Dragon Infirmary

Kainaesyth is listening, half asleep, half awake. The persistent pull of winter clouds his thoughts, as do the lances of pain which pull at his strength with every small movement.

The thoughts of the younglings are unfocused and often silent. But together they create a compelling story that the master of lore can simply not help but piece together, tucking away the colorful lessons into his satchel of words.

Deep in the canyon, tucked away, Kainaesyth settles beside a pool in his mind, stirring up memories in its depths. Hours are spent here, watching the snatches of stories as they spread by. Occasionally one is plucked up and run through in its entirety, with bits and pieces married to others to create new stories. Reality bends here, tucked into the canyon, as morals press inwards and Kainaseyth patiently creates anew daily what is lost.

Much of life can be learned through these stories. Bravery is taught through the strivings of small furry creatures determined to make their way in the word despite being the smallest and most feeble of all. Steadfastness could be taught through a tale of two friends; seeking their way through the world till they find that which was lost to them. Selflessness through a small girl willing to give all to others, even if it would cause starvation for herself. The perils of pride, and the downfall it causes taught through tales of rulers built up and torn down. EAch of these were lessons Kainaseyth holds deep within, and is willing to share to the small minds. The stories are braided together, with some etched deeply into stone, to perhaps prevent them from fading before their potential can be used. Words upon words stacked together, waiting for the storyteller to open his mouth and speak.

But what use do the unborn have of words?


The children, tucked in their protective covers, much like his own cave, know nothing of that which is being lost. Their minds are unformed, their experiences blank. They know nothing of the world or that which they will be expected to do. They understand the voices of their parents, soothing and comforting. They know they are cared for and loved, but do not understand what care and love is. They are the epitome of patience as they wait to be born.

And Kainaesyth is drawn to them. Winter pushes and dulls his senses. Injuries pull him deeper into lethargy. Distance from that which is fundamentally his own causes sadness, but still, the presence of the unformed minds calls to him.

He has told some of these stories already. When they were much younger. They remember none of it, and Kainaesyth does not mind. It is a challenge to face, a mental one that allows his weary body to rest, and to heal. It provides a distraction from Ha’ze’s absence.

Pulling his stories from where they rest at the base of his soul he pours them through his mind, pondering the best way to share with the little ones. Words were meaningless to them. Less than meaningless. So how best to share with them that which stands at his core? For their unformed minds call for lessons, and he cannot resist them.

Settling the half-formed thoughts which the curl forth, the storyteller begins to work. Words are ground down to their essence. Mixed deep in the canyon the words slowly change to become patchworks of color. Experiences ground to pure emotion. Only once the best stories, the ones the children must understand, have been changed to this mosaic does Kainaesyth reach out. Gently first, he sprinkles the colors among their chaotic sendings, allowing an elaborate tale of bravery, ground down to the ever shifting colours of white and black, to play among the chaos.

First one, then another, break, their thoughts fading away.

As the eggs begin to spark again Kainaseyth spreads another story, this a deep red, one that speaks well of love, and warns of overbearance.

Hundreds of stories he will tell. Some are scattered in seconds, the essence a lesson easily understood. Take care of that which you love. Avoid foolishness. Always eat your veggies.

But others are more complex and require more time in the telling. Beware of lies, for they grow till your soul is darkened with them, but spare a few to sooth the soul of another.

There is no way to tell if they have understood, but Kainaesyth is satisfied. It was for the storyteller to tell, not for the listener to understand. Once the story has left, what it grows in their hearts is out of the tellers hands. Hope is given, that perhaps it would be used for well, but all stories have their opposites. For while bravery was the color, fear also lodged neck and neck. Twisted the colors would become a riot of darkness which paralyzed action and led to evil. Layers of meaning the storyteller spreads among the children, his chilled breezes spreading among the young and pulling back.

He is patient. If they did not understand now it would be well.

For while the stories may not always remain the same, the storyteller remained. When they awoke to their own the stories could be repeated.