered them.

I shook my head and went to leave, but noticed from the corner of my eye something glinting. Scales, both grey and blue, littered the floor. I picked up one of each and slipped them safely in my pocket, then left without a sound.

1st May, 497 BC. Spitsbergen.

4th May, 497. Somewhere on the sea again.

There were a score and two of us left in the end. Just enough to man every ship home. I insisted on piloting the one with the dragons. At first, the doctor said I was too unwell, but I made a point of promptly swordfighting my friend - and winning, I'd like to add - to ease his worries. Eventually, he conceded and I sailed the boat out onto the open seas after the others. I stayed behind somewhat, with the pretence that the rigging had become jammed, but waved away any offer to help. As soon as we were out over deep water, I went below and tried with all my might to haul the poor dragons to the window, yet there was no use. I could barely lift a wing, let alone the entire beast. I stood staring at them for some minutes. I couldn't let them fall into the hands of those who wanted them. I had had my suspicions about their sketchy trade for a long time, and with creatures such as this who knows what they would do.

I went below, to the hull of the ship. Down here there were weapons. Swords, shields, bows and arrows and axes. I took the largest axe and ran back to the deck. I checked the wind direction and started work on the base of the mast, cutting and hacking until it creaked and groaned and fell free. It smashed through the gunnel and plunged into the sea, rocking the ship as the ropes caught. I dove out of the way as it fell and listened for the crash I hoped would come. Instead, I heard a thump. Peering over the edge, I saw the mast had come alongside the starboard and was being dragged along. That was not what I had wanted. I ran to the wheel and drove the ship hard to starboard. Without sails, it was already slowing down, but it was enough. The end of the mast smashed through the hull, letting water pour in. I shouted for the the other ships and leapt overboard as the ship sank to its watery grave, the dragons with it.

10th May, 497 BC. Albion.

You may be wondering how my codex didn't get completely ruined. Well, I left it aboard one of the other ships, along with the scales, in a hidden place. I retrieved it later and wrote all that transpired on my sunken ship down. I am now currently on my way south, meant to be returning home. I think... I will go home for now, but come back here later. I have found a place I quite liked and would like to be a knight at. It's a small castle with not many people, which I feel more at home at than I do in an army.

By the way, my wounds have almost completely healed and I feel stronger than ever before. I am beginning to suspect the blood from my grey dragon has done something to me.

9th November, 497 BC. Albion.

This may be my last update, and I do not have much time nowadays so I will tell you only the most important details.

I returned home to find my father had died of a grave illness. There was nothing that could have helped, every doctor told me, but still I wondered if it was because I had left for so long on such a dangerous mission. I stayed for a month, maybe more, to grieve before I left the country for good. I returned here, to Albion, where I travelled for months searching out the castle I had promised myself to find. Eventually, I found it, proved my mettle and became a knight. I am busy now, with barely any time to write, but I am enjoying it. It's as if I was always meant to be here.

I have noticed changes in myself since I left Spitsbergen. I have become stronger, my sight and hearing has improved and my healing is fast beyond those of any human. My one friend from home, also a survivor of the dragons, has noticed the same with himself. I am certain the dragon's blood has effected us in some way.

As this could well be the last time I write, I will say farewell to anyone who chances upon reading this. Farewell and good wishes.

19th July, 441 BC. Albion.

My father wrote all that you have read so far, but I want to continue it just a little.

My name is Cuinn Pendraig, son of Macius Pendraig - formerly Summanus - and Evalina Pendraig. I am the current king of Emlyn, a small castle with an even smaller kingdom in Cymru. I, too, have experienced what effects my father described above.

He was a good knight, and an even better king. When the old king died in battle, the queen, after two years of mourning, took Marcius as her husband. I was born a few years later and now, here I am, writing to possible future readers. I've kept this book safe for so long and now that I have my own son and daughter I have decided to write in it. When they are old enough, I will pass it down to them so they can continue keeping a record.

I have already noticed they both have the same symptoms as I. They are only ten years old, yet they can lift a weight that I myself can carry. They both have great eyesight and Elgin especially has great hearing. Both of them also growl occasionally. I cannot tell if this is a normal child thing to do or if it is somehow related to my father's past events.

2nd March, 311 BC. Albion.

Elgin was never much of a writer, so I, his son Teague, am giving a brief update instead.

These draconian symptoms have certainly grown stronger. Of all things I growl when angry, and have at times lost my goddamned mind to some... Beast within. I myself do not want my heir growing up thinking the way Marcius and Cuinn did. It is wrong to think such a creature could be good.

5th December, 87 BC. Albion.

I see now why I found this book buried deep within a chest. Teague certainly did teach his son to be the same as him, and so to after with three generations.

I am fortunately more open minded.

I am queen Selma Pendraig, current queen of Emlyn. I have come to realise after reading this that the reason for the "Condition" I have been struggling with for many years is because I am part dragon. Human in looks, but dragon at heart. I have all the same symptoms as my predecessors, but with the contribution of small wings and horns that grown every full moon. I have not told anyone about this and never will.

I think... I will name myself a dragonblood until a more fitting name can be found.

24th July, 326 AD. Albion.

No one has opened this for so long that the pages are creaking with age and dust. I will make sure to copy it out to a new book.

Beacan Pendraig here, trying to write with my one good hand after a dog bit my writing one.

As for this dragonblood stuff... It has grown over these few generations. It is no longer only small wings and horns, but full blown wings and horns, scales and, in my case, a dragon form. Yes, I am a dragon every full moon. I have been trying to change forms at other times and have yet only partially succeeded.

I have met two other dragonbloods, one of whom can change to a dragon and the other only has wings. I say only as if it's a small thing, but with us, it's huge.

From stories I've heard of others like us, from all over the world. Here, Rome, the northern countries, everywhere. And yet, everyone fears those stories and the dragonbloods are portrayed as evil. I wish it wasn't so, but I cannot do anything about it.

8th September, 497 AD. Albion.

So, it has been exactly one thousand years since my ancestor first became a dragonblood. I was once happy that I was one, but no longer. I've had to suppress my dragon side, my dragon form, to please... him. I wish with all my heart it weren't so, but here we are. I am, however, happy that my son Dewi Pendraig has inherited this dragonblood. He is happy, he can fly free, he can play as much as he wants as a dragon as long as he is not caught. His mother is also a dragonblood. Not one of great strength, but strength enough. She, at full moons, can become a dragon, but at no other times. Or at least, this is what I know.

I will pass this book on to Dewi and hope he will do the same with his children, and the same with their children and so on. This is the only true knowledge of us we have left.

~Etienne Pendraig.

16th April, 2038 AD. Great Britain.

Though I suppose you could still call it Albion. I'm only here for a week, then I'll be going back to Svalbard.

Hi, I'm Jach Oscar. Not sure if I'm descended from the Pendraigs or not. I'll have to check sometime. I'm definitely a dragonblood, that's for sure.

We've come a long way since when Dewi's dad last wrote. We can shift at will, to either dragon or hybrid form, we can speak dragon (Which I'm guessing was a thing already). Some dragonbloods stay as a dragon more often than human, and some can't even change back to human. Here at triple D (Dragonblood Development Department. Though "Ragonblood" fell off the sign) we're studying what makes us a dragonblood. This story is going to help tremendously. For now though, I'll keep it to myself and for my own private research.

Dragonbloods are still seen as evil in most places. We're trying to change that, slowly.

So uh, bye. Not sure if I'll write in here again because writing is not my favourite thing.

23rd January, 2080. Britain.

Triple D has kinda done the opposite. We are not safe as dragonbloods. We are hunted down, we are taken prisoner, experimented on, killed. Apparently it's to stop our kind from becoming full dragons, but I cannot see it like that. They see us as monsters, that is all.

I'm Mabin. I am hiding with another dragonblood named Druidess and a watcher called Seren as I write this. We have escaped from somewhere called the Lab:yrinth and are now trying to stay away from any kind of authorities. While in there, we were mind wiped and set "Tasks" to see how would react when becoming a dragon. They studied us by torturing us, basically. By scaring us.

It seems simple when I write it, but I feel like there is more going on beneath the surface.

I hope we can be free of this.

11th June, 2169. Svalbard.

Free.