*
Dragol awoke following an uneventful, yet still restless, sleep underneath the camouflage of a swathe of heavy brush. Strong beams of vibrant sunlight cascaded down to warm him, pouring through an opening in the forest’s ceiling of branches and leaves.
Dragol had long ago conditioned himself to be a light sleeper. It was the only way for a warrior to survive within strange, threatening lands. He had roused himself to full consciousness several times during the night, most often due to the passage of various animals through the woodlands.
The movements of fauna were not necessarily a cause for comfort, even if it meant that the source of the shuffles, footfalls, and scrapings was not the tread of an enemy war party. Dragol was far from being familiar with the various types of animals inhabiting the region that he now traversed, and he was not about to underestimate any possible encounters. He had learned enough lessons during the many years spent in the harsh wilderness of his own lands to respect the elements of nature in lands that he had not been in for long.
It did not matter whether the beasts moving through the forest proved to be harmless or not, as any misguided assumption could have lethal consequences. Having come from a homeland containing a variety of very dangerous predators, Dragol knew that threats could come in all manner of sizes and forms.
The threats might not be limited to outright predators either. Many a Trogen had suffered agonizing deaths under the viciously-wielded tusks of a ferocious Blood Boar, after having unintentionally interrupted the robust, bristly creature’s foraging.
Upon awakening, Dragol found that his body was wracked with soreness, and his muscles were stiffened from lying for hours upon the hard, uneven ground. Dirt, leaves, and other debris on the ground had pressed into his side and face, much of it sticking to him as he sat up. He took a moment to brush himself off.
He carefully stretched his limbs for a few minutes. The movements were accompanied by the audible pops of settled joints. He felt the deep extension of his muscles as he limbered up, a highly necessary activity before he could hope to search for some sustenance in a state of preparedness.
The new morning soon brought with it a little good fortune, revealed invitingly in its warming light. It was not long into his morning hike before he made a most welcome discovery, a stroke of sheer luck, something that Dragol had not recently been enjoying in abundance.
He had been moving into an area filled with younger, hardwood trees. The maturing trees had afforded extensive undergrowth to thrive, as the less-dense upper foliage allowed considerable amounts of sunlight through to the forest floor.
Dragol’s path intersected with a narrow stream, which served beneficently in attracting a group of heavy-set birds, with fan-shaped tails. Dragol heard the birds well before he saw them, bringing him to a stop. Putting his shield down on the ground, Dragol quietly approached, taking cover where he could gain a more advantageous view of the creatures.
The birds’ attentions were concentrated upon a few shrubs growing a short distance away from the near bank of the stream. The shrubs were loaded with an abundance of dark berries. Both birds and berries were inviting to Dragol’s stomach, with the birds holding the greater attraction.
Dragol eyed one of the tantalizingly plump birds, a large one that had a distinctive black ruff on each side of the neck. Alone among the others, it had more than one white spot on each of its tail feathers, as opposed to the single spot on the feathers of the others. From his experience with other kinds of birds, Dragol judged the distinguishing characteristics to mark the creature as a male of its kind.
After a painstakingly stealthy, careful approach, Dragol was able to draw very close to the oblivious birds. A brief flash suddenly cut through the air, as sunlight glinted off of a speeding length of metal.
The black-ruffed bird was taken fully unawares, swiftly dispatched by a well-thrown, straight dagger. The force of the throw slammed its body against the ground, before the surrounding birds were even aware of their imminent danger.
The rest of the birds scattered in a flurry of panic, making quite a commotion as they flapped their wings and took off into the woods. The laws of nature would offer them no respite as they fled recklessly, as the forest was filled with a range of predators.
Dragol strode out from his hiding place, and walked over to the felled bird. He pulled his dagger free, congratulating himself on an exceptional throw, as his mouth began to water.
Deciding to risk a small fire, he put his trust into the fact that in a time of war, one singular, thin line of smoke was not likely to attract much attention. Even if it was sighted, it was just as likely to be spotted by Trogen sky riders as it was by any enemy sky riders. Furthermore, neither friend nor foe in the skies would have an easy landing site.
A fire was soon stoked, and a makeshift spit served to help Dragol prepare a most succulent, roasted fowl. As hungry as he felt, it took a lot of discipline to let the fresh, juicy meat cook thoroughly.
The well-cooked meat of the bird, coupled with the crisp, cool water of the flowing brook nearby, filled and renewed Dragol immeasurably. He also treated himself to several handfuls of the berries that had attracted the birds, feeling the almost-ripe fruit burst between his large teeth. While a little sour, the berries were a welcome find.
Once he had finished, his continuation of the journey was delayed a little, so that he could fill a small leather pouch, tied to the belt around his waist, as full as he could with the edible berries. It was not a frivolous task, providing reserves of sustenance just in case his luck in foraging or hunting was not so fortuitous later.
Late in the morning, he left the site of the hunt behind with a wellspring of energy. The simple meal had done much to replenish him, and to lift his spirits, as he searched out routes through the thicker brush.
After walking for about half a league, he came across an open space created by a small pond. He looked up into the sky, but saw nothing of interest. After taking a few moments to study the position of the sun, and estimate his bearings, he continued once again towards the south.
He moved slowly, sometimes laboriously, while he was traversing the congested brush. Years of experience derived from living in the midst of the forested mountains of his homeland manifested in Dragol’s soft step, and guarded movements, as he navigated through some challenging swathes of growth. His progress was often slowed considerably, as he diligently pulled foliage back, and guided it back into place, to pass through it without spurring undue commotion.
He ignored the mounting scratches that he received from small thorns, as well as the little briars that occasionally clung to the surface of his clothing. He knew that it would have been much worse had he just blundered his way through. His caution spared him much of the stabbing and prickling of the brush. Yet limiting noise was far more important than any concerns for personal comfort.
Rested with a full stomach, Dragol’s attentiveness was sharper, and it did not wane as he pressed forward. His acute sense of hearing and vision kept vigil for any sign of new dangers, a heightened sense that would not relax until he got himself safely back among his kind. He consistently reminded himself that any lapses, even for a few moments, could spell a violent, instantaneous death.
As had happened before, he began to get the distinct impression that something was watching his movements. He came to a halt, and his eyes darted about, as he thought of the carnivorous Pahyna and the old man, both of whom he had encountered the last times that he had experienced the uneasy feeling.
Irritation rose within him, as he could not believe his ill fortune. This time, if something like the four Pahyna appeared, he would not have a Harrak at his side to divide the attackers.
He kept silent, and admonished himself to keep a still mind. He was not yet certain of the nature of the threat, or even if there was really one to begin with. The ambiguity could create its own menace within the extreme wariness of his mind.
Even so, he was not about to start mistrusting his instincts. He slowly brought his shield from where it had been hanging on his back via the guige strap. He closed his grip firmly on the hilt of his longblade, and quietly drew it.
The sensation of being watched surged and ebbed over the next couple of hours. Sometimes, the feeling seemed to vanish entirely. At other times his hackles rose, to the point where he expected something to come into sight.
All around him, the contour of the terrain began to grow steeper, as the rolling hills turned into sharper inclines, on larger rises that more closely resembled small mountains. The younger hardwood trees gave way to a higher concentration of fir trees, even as the quantity of lower brush declined. He wound his way around the bottom of the taller inclines, noticing that his forward path was slowly rising.
After another couple of hours, Dragol came across a small waterfall, tumbling down from a rocky height off to his right. The water appeared to emerge from within the steep hillside, about a third of a way up the slope, though the source was hidden beyond his sight.
The water flowed downward in a few sparkling, intertwining rivulets that converged together, coursing over the lip of a rock outcropping. Once over the edge, the water broke into a glittering free-fall down into a small pool, collecting within a shallow basin of gray rock.
Skirting the outside of the lower basin, Dragol made his way to the opening of a small cave behind the waterfall. He felt the cool air and light mist touching his skin as he neared the falling water. Having worked up an ample sweat during his extended hike, the feeling was instantly pleasant, and soothing.
The broad part of the cave did not go very deep, narrowing quickly just a few paces inside. The outer part was just big enough for his large form to walk in, without having to lean over to any significant degree.
As he was inspecting the small cave, the impression of being under surveillance from the surrounding woods rose up again. It rapidly reached the point where his senses screamed that some kind of presence was imminent.
Resolutely, he gripped his longblade and shield. He turned, and walked back around the edge of the waterfall to stand on the left side of the basin.
“Who is there?” Dragol called out, with a growling edge to his voice, certain of his gut feelings. “Have you courage enough to stand forth? Come beasts, if you wish to try my blade once again. If not a beast, then announce yourself. You may try my blade as well.”
His eyes became stony, as he waited for the flickers of movement indicating more woodland predators. With the shallow cave and waterfall behind him, and the water basin itself to work with, he was in a better defensive position than he had found himself in before. If there were multiple hunters, they could not attack him from all sides at once.
“It is only I, returning again, though I have no desire to try your blade,” came a familiar voice, speaking in the Trogen language. It belonged to the last individual that Dragol had spoken with. “And I do have the courage to stand forth, make no mistake, though I would hope that you offer friendship instead.”
The tension went out of Dragol’s body, as he lowered his shield and blade. Walking from behind one of the trees beyond the basin was the older, white-bearded man, in the flowing, blue garments and wide-brimmed hat. Dragol watched him stride forward in silence, again struck by the strange, timeless look that seemed to be etched into the man’s features and expression.
Beyond the shadows of the cave, the sunlight bathed the old man’s face underneath the broad brim of his round-topped hat. The light made his long beard and snowy locks of hair shine brightly, as well as making his lone, blue eye sparkle radiantly.
Calm, confident, and relaxed, the old man walked around the rim of the basin towards where Dragol stood. As before, the man moved nimbly, displaying a level of dexterity that belied his seemingly advanced age. He looked up into Dragol’s face as he drew close, his lone blue eye glittering with apparent amusement.
“Is it you that I have felt watching me?” Dragol inquired, a little indignant, and discomfited, at the second unannounced appearance of the strange traveler. “Have you been following me?”
“Like you, I am traveling through these woods. Both of us have our purposes, and neither of us has yet succeeded in our hopes. But no, I have not been following you,” the elderly man replied, with a sincere expression on his face. He smiled amicably. “There are many dangers in these forests, from the war, and from the very fabric of life itself. You have probably felt many different eyes upon you, as you have moved through the trees of these lands, and they belong to living creatures that are in no way tamed. It is good that you are so alert.”
Dragol was utterly perplexed, and was quickly growing weary of the man’s cryptic ways. Trogens were not ones to tarry with riddles for long, becoming swiftly impatient with anything that was less than direct.
With some exasperation, Dragol queried, “Who are you, old man? I want to know! Why is it that you are in these woods?”
He shunned the idea of challenging the old man with violent intentions, as many humans in his position might have done to gain answers. That course of action was far from the Trogen way. Openly striking an unarmed, elderly man would do him great dishonor as a Trogen warrior. The strong sought out the strong, and only the truly weak bolstered themselves by preying upon the weak. It was one significant reason why he, and his fellow Trogens, so loathed the use of Darroks in the war.
His great instincts for threats and dangers from individual beings had never failed him before. He sensed that there was no threat whatsoever forthcoming from this old man. Yet all the same, the Trogen chieftain still wanted some answers.
The man smiled again, with a slight air of joviality. “I am not in these woods because of you, and the tasks that I am on take me away from you… but you have quickly become of great interest to me.”
Dragol frowned, as his eyes narrowed, and he was confounded as to how he was going to get any answers out of the lone, highly confusing man. There simply had to be much more to the man than what he saw before him.
An old man with one eye, seemingly unarmed, would not fare very well in such dangerous forests. Dragol’s own survival was not guaranteed, no matter how strong he was, and despite the fact that he was armed with a great shield and well-crafted Trogen longblade.
He asked the old man slowly, “What… are your tasks then?”
“I am a seeker now. I have been seeking for some that I know, and others that have come from a faraway place. I have found the ones from afar, and done what I could for them… but I cannot find the ones that I have known for many ages,” the old man answered.
This time, the pleasant expression on the old man’s face faded, replaced by a mien that was decidedly melancholy in nature.
“The ones that I know should have been aiding the fight against the invasion that brought you along with it,” the old man continued.
Dragol did not miss that the man had not hesitated to imply that the forces that the Trogen had arrived with were in the wrong. Dragol could not help but respect the steadfast, direct manner of the old man in that regard.
After another moment, the old man’s face darkened further, and a simmering anger pulsed just under the surface of his pale skin. For some unknown reason, Dragol felt the slightest tinge of fear. Quickly, be batted the feeling down, and inwardly admonished himself for feeling any intimidation from a very aged human.
“As we all have enemies, so I believe one of mine has something to do with the absence of the ones I seek,” the old man finished, in a lower, tense voice.
“And why would I be of interest to you at all?” Dragol asked, after a few moments of uneasy silence had passed. He had no idea what the old man was talking about.
The old man’s features then relaxed, and like the sun breaking free of storm clouds, a white smile came to his face. “If I gave you a direct answer, it would be too easy for you, Spirit of the Dragon.”
The old man chuckled, as Dragol nearly growled in frustration. At the same time, the Trogen was caught completely by surprise, as the old man had known the literal meaning of the Trogen warrior’s given name.
Dragol.
Spirit of the Dragon.
Few of those that learned the Trogen tongue ever learned all the meanings of names. It deepened the mystery surrounding the old man even further.
“As for myself, maybe it is time to reveal a little more to you,” the old man stated.
The man slowly raised his arms out to either side, as a tremendous brightness surged, overcoming the cloaked form of his body. At its apex, the blinding light appeared to shatter into thousands of tiny shards of white light.
The intensity was such that Dragol had to quickly raise up his shielded arm, to simply protect his eyes from the overwhelming brightness. He blinked and squinted, trying to look around the shield and behold the magnificent vision before him. The tiny light shards fragmented further, before seeming to dissipate in all directions.
When they were gone from sight, the forest was empty once again. The elderly man was nowhere to be seen.
Dragol clenched his teeth in frustration, foiled again in the attempt to identify the strange traveler. The mystery was greater, not lesser as he had hoped, due to the event that had just happened.
Letting out a muffled grunt of anger, Dragol looked around the trees with a snarl on his face. He took a couple of deep breaths, as he struggled to reestablish his sanity, or at least a semblance of it. He could barely trust his senses anymore, or at least so it seemed. He waited a little while longer, but the old man did not reemerge, and the sensation of being watched was entirely absent.
With little else to do, Dragol finally decided to take a brief respite, and enjoy the cool, soothing air given off around the small waterfall. That was something he could understand fully, requiring no solving of riddles. He walked slowly back around the rim of the pool, and sat down on the smooth, damp rock of the cave opening.
He began to collect his thoughts, though he did not take his attention away from the forest around him. Setting the shield and longblade down, both easily within arm’s reach, he untied the leather cords securing the small pouch at his waist.
Reaching in, he pulled out a few of the stored berries and put them into his mouth. The sweet, juicy bursts, tinged with a hint of sourness, filled his mouth with a pleasant flavor. He followed up the berries by cupping his hands, and drinking from the clear water near the edge of the pool.
The tensions gradually left his body and mind, as his senses appeared to align with the steady patter of the water, which fell down from above and came to rest in the pool. He felt the vapors from the cascading water blow across his face with each breeze, and very gradually he reached a feeling of serenity.
As much as Trogens were creatures of storm and fury, so were they also creatures of sunlight and tranquility. A cognizance of the order of things was just as importance as the most demanding physical challenges or tests.
The renewed sense of peace brought his thoughts back to the old man. He reflected upon what he knew of the man with a calmer, more revealing perspective.
His reflections were drawn towards the earlier exchange that he had with the old man, regarding the process of revelation. The old man had given him a simple example, likening it to the processes Dragol had undergone in learning the arts of the Trogen longblade.
The talk of unveiling realizations existing inside his heart was something that struck a familiar tone deep within Dragol. Trogens often spoke of how there were many things written into the very essence of their spirit, characteristics and inspirations that were a part of their innermost nature. They were the most basic of elements given to them by the Creator Spirit.
Every adolescent Trogen learned that there were many things that would be unlocked with the passage of time, as they passed from youth into full adulthood, and beyond. Life was a continuous process of awakenings, to the very end.
It was not that these revelations were in their fullest form from the moment that a Trogen was born, but were rather quietly growing, like crops in a field. The things that a Trogen did in life, and learned, were like the sun and rain that governed the growth in a cultivated field.
A proper focus and effort in life would tend such a crop bountifully, as it changed from a seed into a mature plant, ready for harvest. If a Trogen was wayward, or turned from a right path, the effect would be like an unrelenting drought, or flooding of a field of plants.
The difficult truth about life was that destructive processes could also be much quicker in their nature and effect. Such realities strongly echoed the truth that it was always swifter to tear something down than it was to build something up.
The process of crops had always served as a good analogy, in such a light. The hated Elven raiders had often ruined fields of rich abundance, right on the brink of harvest. In a similar way, a Trogen could rapidly become self-destructive, and destroy in moments what had taken years to cultivate. It was a daunting truth, one that always gave Dragol an impetus for self-restraint, as well as compelling periods of sober reflections, like the one that he was embracing now.
It was the process of coming to know oneself and one’s purpose in life, and of harvesting one’s inner growths. Dragol had always striven to give his own life adequate sunlight and water, even if he did not yet recognize the final form of the plant that would be his own, personal harvest. It was exactly what the old man appeared to be honing in upon. He was encouraging Dragol to know the yield of his own fields of life.
The old man was truly a mystery, to a maddening degree, but his enigmatic presence was not an entirely unwelcome development. To Dragol’s understanding, the old man must have been intimately familiar with the rites and tenets of the Trogen race, in order to have such a close understanding of the more deep-rooted, subtler aspects of their kind. The keen understanding was very strange coming from a human, as most humans took the Trogens to be little more than barbarous beast-men.
Why the old man was returning to find him, or even had an interest in him to begin with, Dragol could not tell. Yet there was a firm reason for the encounters, as clearly they were not random in nature. Nor did Dragol believe that the old man’s reasons for approaching him were insignificant, or even just something born from idle curiosity. The old man was revealing himself to Dragol slowly, for a definitive purpose.
Dragol suddenly fathomed that he was likely a mystery to the old man as well; even if Dragol believed that the old man had many more insights about him, than he did concerning the blue-robed man.
The old man had had an undeniable, calming presence about him that greatly intrigued Dragol. There had never been a feeling of a threat to his personal being, during any moment that he had spent in the old man’s company. There was only the brief flash of fear, when the old man’s emotions had surged with a temporal anger, though Dragol knew well that the flare of anger was not directed at himself.
The truth of the matter was that the more that Dragol pondered it, the effect had been quite the reverse. His sense of security had actually grown with each passing minute in the presence of the old man.
He could not really say why he felt an affinity for the old man, but it was there nonetheless. Perchance it was the quiet strength and confidence that emanated from the old man, radiance not unlike that from a trained, veteran Trogen warrior.
Possibly it was something else entirely. Perhaps there was even something very supernatural about the old man. At the least, the man obviously held magical abilities.
Whatever the reason was, Dragol could not be certain. Even the stranger aspects of the old man were not absolutes. Tricks of light were not conclusive, as human sorcerers, and even illusionists, could attain such knowledge and abilities. That the man moved with a fluidity and grace that did not reflect the years that his face seemed to show was also not necessarily decisive either.
Dragol had heard tales of such men before, such as those of holy men secluded in the deserts of the Sunlands. Others involved rumors of individuals from far distant, eastern lands, brought back on the lips of caravan traders returning westwards with new stores of spices and silks. Though very uncommon, the tales spoke of men of very advanced years, who had somehow held the erosion of time at bay in the workings of their bodies.
Whether the blue-robed man was a supernatural manifestation, a Wizard, or simply a human who had gained mastery of sorcerous arts, Dragol’s instincts still told him that the old man held great power, and had to be respected.
“Who are you?” Dragol muttered, as he glanced skyward, as if that was the direction in which the old man could be found.
He silently beheld the leaves blowing about softly, on the swaying tree limbs far above him, letting the words of the question drift off into the air. A part of him almost expected that there would be some sort of audible answer. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle rustling caused by the wind, intermingled with the continuing splashes of water from the hillside waterfall. The forest seemed to be in as much of a state of repose as Dragol now found himself in.
Exposing his long, sharp teeth, Dragol rumbled with laughter that had a slightly manic edge to it. He began to wonder whether he was finally becoming crazed with the trials he was enduring, of living in a solitary state within enemy lands. He felt somewhat foolish, at seeing how consumed he was becoming with such a seemingly insignificant encounter. He could only hope that it was not an irrelveant one, as his mind drifted back along the echoes of time.
Dragol remembered one particular period in his upbringing as a Trogen of the Thunder Wolf clan. He had wished to prove himself worthy of being a full Trogen warrior, and had asked his clan’s Chieftain, an old Trogen named Curaga, to provide a challenge by which Dragol could prove himself worthy.
Most Trogens making such a request would be sent forward with forces seeking to prepare ambushes and traps for the incessant Elven incursions. Others would serve as escorts with the hunting parties making forays into the highly valuable, and oft Elven-raided, territories of the Trogens’ northwestern lands.
There were a few times when flare-ups with the Kiruvans to the south, or the Gigan clans to the east, provided other opportunities, but most of the time the young warriors risked, and proved, themselves against the deadly Elven blades.
Dragol had grown up with a constant, burning desire, to hurl the Elves out of the Trogen lands. With a state of peace holding between Trogens, Gigans, and the Kiruvan Prince of Chergrad, the Elves themselves had loomed as the primary chance that he longed for to prove himself within his clan.
Caruga had listened to the young Dragol’s request impassively, and had then proceeded to send him forth on a challenge that had been completely unexpected.
Dragol had been sent alone for the span of two weeks into the harsh wilderness near to his home village, with little more than a dagger and a hide pouch containing a little smoked meat. The ensuing two weeks had been a most arduous experience, but a lasting lesson had begun to reveal itself to Dragol during the trial. The challenges in that wilderness were as much of a mental nature as they were physical.
Caruga had sent Dragol to a place close to his home village for a reason. As the strains of survival mounted, the temptation to return home, so tantalizingly close, often called out to him. The long hours without companionship or dedicated tasks caused time itself to grind on slowly.
Fashioning shelter, protecting himself, engaging in hunting, and doing a little foraging presented some difficulties, but when he looked back on the experience, it had been the mental tests that were the most daunting. Caruga was testing the willpower and fortitude within Dragol’s mind, rather than measuring him against a physical danger.
Caruga had spoken with Dragol in private upon his return. The old Trogen chieftain had been very pleased that Dragol had both lasted for the full two weeks, and had also identified the true nature of the test.
The crusty, stoic demeanor of the old Trogen chieftain softened to Dragol’s great surprise, as Caruga exuded a warm, and emotional, ebullience towards Dragol’s achievement. The special test had spurred Dragol onto a path of rapid ascendancy within the Thunder Wolf Clan.
His mind had continued to be steadily conditioned over the following years. He had gradually inured himself to the powerful emotions that raced through all Trogens’ blood, able to maintain a disciplined grasp on the realities around him.
He had consistently excelled in those areas, as well as in combat. With Caruga’s blessing, he had risen quickly in stature within the Thunder Wolf clan, to become one of their highest-ranking warriors.
As much as he feared getting maimed or injured, and losing the ability to wield a longblade, he now held an equal fear of incurring any kind of damage to his mental resolve. He could see now that his adamant refusal to give in to the powerful impulses to chase after Gavnar and the others was another test that he had passed successfully. His discretion in not blindly following into Tirok’s folly was bothering him far less. He was increasingly reconciled to the realization that he had indeed made the right choice.
Yet while one matter of concern eased in his mind, Dragol’s encounters with the old man were still unresolved. The old man’s presence seemed illogical, not entirely friend or foe, and with no discernible purpose. It was not impossible that everything was taking place in Dragol’s mind.
The whole experience seemed ever more like the descriptions of the solitary Healers that lived among the Trogen clans. The Healers were said to have regular hallucinations of astounding natures, during their long sojourns into the lonely wildernesses.
Such tales were not relegated only to Trogens. They were also contained within the same stories that celebrated the vitality of the old hermits in the Sunlands, where the isolated men had also encountered strange, fantastical visions during their self-imposed exiles.
If the interactions with the peculiar woodland traveler were born out of sheer illusion, then there was something for Dragol to worry about.
The other prospect was that if the encounters were grounded in iron-solid reality, then Dragol had possibly come upon a crossroads of momentous revelation.
Until he knew which of the two possibilities that it was, he knew he had to respond as best he could, to every moment as he perceived it, come whatever may.
Dragol closed his eyes slowly, taking a deep breath, and exhaling. He envisioned the old man in the long blue robes, seeing the elderly human’s gleaming blue eye as vividly as if the stranger was standing right in front of him.
‘Often, we have already learned the answers to what we seek, only we have not realized how to ask ourselves the right questions to discover them within us.’
The words of the old man echoed in Dragol’s mind over and over again. The soft strength in the voice continued to enamor Dragol. It held the gentle authority of a longtime mentor, neither domineering, nor wavering in purpose. The lesson was there for him to learn, just as it had been when he had left his home village, to accept the requested task from Caruga.
He grew very quiet, feeling the serenity reigning around him. Letting his eyes slowly open again, he took in the sight of the waterfall and trees beyond it.
The more that he listened to his heart, in the way that the Trogens tended to do, the more reassurance he found towards the strange traveler. A part of him harbored no doubts that he would be seeing the old man once again, perhaps very soon.
“I want to find the right question,” Dragol murmured out loud, as casually if he was replying to the immediate presence of the old man. “If you can help me… then help me. Just tell me who you are, and what you are about. Why do you think I am anything more than what I am?”
The light, drifting breezes carried off Dragol’s softly spoken words. Dragol could almost imagine the smooth, peaceful currents of air ushering the supplication carefully to the ears of the old traveler.
As easily and promptly as the old man seemed to be able to depart and appear, Dragol would not have been surprised if the old man was standing just twenty feet away. There was a palpable tinge of disappointment when several moments passed and no answer was forthcoming.
It was an unusual sort of feeling to have, but he believed the old man would not have remained hidden if he were there to hear Dragol’s query. Furthermore, there was still no sensation of the kind that he had felt prior to the traveler’s other appearances. Even so, Dragol had earnestly believed that the old man could somehow hear the spoken words.
Allowing himself an ephemeral, bemused smile, an expression not all that common amongst Trogen-kind, he raised his eyes upward again. He gazed through the deep green saturating the intertwining tree branches above and around him, taking in the smooth, silken expanse of the teal-colored sky farther above. Streaked with elongated swathes of white clouds, the sight held an aesthetic, enthralling attraction for him.
It seemed much more vivid and magical than he had ever noticed before, as if he had cleared away a veil, and recaptured some of the wonder of his early youth. In a sense, it was almost like looking up at the trees, clouds, and sky for the first time. In truth, though, he was looking up at a unique instance of the sky.
Sitting up straighter, Dragol chuckled to himself. There might well be a meaning to having an entirely new manner of perception. Then again, he had to concede that maybe his mind truly was losing the scope of reality that he had known.
Still, he had not bothered yet to wonder about whether new perceptions might bring with them an altogether new awareness. A new awareness might very well clear the mists away, removing that which clouded the nature of the particular questions that he needed to ask himself.
The answers that Dragol was seeking might not be all that far away, after all.
*