Amonkeh’s Journey

A fun little story I had started pulling together about one of my favorite writing subjects: the dragonborn! :D In all honesty, found it going through some writings and other musings. Will probably post more today or sometime in the near future. In any case, here ya go!


The Doronian sat up. From around where the lavender dyed linens had fallen around the woman’s shoulders, Amokehn could barely see the discoloration of pink  in her rubine scales. They crossed long and jagged, small winding rivers of pink that ended in russet mounds of scabbed flesh.

The queen seemed to follow his eyes and smiled warmly. She shrugged the garment slightly as to reveal more of the wound.

“They missed the artery, by the fate of the Gods. An amateur’s mistake. Were it not for that servingmaid, my burial would have already passed.”

She spoke with pride. Amokehn could see her hand glide phantomlike and subconsciously across the wound before it fell back at her side. Queen Zodeia stood as firm as the statues adorning the granite halls. It seemed in that moment to Amokehn that her position and personality, as it was told, was just as deserving of respect as any of the nobility in the north of Ranskil.

They walked a while longer after that, their footfalls making strange echoes in the pores of the red scoria halls. When they finally came upon the war room, it was half past the fifth hour, and anxious servants in the halls paced awaiting them. Smooth black glass platters of uncooked meats and burning grepes came out in well-ordered arrays. A pitcher of the coffee drink the locals preferred was brought to them as well, a treat Amokehn had been anticipating for some time now.

The sun here was blazing in the savannah fields and harsh barren lands around the mountain Maw itself, but in the cool shelter of the palace, Amokehn took the opportunity to appreciate its beauty through the opening of a window hole. There was seldom a grain or blade of grass that would not be painted red in the evening of a Ka’llean day. The prince supposed that was befitting of this place.

Soon after dinner, the servants tarried on with their tasks. A few dressed down in yellow nwentoma robes waited on Amokehn from just outside the doorway. When the last of their bitter drink had been drained, Zodeia stood and turned to the Doronian with a bow. A smile graced her as she looked upon him.

“May your stay here be a blessed one, Your Highness. We are glad to have your company. Think well on what was said here today, and I believe both of our people can profit greatly from this new relationship.”

Amokehn chewed on some of the coffee grounds that stuck stubbornly in his molars and bowed back.

“It was a pleasure, Your Grace. I thank you for this evening.  I do hope that we can come out of this both benefiting from what is said here tomorrow. Perhaps we can find some other day to spend some time together.”

This was said with genuine gladness. The wrinkles around Zodeia’s face shifted, giving her a kinder look. With a turn of her head, her slaves came upon her heels, and the small envoy departed. Amokehn was left in solidarity, and as he watched the last shafts of crimson light shedding a shining radiance over the golden long grass, he pondered what words the King Tau would bring tomorrow. The Doronian stood by the window and prayed for peace. He knew of Tau’s notorious temperment, and so asked for the patience of Doron to guide him into the coming day.

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It was one grand misfortune which soured the harvest, as it were. If words were wilting, then those that Tau spoke were locusts on the crop of Doronian-Ka’llean union. When Amokehn had first been invited into the throne room, he had higher hopes of the outcome











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“What is it you feel you could bring to my people with your promise of union?”

The words were carefully phrased. Even from Doronis, rumor of Finanahu’s suspicious mind was popular among the busybodies and masses. It did not surprise Amokehn to hear of the Duliman’s hesitation. As it was, the prince had planned on dealing with it from the start.

“We in the kingdom of Doronis know the value of information to your people,” Amokehn began. He took a languid sip of his beachbrew. The intensely sweet taste of fermented honey stung his tongue, and Amokehn politely set his cup down. “We specialize in gathering information, as you likely know. If your scouts come to us with their accounts, we shall provide maps and documents of your findings. The finest cartographers can be made your aids if you agree to opening trade with us.”

Finanahu stroked the coarse blonde fur on his chin. The Nadurian regent’s eyes narrowed in thought as he looked past Amokehn. The Doronian sat patiently, his hands folded in his lap, as the sachem mulled over the agreement in his head. After a moment of silence, Finanahu squinted at Amokehn squarely. His hand remained cradling his jaw.

“If I have my scouts, their minds are sharper than any quill. Their words are bolder than ink. They speak of the land as clearly as if they have made it. Why should maps help me when their tongues can tell me what I must know? What good would your documents do if my own people describe in all senses what words on parchment could only somewhat replicate?”

“You would have all accounts and references for your descendants. I have no doubt of the memory of your people, Your Grace,” Finanahu’s long ear twitched at the words. Amokehn continued. “But all souls pass into the Ethereal. You may train your people to keep their vigilance so that every living creature that is born in your Glen is remembered, but there may come a day when the reliance on memory alone is not enough to help you. There comes the unexpected, and where it walks, chaos follows after it.”

The Nadurian’s tall, hunched figure seemed to stiffen at the foreboding words of the Doronian. Amokehn could see the striped yellow marks dance across the verdant skin of Finanahu’s bicep. A shadow passed over the sachem’s face.

“You do not mean to threaten me, do you, Your Highness?”

“But of course not, Your Grace.” Amokenh was quick to amend his statement. The radiance in his blue eyes glimmered in the soft light of the tent. “I had never intended to offend. I only wish to convince you of the benefit. My people are no stranger to surprises. Had we your people’s prowess in scouting, it is likely we would have fared far better in those struggles. But luckily, we had maps in its aftermath. Nothing so ill has happened since.”

Finanau’s snorted at that, his nostrils flaring as he drew his own cup to his lips. The embers of the firepit still roared fiercely, but time had turned the underside of the large Willowcrisp logs to ash. The dying flames had now cast strange shadows on the walls of the tent. Amokehn shivered. He would be grateful to be back in the safety of the redwood roosts or the hollow halls winding through their mystic trunks, but he knew it was considered a privilege to accompany a Dulliman Sachem on a five-day journey and hunt. And so, Amokehn was resigned to settle for the loneliness of the wilderness nights.

When they had finished their first bottle of beachbrew, Amokehn politely declined a second. Finanahu stooped tall from his chair, the many pronged antlers on his head scraping against the tapered ceiling. He offered what Amokehn had hoped optimistically was a smile before clapping the Doronian on the shoulder.

“We will hunt tomorrow. Rocs are not small game. They are not to be trifled with.” The words left Amokehn’s confidence curdling inside of him. Finanahu shook him with one hand still braced on his shoulder. “My javelin-carriers shall provide you with what you will need. We shall keep you safe if you feel you are in danger. If anything happens or you do not wish to fulfill the challenge, blow the horn given as a token.”

The grip on Amokehn’s blue shirt slackened, and Finanahu nodded his large head. Ducking, the chief passed through the entrance of the tent and was gone. Amokehn sat in the flickering heat of the fire pit. He thought of great birds and legendary hunts as his white scaled fingers smoothed over the deer pelt below him. The prince had spent his life reading such tales, of course. The accounts of Dulliman hunts had always fascinated him as a child, but he never believed that he would be part of one. It was something reserved for guests of the highest honors.

That, at least, boded well for their agreement. Amokehn found himself glaring against the flames. They danced so magically here. It was as if everything was touched by the fey. The character of nature shone here like it did nowhere else on the planet. It was truly enrapturing, and frightening, and beautiful in how it all functioned.

Amokehn looked down at the token bound around his wrist. It shone brightly in the firelight, turning the turquoise almost golden. He wondered of home, of how his sister or brothers were faring. He thought a moment to himself, and his imagination unraveled before him like it always did. He laughed and watched children making snow-wyverns on the palace walls. He looked to the bazaar and the shuffling of a thousand bustling bodies, listening to the drone of their chatting on the wind. He lifted his snout and smelled the spice of curry tikka and the sweetness of muhr and the musk of crinkled old pages in the air. Amokehn opened his eyes and saw nothing more but fire.

A sigh slipped Amokehn’s lips. Perhaps tomorrow he would send correspondence home. Tonight, however, he dreamed of tempests.


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The morning came without warning, yet some phantom force woke Amokehn from his slumber. Being out in the woods had that effect, it seemed to him, as the Doronian had observed the same pattern of waking from the previous two days spent in the wilderness. It was as though something primal within him emerged and instincts told him to rise at the coming of dawn. Yet perhaps that was due to the absence of comfort out there.

When the


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Bells came tolling mightily from the docks. The clear, sharp tone summoned Amokehn from his thoughts as he stared out over the water of the Viridius Bay. He distantly heard the heavy steps of crate movers on creaking wood, and the laughter careening from hale sailors coming down off the gangplanks of their trading vessels.

Life was busy here in the Toirn’s Land. It was often that  Amokehn would forget the presence of vivacity in foreign harbors. In Doronis, the ships that sat in port typically did so quietly, as if lulled by calm waters and the absence of neighbors to speak with. But here, it was rare to see a boat without a busy crew. It seemed as though at least one hand on every ship was delivering barrels and crates and casks to one merchant or the other.

The variety of their trade colored the bayside with splotches of different scents and sights: Here, long looped necklaces of Ka’llean gold. There, a ledger full of Doronian white braha vellum. Even now, Amokehn could spy a green sailor boy wrestling with a caged crate filled with wriggling Hakiman Displacer kits, which spat and thrashed about as they were jumbled around nervously by the youth carrying them.

Every vessel in port was unique in its own sense. It seemed captains took great freedom and pride in their enterprise, and so were granted sigils to keep of their own. On each, however, flew the flag of Toirn, the dual-faces contorting expressions as they flapped in the seaside breeze.

Of all the ships that bobbed in harbor, Amokehn stood on the tallest of them all. It was the Queen’s own cruising ship, the Advanae, whose deep belly was reminiscent of a boat built for trade, but whose impressive sails and oar docks carried it as fast as any trireme.

The noble oaken cruise floated indifferent to the shifting tide. Amokehn could smell the prophetic tang of metal on the wind and knew a storm would be coming in soon. There was little surprise to that at all. It had rained at least a handful of times in the fortnight that Amokehn had spent there.

He had been instructed to lay a while onboard the ship while the Toirneachan Queen prepared herself to meet him. The Doronian had taken the time to absorb what he could of life here in the Tempestas.  It seemed as though all roads here were well-maintained and cobbled. Trade was so important to the Toirneachans, it was hardly surprising that their routes would be considerably looked after, but observing how busy they could get was completely alien to Amokehn. He could only imagine what Doronis would be like were it a hub for goods as this land was.

Would it be as quiet, I wonder? Amokehn tried to picture it in his head. The closest that his frozen homeland ever came to this form of jovial chaos was in the Fro’Bazir. Even then, there was only so much that his own people traded. Many intriguing things came through the bazaar, but nearly every intriguing thing eventually ended up in Tempestas. With the College’s famous code, I can hardly imagine our citizens ever becoming  excessively exciting.


“Your Highness.” A short cough drew Amokehn back to reality. To his side, a sailor in boiled leather and a brown tunic was currently bowed, his eyes cast down to his fisherman sandals. In two large hands he held what looked to be a thin coffer box. Amokehn raised a brow. “Her Majesty would like to formally apologize for the delay. She offers compensation for your graciously lent time and states that she should be here within the hour.”

Amokehn approached the man. More than anything, he was curious about the contents of the box. She did not need to go to such lengths. Yet here, as the lid slid away from the catch, Amokehn could feel his eyes widen.

The bottom of the chest was lined with leaves of hempen paper. Fine bottles of black ink rested atop them, carefully corked and shining like black clouds. Three quills of hawk feathers tipped with golden nibs lay straight like soldiers in the center of the arrangement.

“I am humbled by Her Grace’s generosity, but I am afraid it would not be particularly becoming of me to accept such a gift.” Amokehn smiled back at the servingman. He gently returned the chest to the other’s hands. The Doronian suspected the implications of the gesture. A kindness, it was indeed, but there was no doubt in his mind that this served as a display of wealth. To Octalia’s credit, it certainly drove the point home.

This is no small gift, and yet she presents it as easily as if it were fruit from a market stand. Amokehn felt the scales around his mouth twitch. Any promise of gold I offer her will fail. I have to give her something more.