The dragon looked at the scene unfolding at the distant village down from the opening of his cave that resembled a forgery more than a cave.
As he sighed, brief sparkles of fire and ashe escaped from his crimson, scaly nose.
He was a unique one among his kind, A Dragonsmith. There are many great names that went down in history books as the best metalworker and smith such as the Dwarven Giant and the Forge Captain of the Kingdom. However, they all paled in comparison to the old, dignified dragon who took refuge in a seldom found cave, not too far from a frontier village.
The crimson Dragonsmith crafted some of, if not all, the greatest treasures that each country in continents around the world kept hidden in their innermost sanctum, only to serve as an emergency trump card during the harshest of encounters. The armor of Hellkula, a breastplate with a plain design but with a single sigil carved onto its chest section that deflected any and all ranged attacks. The gauntlet of Brum that granted the user enough energy to self-heal, essentially recovering any damage not immediately lethal. The Treant Horn, made with the assistance of a great Druid sage, which could bring life unto whole forests to make life flourish. One of his best work was actually a single ring with design so intricate and complicated that it twisted reality to the point it could grant a single wish. This was, however, personally given secretly to the King of the Lands, a great hero who had slain countless demons that threatened entire continents.
Many such magical items were made by him but not many people knew about even the notion of his existence. Some of his work was even wrongly credited towards other great smiths. He did not care, though. Because his work only began when an individual worthy came to him, calling out for help in times of need.
The main reason he stood out from other smiths was his Dragonfire and Wild Magic. Many True Dragon Lords who have lived for centuries could use an advanced version of Dragonfire with a high drainage of Wild Magic called Paragonfire. Anything, be it magical or ethereal, could be burned and melted by Paragonfire. If it was used on a metal of the greatest qualities, it would be made even better by the time it was tempered by the True Fire of Paragon.
The Dragonsmith, though weak in combat, knew that strength came in many forms. He had never been aligned with the chaotic faction of dragons. So he protected and helped those who were in need, even though other dragons would scoff and ridicule him for helping such useless creatures. To prove them wrong, the Dragon took levels in what any dragon had never taken in before: Forging and Smithery. He swore to himself that he would never craft anything that could be used to destroy lives. For such is the true form of justice.
As he was a dragon, his beginner work was already at the level of human veterans of smithing. And gradually, benefitting from his teachings of the Demon Forger who had been exiled and also from his limitless age and centuries of experience, the Dragonsmith made items that could only be called miracles.
During all this time, he had made that cave, discovered centuries ago, his main base of operation. The village at the distance had covered in fear and panic at the discovery his residence and for a year or so, they built useless barricades and trained their farmers. As if wooden stakes and flimsy wooden bows could harm him. The Dragonsmith found amusement in their little panic attack and observed them for a brief period every day. It had turned into a habit of sorts. After a year, the village sent one poor fellow to his lair and after telling the representative to bugger off and do not disturb him, so he will not burn down his village, he had scoffed and sent him back.
He didn’t bear any ill intentions. It was merely a coincidence that the village war near him.
During the countless years that passed as he watched the humans and worked on his next craft or when he had no work, he caught sight of a little girl. It was maybe after two or three centuries, so the village was somewhat larger and advanced. They had their fair share of invaders and wild beast attacks, but it hadn’t obstructed their developments too harshly.
The girl, who pretended to be a dragon, was ridiculed by the majority of the village. Her brother, who wasn’t too older than her small sister, would seem to try his best to not get her into any trouble.
One day that girl had stopped showing up. The dragon, after observing her for nearly a month, actually grew a bit concerned. But the day after his worries, the girl showed up in a blue and yellow, make-shift dragon suit, running along the streets of the village, laughing with glee. The dragon caught himself smirking and quickly scurried back into the deeper parts of his cave. He thought of his brother following right behind her, a pleading look of “please, stop” on his face. It made him smirk for the second time.
Over a period of two years, the girl had made wooden “dragon armor” and wore it as she pretended to fight a dummy with her sword she dearly named “Dragon Sword”. It seemed too over-the-top for the Dragonsmith. The girl had no friends to speak of as it seemed that the humans did not care for her weird fascination with the evil, catastrophic deities known as Dragons. The only practice parner she had was her hesistant older brother. Whenever they sparred he would try his best not to hit her. The dragon wanted to laugh out loud because from his experience, he knew that the wooden armor could block any attack that boy’s flimsy arms could make. But then, he had to take into consideration the girl’s fragile body, taking the impact. The dragon made mental note to himself and went back into his cave, having learned a lesson.
Months passed, and for the first time in years, the dragon activated “Invisibility” and “Quietness”. It felt weird to spend mana on anything other than Paragonfire and the dragon furiously stretched his wings and roared in delight. He took flight to land at the bottom of the mountains and walked on four legs to the village. If he flew, the sheer force of the produced wind would annihilate most of the village’s houses. With that in mind, he set his sights on a the particular village house that contained a cute, dragon-loving girl. He had prepared a set of boots that could make her fly for a brief period. It was a piece of cake considering his other works and took only a day or so.
But before he could approach any further, he saw sparkles of light coming from above. It was a feeling that any beast could understand. A predator was approaching.
Using the invisibility to his advantage, the dragon slowly back off and flew back onto his cave. He had a bad feeling.
As he trained his eyes onto the sparkles of light in the sky, he suddenly realized a mass of black shape hovering above it. The sparkles suddenly started to increase in size and before the Dragonsmith could form a thought, a bursting violet flame was brought down full force onto the village, completely enveloping it in a furious blue flamestorm.
In the present, the dragon looked on. He felt an emotion that he had never felt before. It was mixture of guilt and hatred. He looked at the form of the dragon, flying away at a distance. Many legends called the dragon “The Bluehorn”. His real name was Nacluris, a great name in the chaotic faction. The Dragonsmith could only guess that he had grown bored and obliterated the village that he had happened to encounter while passing by.
The Dragonsmith was not built for combat. He could only watch the burnt remains of the village.
For days after, his mind was dull. The forgery that always seemed to be at temperatures enough to melt steel was cold and lifeless.
The Dragonsmith laid at the entrance of his cave, still looking at the village. Unable to figure out the feeling in his heart. (Cont.)