He was hard at work sifting through heavy tome upon heavy tome of books in the library.
In his home nation, Polnya, he was known as the Dragon. He looked like a youthful gentleman, high-born and resplendent in rich reds and gold — and a rather disgruntled one at that. He was murmuring, chanting unintelligible, silky syllables to himself with a cold grimace upon his face. To the untrained ear it would sound rather like a song, but it was magic he whispered to the long shelves of books, each one drifting to his hand of its own accord. When a book or two snagged his attention well enough to move him from boredom and frustration to mild intrigue, he balanced it in the crook of his arm and made his way to a table to begin his study.
Anyone who would happen across this gentleman would find him pouring over such tomes as Phylacteries: A History Written in Blood or Fade and Spirits Mysterious, his eyes darting hungrily across each new page. And if someone were to observe him long enough, every now and then, a forearm-sized wisp made of smoke and mist would drift in from a nearby window, come to a rest in one of his open palms, and flash a set of flickering images from around the fortress grounds before disappearing in a bright burst of blue flame.
V.
Around the fortress grounds a wanderer may be privy to a strange apparition.
First came one drifting along with the same, delicate wave as a dandelion seed in the breeze. Then came another roughly 30 minutes later, and another, and another in rounds and cycles. They were small, smoky, mistilke creatures, for lack of a better word, that might take a teasing spin above one’s head, or crackle and hiss faintly through the corridors, intent on some secret mission. They flickered ominously with each change in direction, as if they struggled to hold on as they rode the wind.
The strangest thing about them, though, is if one were to stop and peer and them long enough, they would give the impression of staring right on back, a hollow, shadowy semblance of a face materializing in flashes at the thickest parts of the mist…
The Dragon (Sarkan) | Naomi Novik's Uprooted
He was hard at work sifting through heavy tome upon heavy tome of books in the library.
In his home nation, Polnya, he was known as the Dragon. He looked like a youthful gentleman, high-born and resplendent in rich reds and gold — and a rather disgruntled one at that. He was murmuring, chanting unintelligible, silky syllables to himself with a cold grimace upon his face. To the untrained ear it would sound rather like a song, but it was magic he whispered to the long shelves of books, each one drifting to his hand of its own accord. When a book or two snagged his attention well enough to move him from boredom and frustration to mild intrigue, he balanced it in the crook of his arm and made his way to a table to begin his study.
Anyone who would happen across this gentleman would find him pouring over such tomes as Phylacteries: A History Written in Blood or Fade and Spirits Mysterious, his eyes darting hungrily across each new page. And if someone were to observe him long enough, every now and then, a forearm-sized wisp made of smoke and mist would drift in from a nearby window, come to a rest in one of his open palms, and flash a set of flickering images from around the fortress grounds before disappearing in a bright burst of blue flame.
V.
Around the fortress grounds a wanderer may be privy to a strange apparition.
First came one drifting along with the same, delicate wave as a dandelion seed in the breeze. Then came another roughly 30 minutes later, and another, and another in rounds and cycles. They were small, smoky, mistilke creatures, for lack of a better word, that might take a teasing spin above one’s head, or crackle and hiss faintly through the corridors, intent on some secret mission. They flickered ominously with each change in direction, as if they struggled to hold on as they rode the wind.
The strangest thing about them, though, is if one were to stop and peer and them long enough, they would give the impression of staring right on back, a hollow, shadowy semblance of a face materializing in flashes at the thickest parts of the mist…