First, there was nothing. The winds and waters were still, the land lay dormant and unclaimed.
But soon, a breeze arose, and the silence crescendoed into a fanfare. A storm cloud, sprouting thunder and lightning, spread across the skies - and from its heart began to pour a waterful of violet blood.
As the droplets laid siege to the wilds below, they tore down every blossom and vine, marking their fragility. The downpour turned the flatlands into a battlefield first, and later, an ocean.
Once weakness was purged, the storm subsided, but the sea of blood left its wake became a primordial soup that gave rise to a victor in the chaos. The Broodmother Vesztah was born.
She, the first Drak, reigned over all - but sitting lonely on her throne, she spoke, ”What is greed if not a pit to drown in? What is dominance without dominion?”and chose fo share her realm and blood.
Our mother laid 100 eggs under the canopy of stars, and as the first Drakling awoke, she watched them break from their shells… and fed the weakest to the strong, so they may bring forth a storm of blood forevermore.
As the offspring of the Broodmother Vesztah, all of us strive for glory. Only the greatest rise into the land beyond the storm after death: Ark Morgo.
The first to embark on this journey was Merphisz. Hatched on a rocky shore, he was enamored by the waves from the beginning.
These untamed waters shape the coastline, determine where life may sprout! I will overcome this ever-shifting spectre that haunts us so with its indifference and whim! I will sail to faraway shores and spread our seed, to make all blue synonymous with the mother’s embrace!
Shaped by the sea, he learned its language and began to understand its ebb and swell. Determined to usher his newly formed clan, the to Drak’Mer, to fruitful shores, he set out towards the horizon - and found an archipelago nestled behind a fearsome storm.
Raising his trident, he challenged the taiphun to a duel, but lightning struck, and Merphisz’s spirit was called to Ark Morgo. His clan reached the archipelago unscathed and holds dominion over the open waters still.
When told about the legend of Merphisz, Fyraszh sprung forth from the crowd of Drakling.
”Why splash in water for eternity? Why adjust to the whims of the waves if you could forge your own path in fire?” He asked, red hot with rage.
Determination to surpass his brother swelled in him, so Fyraszh travelled not far, but deep. He set off to claim the core of the mountain, to forge his glory in molten metal and liquid heat.
When they saw him again, his scales had hardened like coal, and the skin underneath glowed like the sun. Adorned in ash and gold, he yelled from the mountaintops: “See? The mountain rumbles and spouts, it chants our name and that of our clan! Drak’Fyr! Drak’Fyr!”
And as the mountain indeed sputtered and roared, a fountain as bright as the evening sun erupted behind him. The amber glow swallowed his body, but lifted his soul to Ark Morgo where he’d be a leader for all eternity.
The light of the bright, amber fountain coated the night sky as Arisztar hatched. He looked up above, and saw Fryaszh turn from flesh to fire.
“Why be confined to rocks and fiery rage?” Arisztar hushed. ”To let yourself be swallowed by flames while so close to the clouds - That coward ought to jump! To fly where others fall is the greatest fear of all!”
So he took off and set his sights on the faraway cliffs. He lived high above the rest for years, hunting the birds, the vultures, and dragons above, until the Broodmother’s spirit had blessed him with wings of his own,
He became a leader unbound by the winds and soon commanded the clan of the Drak’Ari - but he would not be satisfied until he had truly sored higher than the rest.
As he took a final leap of faith, he cried out: Our land stretches as far as the winds blow! My wings will eclipse all below in their shadow!”
With these words, he flew closer to the sun. Silken feathers rained down as he entered Ark Morgo’s halls.
The young Dalszul watched as feathers rained from the skies, leaving whispy shadows underneath them as they danced.
He pondered: ”What good is conquering the skies? The land is vast and rich with treasure! We ought to thrust towards the mainland and annihilate its core! Let its blood strengthen our soil and our bodies!
And so he sank his claws into the largest mass of land he could find, and formed blocks from clay and stone to build temples to his own glory. Countless Drak worked and died at his walls, and when his grandest monument was finished with its final brick, he laughed: ”Broodmother, hear me now! Every stretch of land, from field to forest, squeals beneath my foot! My spear can point wherever the eye can see, and still spot no edge to my domain!
As he continued his tirade, unstoppable like a boulder rolling downhill, the Drak’Dal of his clan slowly backed away. They felt a rumble in the ground, and before they knew it, a large fracture before them ripped the earth in two. The monument beneath their leader’s feet crumbled, and Dalszul was buried beneath the rubble and dust, his blood forever marking the heart of his territory.
Ark Morgo had taken him.
