Once upon a time, for this is how all tales start, there was a young Draconis named Tiamat.

Tales such as this one have been sung for generations by my people. In fact, my own Birthing Mother was a skald, one who sang of the past and future. Were it not for Her, her songs of our history would still echo in the Singing Caves in the Home of Our Ancestors. Unfortunately, She did come and now I am the last of my race, of the pure Guards. But I, too, have a story to sing; one of loss and gain, of love and hate, of strength found in the darkest of times, and one of changing the Universe's design.

Nothing is impossible here. Nothing is untouched and nothing is sacred.

Here there be dragons.

xxx}-|||)xxx(fsh)xxx

It was a calm night when She sent us out, Her warning still ringing in my skull even after we arrived at the Hideout of Our Enemies. I have things planned for you, Sharp Fang of His Blinking Eye, dark and terrible things that you are powerless to stop. Tremble at yourimpotence and your insecurity. Feel fear again, you smell so delicious when you're afraid. And make sure they die beautifully, those Skenndar. She was insane and cruel! And yet, of my own volition here I was, following Her orders to command a Murder of Draconis and raid the Hideout. Was I as bad as Her?

My Murder was pretty normal by raiding standards: three Boulders of Boneheads, one Quill of Prickers, half a Prowl of Those Who Speak Twice, thirteen-or-so Clouds of Snip-snaps, myself, and two Ones Who Cloak Themselves in His Colours. Overall, a pretty satisfactory Murder if I were concentrating on the raid. Which I wasn't.

No, I was far too busy worrying about what plans She had for this Murder as I watched the younger of the two Cloaks clumsily order around the other Draconis. She had plans to kill off every Draconis here, more or less, simply for rebellion or memory of the Old Times. The Snip-snaps were here because they were expendable at best to Her.

Cruelty was Her specialty, to be as unforgiving as the winter snow and as volatile as the ocean. She wore Her madness for everyone to see; unfortunately most of the Draconis who still visited the Home of Our Ancestors chose not to believe their eyes, instead relying on their Mind's Eye, which was being clouded by Her Control.

Foolish, pitiful Draconis.

I watched as the younger Cloak roared at the Boneheads for not listening to him. Folly and a waste of his breath, Boneheads were named that for a reason, a blend of Attacker and Scout making for a low intelligence.

As this was going on, the older Cloak looked at me and smiled, "Et va an sangris? Trell drest an sangris, dyeh?"

I stiffened, not too many of the younger generation, those born under Her reign, knew Old Tongue. How did this Cloak know it?! Even my Old Tongue was weak from disuse and I was the smallest and youngest of my Birth-Brothers.

And, I had to bitterly remind myself, I couldn't speak it very well to begin with because there were no Elders of First Speakers to teach me after She woke.

"Trell drest an sangris?!" One of the older Boneheads lumbered past the young Cloak and growled at the older one. "Davyet an sangris, trell drest dashtek sangris. Baern drest daln drevyek sangris." The old one scoffed and turned away, "Sandyen travek Claek."

From what I could gather, the Bonehead was angry at the Cloak's choice of phrase. "For the glory of blood." It had set the old one off and he insisted that, in the past, the "glory of blood" was not used to motivate senseless murder, but to promise a good afterlife with the Great Father. Then he proceeded to say that children didn't know the "glory of blood" and that the Cloak was stupid and needed to keep his fool snout shut.

Loosely translated, of course.

The elder Cloak shrugged his massive fore-haunches and snorted a small stream of liquid fire. "Can't blame someone for trying."

"How do you know Old Tongue?" I needed to know if there was someone like me out there, someone who remembered their cub-hood and the time before Her.

"Ah," a smug look appeared on the Cloak's snout as he sat back on his hind legs, "Great Mother insisted that certain cubs learn Old Tongue so that we would be able to sniff out traitors and derelict old ones." He shrugged his fore-haunches again, "Didn't know She sent old ones out on raids anymore. Thought She would just Integrate them."

I bristled slightly at that and shook my head, "She works in mysterious ways, doesn't She?"

The Cloak nodded, "Yes She does. We are blessed by the Great Father to have our Great Mother in our Home."

Not our Home. The Home of Our Ancestors. I nodded and then faced the rear of the Hideout we were raiding. It had been some time since I had ever felt for the Skenndar, and yet...they were at Her mercy, pliable to Her will, controlled by Her fancy.

Piteous things, so weak as to be toyed with by Snip-snaps.

That's how things had been at first, when the raids started after She took over. The Skenndar, the weak little mammals, had been easy to kill. Many Draconis even made a sport of it; it had been called "Caest Skenndar Sangris" or "Spill the Scaleless' Blood". I even partook, so influenced by Her rule, so cruel as a young Yearling I was.

That was back when I thought of her as my Great Mother, and not of the Fiend that haunted my dreams with Her cruel laugh and sharp fangs.

Your family is dead because of you. You Birthing Mother, your Birthing Father, all dead for your mistake. What a foolish little cub, wearing his Birthing Father's cast-off skin as his own! Step out of your hide and see what you have done, the havoc you have wrought.

I shook off the image of Her teeth in my head and stared at the rear of the Hideout. Ever since three Blinking-Cycles ago, the Skenndar had been winning our skirmishes. Right now the Captured Fires had not been lit but there were a few Skenndar prowling the nighttime. They seemed wary, as if on edge, but everyone knew that Skenndar were dumb as wool-beasts and cluck-beasts. They were not capable of cognisant speech, nor coherent thought. It was pure restlessness that kept the stragglers up, not wary minds and distrustful thoughts.

I flicked my tail to catch the attention of the elder Cloak. "Yes," the Draconis asked sincerely.

"What is your name?"

He looked a tad put-aback by my question, as if my insistence to know was alien—and it was. "Crimson Hue of His Bright Eye, but most others call me Crimson; you?"

"Sharp Fang." I would never give someone the Given Name that had killed my family: "Of His Blinking Eye". I stared at the Hideout and sighed deeply, "Fly true."

"Wind at your back Fang," Crimson replied as he took off, large wings lifting him as easily as breathing in and out. The raid was to begin.

It started off well: we carted off a few of the baskets of fish from their storage not-cave and a small amount of wool-beasts—twenty or so—away from the Hideout when tragedy struck.

Or, should I say, idiocy struck.

A particularly thick Bonehead—whose name was Grinding of Scales on His Skin—mistook the face-fur of a Skenndar for a wool-beast and ripped a quarter of the poor fool's face off before she realised her mistake. Out of mercy, a Pricker named Sting of His Bite shot a quill deep into the Skenndar's neck, ending its life.

Thusly the battle started.

Flames shot, not-fangs made of Ringing Midgar flew across the battle, clipping the wings of many-a-Draconis. Those were the merciful deaths.

Crimson, the younger Cloak, and I had perched on the top of a cliff when the battle started, waiting for the opportune moment for us to enter the fray. The younger Cloak was not pleased with this tactical choice, "Et tenn! Crimson, et vas an sangris, dyek? Et vas an sangris!" He whined at the older Cloak, dipping his head and snorting in frustration.

"Nik, nik tenn. Sakk nesse! Nesse,Flashfang!" Crimson retorted. He said something along the lines of 'No, you can't go fight. Sit here, Flashfang!'.

I finally understood the point of her teaching certain cubs Old Tongue! It wasn't just to weed out potential traitors, but to also allow for communication between members of Her Nest without spies finding out what She had planned! She is clever, I had to give her that.

I pretended not to understand them and simply watched as Clever Twist of His Tongue, a Twice with jet-green stripes along her head, snatched up three woolbeasts and flew off with a shriek of joy. "I will return and report to Her!"

"Brown-snout," I griped. Crimson and Flashfang nodded, Flashfang's snout wrinkling up as he tried not to snarl at Twist's retreating form.

The battle was turning from an actual battle into a one-sided slaughter in favour of the Skenndar as His Blinking Eye rose in His Underbelly. I nodded at Flashfang and he vaulted from his position on the cliff with his wing-claws. Lighting himself on fire, he crawled up to the top of a not-tree and attempted to attack a Skenndar. Then the Skenndar attacked back, and visibly wounded him.

Crimson and I stared in shock, no ordinary Skenndar could beat a Cloak! This had to be the Skenndar Great Father!

That is when Crimson lit from his place on the cliff to the Hideout below, quietly stalking a small herd of wool-beasts. It was when the largest part of my Murder got captured that I decided it was time for me to act and signal a retreat. As much as I hated Her, I didn't want Draconis like Crimson, Flashfang, Scales, and Sting to perish in vain.

I launched myself into the Underbelly and pumped my wings to reach a proper altitude. Once I was sufficiently high enough, I hovered as best I could—for Guards were not meant to hover as Scouts were—and spotted my target: the not-tree that Flashfang had been beaten down at. I dove, wingtips tucked into my flanks, and drew on the Tha'um—the Voice of the Guards. I drew the Word deep into my chest and let it out with a shriek: "blæzt!"

The not-tree tore apart in a scatter of broken tree-bits and frantic Skenndar. I smugly nodded as I pushed on through the wave of nausea that comes with using the Tha'um. Serves the dumb beasts right. They should know better than to mess with a Shadow! Even the Skenndar Great Father can't beat me!

As I wheeled about and reigned in my rolling guts, I found a new target, one that would terrify the Skenndar so bad they would drop dead from the shock: the Captured Fire.

Unlike other beasts, the Skenndar aren't gifted with any modes of fighting at night; they don't have good eyes, nor do they have good ears, nor do they have the ability to sense vibrations, nor do they have the ability to smell their opponent in full, nor do they even have the ability to feel the change in temperature that occurs around other beasts or Draconis. In the dark they are defenceless. In the dark, Draconis have the upper field.

"gjóstr!" The Tha'um tossed the Captured Fire over on its side, setting the landscape ablaze for an instant before the Word drew down and the flames quelled when the pressure lifted.

I darted back into the Underbelly, shrieking to the remaining Draconis, "Flee! We have enough to placate Her! Don't let the Skenndar any further on risk of death! To our Home!"

Many calls answered back, among that the fluid sound of Crimson giving an affirmative, and I wheeled around. I built another Word inside my chest, unleashing it at another not-tree, "strīchan!" The not-tree blew apart into splinters and a sharp burst of flame, throwing three Skenndar from its heights. Finally, I sighed to myself, I can leave these filthy beasts...I am un-hittable, un-defeated, invincible, invisible, the Legendary Shadow of the Great Father! All must bow to my might! In the midst of my celebratory crowing, I felt my wings forcibly close around my body as the sensation of being wrapped in a large web enveloped me. Thrashing in my bonds, I attempted to break free, to escape a grisly fate at the hands of Midgard, but was unsuccessful. So instead, I closed my eyes and prayed to Him, prayed that the Draconis in my Murder were okay. And that I would die swiftly and wait for him in Hel.

Neither wish were fulfilled.

xxx(fsh)xxx(|||-{xxx

Once upon a time, for all tales begin this way, there was nothing but the Universe.

Large and empty, the Universe was lonely for It had no one to share Itself with. So, in a fit of either madness or inspiration, the Universe created an Egg.

The Egg shone with every light of every colour, reflected the past, present, and the future in its shell. It grew in size, tripling and quadrupling in circumference until it was ready.

From its depths emerged Jörmungadr, the Great Father, and the Universe was no longer alone. From the egg-milk was created the stars, shining bright for Jörmungadr. Created from the shell pieces were planets of all shapes and sizes, ready for life to begin on them. And the Universe was happy.

Yet Jörmungadr was lonely, for He had no one like him to be with. So the Universe granted Him the Skill to Create in His image.

Finding a planet the colour of His scales and His Underbelly, He breathed a mist and from it came the First Guards. He looked at the white and black Draconis, one Ridge-span high, and said, "You are named Umbra and Luz. From you shall come greatness; take your Gift and guard Her."

Then he breathed forth a mist again and from it came the First Attackers, crimson and gold Draconis five Ridge-span across. He spoke to them as well, "You are Vaala and Ash. From you shall come strength. Use your Gift to cut down anyone who might hurt Her."

And the third time he breathed mist, it gave form to the First Scouts. They were beryl and spring-green but one sixteenth of a Ridge-span high, yet carried themselves with pride. "You are Giftig and Veezhe. From you shall come multitudes. Use your Gift to find sustenance for Her."

Then, Jörmungadr breathed out mist one last time, and in its depths was a small Egg, golden in colour and precious to the Draconis around it. "This," He whispered, "Is La Bella; just as I am your Great Father, so shall she be your Great Mother upon her arrival. Guard Her, Attack Her enemies, Scout for food for Her; never let harm befall Her for She is your future." Then, His piece said, He encircled the blue-green planet the Draconis were born on and took His tail in His mouth.

It is said that when He finally lets go, all Draconis will be called to Hel with Him, and the life of Midgard will come to an end in a blaze of fire and ice.

So ends the tale of our Creation, and of our Great Father and Mother. There is truth in Song.