The Conquest of Mytheyr

“I have seen something, something that pleases me greatly.” The spirit said, appearing behind him, as usual. He sighed, tiring of the spirit always going on about his sins and his dead soul. But sometimes what she said was sometimes useful, if cryptic.“What did you see?” he asked reluctantly. The spirit leaned in, close to his ear.“Your__

Morgan’s train of thought was interrupted by a knock on her door. And not just one of her normal doors, but the hidden one that led to her throne room. She sighed heavily, throwing her hands in the air. “Just one second!” she yelled.

death.” Morgan wrote. She tucked a scrap of paper in the notebook’s binding to serve as a bookmark, before getting up from her desk. She did a drop-roll across her bed to reach the other side of her room, and opened the hidden (but not exactly secret) door.

One of Morgan’s warriors stood there, likely one of the poor shmucks stuck on the boring job of guard duty for the week. “Cheer up,” Morgan said, nodding at his serious expression, “it’s Friday, shifts change in two days.”“My Queen,” the warrior said, and Morgan realized that there was no joking matter. No one ever addressed her formally unless it was serious or, well, formal. “A Scribe wishes to speak with you.” “Excuse me,” Morgan said, and the warrior stepped out of the way. Morgan walked through the door into her throne room to see a female Dragonkin Elf with knee-length blonde hair and gray eyes, wearing a white tunic, brown calf-length boots, and a traditional-style sword. “Scribe,” Morgan addressed her, “What’s your name?”

“Ana.” The elf answered. If one of Morgan’s Techs came to see her like this, it was usually because Shrike did something stupid that he needed Morgan’s help fixing, or that Shrike came up with a new reason why he should be allowed to install a S.S. in the XAIVER system (but the answer would still be no). But the Scribes… they were much less formal, and they usually would just talk to her while she was in the training yard, or in the library.

“A flute has been played.” Ana said darkly. The ominous way she said it made Morgan fear the worst. “One of the Mahero?” Morgan asked nervously. “No, the flute belonging to the royals of Mytheyr.”

Morgan froze. Mytheyr was an Elvish world, one who could definitely take care of itself. If it was calling for their help…“What do we do, my Queen?” Ana asked, bringing Morgan back to the present. “Raven and I will go investigate. Then I can figure out what we need to do next. Thank you, Ana, I’m going to get ready.”“Yes, Queen Morgan.” Ana said, giving a slight bow and leaving through the main doors.“Someone please tell Raven to meet me in my room.” Morgan called to no one in particular, heading back to the hidden door.

Morgan slipped back inside her room. She shuffled over to her desk and looked through her mail, just too make sure there wasn’t anything pressing she needed to take care of before she dashed off. Morgan was a warrior, a Hero, the Guardian of Guardians, but she was firstly a Queen. Luckily, her kingdom had fertile lands and a multitude of ores, so economic issues were almost non-existent, though Morgan would admit she should not take this for granted and she really should formulate a back-up plan. Eventually. She had enough defense among her kingdom (and enough secret weapons) that even if Elceon, the neighboring King of the Oarks, decided to finally declare war while she was gone, he would have already been defeated by the time she got back.

“Hmm… Ha, idiot.” she said mirthfully, reading through the letters. Elceon was offering steel for her Moonlit Silver, but why would she do a fool thing like that? Give her biggest potential enemy a powerful weapon in exchange for an inferior metal. No one made her mentally facepalm more then the self-proclaimed King of the East. The next letter was more serious. The Dwarves employed in her mines were having problems with dragon nestlings. She put Elceon’s letter in one pile and the letter from the mines in another. She would have to send someone to sort out the dragon problem, before it caused a cave-in.

The last letter was the most worrying. It was one she had put off answering for a while, but she knew she’d have to deal with it. Elceon had been making a bid for the small bit of desert she owned, bordering his lands. She didn’t have an excuse to, or a good way to say hell no. She couldn’t very well tell him that there was a fortress/shelter buried underneath that desert, in case of extreme emergency. They were in the process of moving it, but that wouldn’t be done for years.

Placing both of Elceon’s letters on her notebook, Morgan threw open her wardrobe. Morgan looked like a typical Dragonkin Elf. Not as tall as other Elf species, she had a slender, whipcord body with well muscled arms and legs. She had dark brown wavy hair that reached her waist, and clear, aquamarine blue eyes. Like all Elves, she had elegant pointed ears, though they were not as big as some species. Connected to her shoulder blades were translucent, crystal blue insectile wings, scattered with purple flecks. Her skin was pale, and it always burned and never tanned.

She changed her loose, white shirt into a high-collared, long-sleeved black tunic. She extracted a dragon-scale breastplate from the back of the giant wardrobe, and carefully threaded her wings through the holes meant for them. She pulled the lacings tight, for that was the only weak point in the armor. She had only pulled on one leather boot over her gray leggings before someone knocked on her back door. “It’s open.” She called, extracting a shadow cloak and slamming the wardrobe closed.

Raven opened the door, but was nearly knocked over by the dragon behind her, who had clearly decided she was not moving fast enough. Raven stood aside and allowed the coal-black dragon to pass. “What’s this about a flute being played?” the dragon said excitedly, “Do I get to come?”“What is this?” Morgan exclaimed, tracing a fresh scratch in the cartilage surrounding the dragon’s scales. The scratch was so deep it went all the way down the true scales, and it went from near the dragon’s ear to its shoulder. “What the hell have you been doing?” she scolded.

The dragon, whose name was Bane, scoffed. “I was just flying, slaloming through the trees, and I got caught on a branch. No big.” Morgan sighed. Bane had two moods, teenaged recklessness and aged warrior wisdom. An argument about his safety would always be bootless, no matter which mood he was in.

Morgan pulled on her other boot, hopping to a chest. She took a blue-gray leather satchel from inside, as well as three cloth-wrapped packages. “Three weeks of rations? You really we’ll be there that long?” Raven asked.

Raven was, although not so among her own people, striking in appearance. She was deathly pale and thin, but her physical strength had shocked many of her foes. She had intense green eyes, accented by dark, check-marked shaped tattoos around them. Her slender wings were red, flecked with gold.

“I don’t know.” Morgan said. “Mytheyr is an elven world, and they would not ask for help if they did not truly need it.”

In a few minutes, Morgan and Raven were horsed and ready to go. “I’ll call if we need you.” Morgan assured both the dragons, Bane and Marine, “I just think dragons would be a little scary to a people who haven’t seen them in five thousand years.”“But-” started Bane, Marine interrupting by headbutting his shoulder.“The second you need firepower, say the word.” she said, glaring at her brother-in-arms.“Ow. Yeah.” Bane agreed begrudgingly.

Morgan smiled at her friends and patted her anxious horse. “We won’t do anything earth-shattering without you, Bane.” Raven promised. “Come on, lets go.” she added at Morgan, impatiently.“Fiiiiiinnne.” Morgan groaned playfully, opening a portal. “Last one there is an Elceon fart!” Raven exclaimed, spurring her horse into the portal.“Hey, no fair!” Morgan protested. “You know I have to…” Raven disappeared into the passage to Mytheyr. “…be the last one in so you don’t get scattered across existence.” Morgan muttered, urging her horse forward.