The Legend of Chantorian by C. R. Daugherty

The Legend of Chantorian

    As I was settling down to my stein of mead at the tavern in Faeorlynn, a most ancient city of Ceramon, I met a young gentleman who was possessed of a lambent aura, and a penchant for storytelling to match. He introduced himself, though I do not recall his name. When I asked his trade, he cited historian by vocation, so I inquired if he had any tales of note to relate.

    I still recall the reminiscent lingering of nostalgia which flitted across his face as he “ayed” that he had a tale I might like to know. He told me that once there was a great dragon who sacrificed his life for the preservation of what few would deny is Ceramon’s eldest settlement, the town in which we were having our even sup.

    Although reticent to believe this historian uncannily youthful by appearance, I recognized him as genuine by his demeanor, and cast a cantrip of perfect recollection. This is the legend of the Masondragon Chantorian as I was told that day.

    In the times when elves first built Faeorlynn, they decided on this plot due to the presence of verdant forests, streams rife with fish, and fey friends all the area about. However, as time passed and the wind wore down the surrounding gorge, life began to fade slowly. No one knew the cause of the blight, but it grew daily. Ogres were found creeping further out of their copses, rushing rivers fading to rivulets, and the fey retreating into the deeper recesses and overgrowth of wilderness. Game of all types was growing scarce, and the elves were worrying that they may have to abandon Faeorlynn.

    All the people of the settlement at the coming of this age of scarcity gathered and cast a circle of prayer for the father god of time to bring succor to their town. The ashes of their sacred fire died to embers, sanctifying the fulfillment of the ritual. As smoke wafted from these ashes, a warm wind blew from the sea of the north. The wind gusted the ashes and coals until the woodsmoke coalesced into a mammoth cloud that covered the entire town.

    The billowing smoke rose up high into the sky, a thickening cloud which began to crackle with lightning. The townsfolk ran into their homes, afraid they had asked too much. A thundering crash was heard by all as something landed back into the moldering coals. What could this be?

    The blacksmith was the first to venture out of his door. He immediately exclaimed, “The gods have landed a mountain in the heart of our town!  Come out and witness what we have done!” As the smoke wafted away on the breeze, these wary elves noticed a uniformity to the stone of this newly planted mountain, and also that it had begun to move. The mountain was actually a dragon!  Son of Panaxus, the father of dragons and recognized deity presiding over time, this mountain of Masondragon spared no time in uttering as gently as his gravelly voice could muster that he had been sent to offer aid to the elves.

    Some were terrified and some elated, but all joined hands in solidarity around the dragon and asked his name. “I am Chantorian. I will provide you all that you need as long as I may.”  He then unfurled his gargantuan wings, which veritably roared as he took flight. Within hours, people of the town noticed the stream had returned to a river. They bathed freely in the flowing waters. Chantorian returned and deposited two trampled ogres into the town square, promising them that the pink flesh would be nurturing as he continued to do his work.

    Within a fortnight, salmon, trout, and turtles had returned to the river. Within a year, the gorge which had become a canyon had flourished with growth of flora, Chantorian enlisting the aid of the fey folk and their natural magicks. Within a decade, young elves had become wizened warriors, mages, scholars, and rangers. Life thusly flourished in Faeorlynn as had not been seen in an age.

    And Chantorian, he had only grown larger and larger as the years wore on. By the time the plague of necromancy was birthed in the east, Chantorian was practically long enough to surround the city proper. Yet all good things do come to pass, and all hale tales do come to a close.

    In the year of the solar eclipse, a large cadre of necromancers rode toward the west atop dragons in search of conquest. They did not know it, but Chantorian galloped the wind far ahead of them, his homeland to save. He landed behind the tavern and called out to the countryside for all people to gather in the heart of the town proper, for they could stand no chance against the enemy on his heels.

    Chantorian wound himself around every building of Faeorlynn, and he covered the tops of the buildings and people with his encircling wings.

    By all outward appearance, the town now seemed a megalithic dome of rock grown above the lips of the gorge. However, necromancers are not so easily fooled. They knew this was no natural formation, so they blasted it with sorcery, and their dragons used breath of flame and ice, even powers from beyond the grave. However, Chantorian was son of God of dragons, Panaxus, and he withstood all onslaught. The necromancers withdrew, knowing full well they could not defeat the mountain, natural or no.

    Soot covered most all of what was now the wall of Faeorlynn. The necromancers rode on to the north in search of easier prey as Chantorian lay slowly dying. “Hear me, my people, he moaned. My father heard your solemn rite and sent me to aid you. This has all been his work, and all on time. Now it is my time to pass. Let my body of stone forever remain as the walls of your city and remove my wings and fashion of them your city gates. My last gift to you is fortification of your city unending.”  His eyes then closed.

    The dragon’s eyelids, scales of stone, and wings all hardened into steely blocks as hard as corundum. Chantorian’s wings slowly broke into stackstone and descended as feathers to the ground. Not knowing when the fell sorcerers might return, the elves immediately built a gate for the city, using the leftover stackstone of his wings to create the largest tower of what would become Castle Faeorlynn.

    To this day, Chantorian’s sacrifice heralds the protection of Faeorlynn and the benevolence of good dragons.

    Etched into the tablet of my mind, I felt I needn’t even had use of the cantrip. I doffed the tip of my brimmed hat to the young historian and took my leave. The rest of the night, I lie outside the city wall, my head nesting against the stone and admired the constellations. They say somewhere up there lives a dragon. I now knew that forever one would live here.