Introduction

an author explains how and why

 

Damn. Damn. Double damn. Triple damn. Even as a child, I knew the power of the threefold promise, or the threefold curse. When things got really rotten, I would speak that litany reciting the replies myself. Damn. Damn. Double damn. Triple damn. Only this time I fear it is I who is the one being cursed. I hope not; I hope that it is that race of arrogant malaperts. Well, maybe not them either.

          Everything Nordic always held sway for me even though I was presented with the heritages of both my mother and my father. My father was from a long line of English merchants, some owning their own ships, some traders, and some who owned mercantiles or warehouses. Although they held fast to the recognized religion of the British monarchy, deep within my father’s family ran a thread of romantic fascination with the legends and fables of the English. This allurement led my father to chum with an Irishman, my godfather, who strongly believed in the fae and the Celtic gods. Between them, I heard the stories of leprechauns and brownies, the Tuatha De Dannan, Arthur and Guinevere, Sir Percival and the Holy Grail, Tristan and Isolde.

          But to this day, I remember my mother handing me a child’s version of The Eddas. The concept of Yggdrasil and the surrounding worlds made so much sense to me. I understood the fiery passion of Thor, the brooding wisdom of Odin, the mighty justice of Tyr. Frigga became the Divine Mother to me and Freyja an older, hapless sister. Even before my training with Umma, I saw the worlds through the eyes of a Norsewoman. So it is not surprising that Wyrm was the only mythical serpent that held credence for me.

          Like so many of the hippie generation, I eventually found a spiritual home in neopaganism. The connection to the planet and her creatures, to a universal essence, to a Divine Feminine as well as a Divine Masculine, all found a place in my heart. The creed of Harm None matched my need to work toward the goals of achieving world peace and of ending hunger and ignorance. The sense of family that was sadly lacking in other spiritual choices was strong in the group that coalesced about me. I will skip over how a student became a teacher to me in a very short time but it was she who brought me back to the stories of my father. But, I digress.

          I am known to them as RawrNar the Story Keeper. This work is my penance for a past transgression, but I know I will never earn the reward they hold out to me. I see their society for what it is and know all too well that nothing short of complete contrition will ever be satisfactory to them. I have heard the story of my deed and accept how it could be considered a crime but, like Prometheus, I still believe I was correct in my actions. This belief will shine out if ever I am directly questioned and on that day I will once again be returned to a level they perceive as low and debased. I, on the other hand, am quite willing to remain on the Wheel of Incarnation for eternity since I appreciate a truth they refuse to acknowledge: Humanity will someday be the perfection that The Universe was, and still is, aiming to become. That is, if humanity does not eradicate itself first.

          For now I will serve their purpose since I honestly believe that humans still need their existence, even if it is to be little more than a collection of stories. Their plane of existence is collapsing faster than humanity is racing toward extinction. Someone needs to take eons of collective memory and transcribe it into a permanent format available to many. They know all their stories because they share knowledge through a form of mental osmosis. That is the best way I can describe what I understand as their ability to share stories and information. They think in pictures and emotions and can transmit the same through a combination of mental release and physical connection. Once the story has been shared in this manner, it can be passed along in its original form forever since the information rarely changes. But as their existence has become unstable and uncertain, they have deemed it necessary to share with a lowly human who can see the pictures, understand the emotions, and then translate it all into words.

          My theory as to why their plane of existence is collapsing is not new or even ingenious. In my hubris I did think so once but am now well acquainted with others who hold the same opinion. They are slowly winking out of existence because no one believes they are real, really real, anymore. Eons ago they traveled between their world and ours freely, sharing their wisdom and code of honor, teaching the early shamans, medicine men, and wise women of the more promising human tribes. We have the proof of their interaction in ancient legends and myths as well as very early artworks. Somewhere along the way, they became feared and distrusted, and eventually full-scale hunts were initiated to eradicate them. Some of them stayed in physical form and tried to reason with their former students and allies but the majority pulled back to their own realm preferring to interact with only their chosen supporters in a much safer manner. Over time, their contacts within the human realm dwindled and those few kept their own council so well that the old stories became nothing more than fodder for Hollywood movies.

          There are those who honor them still and in greater numbers than has been seen in generations. However, the information that exists about them, about their realm, and about how to interact with them is inconsistent, conflicted, and confusing. They are not beasts; they are simply another race of beings that are sentient (more so than humans) who live on a plane of existence that we might call another dimension. However, describing the structure of the universe is not part of what I have to tell, thankfully, since I do not completely understand it myself. They do not trust a human with a blade of any sort in hand. Why would they, when humans with blades once tried to hasten their demise? They can project their energy signature into our plane of existence but refuse to manifest in physical form unless they are fully assured of their safety, which is extremely rare. They prefer to meet with ascended beings in the realm known to most as the astral planes. The astral plane, again, is difficult at best to explain. Ginnungagap of Norse cosmology or Heindel’s Cosmo or the Kabala all attempt to describe that realm better than I ever could.

Only some of them can breathe fire and each of them has their own special talents and abilities, which is quickly recognizable in the coloring of their hides. They do live for very long periods of time passing from that existence straight to becoming particles of the universe itself, according to their legends. The one truth that has persisted about them is sadly all too true. They are arrogant to a fault, seeing themselves as the most highly developed beings in the universe. They perceive humans as we would gifted, but mischievous, children. Their realm in is dire need and they see little hope that the destruction will be halted, let alone reversed. While some hope there will be a miracle that can save their realm, most believe that the black ooze will eventually absorb every bit of their existence and then only their stories will remain. And so I sit in the meeting hall many a night and listen as they share their stories.

The meeting hall is just that, a spot where anyone can enjoy a beverage or a bite while waiting for, or while enjoying, some company. For me, the meeting hall resembles a medieval tavern or a saloon of the wild American West. The large door opens onto a dusky room that houses no splendor at all. The tables are utilitarian and the few benches remind me of the simplest of church pews. Conversations are generally quite muted; only a heated debate will attract anyone else’s attention. The grog (my name for the drink) is bland and any food served there is equally lacking in color and taste. If you happen to stop by one evening, I would be the one off in the corner dressed in burgundy and grey. Sometimes I sit alone, drink a grog, suffer veiled ignominy, and leave. Most evenings I am silently attentive as one of them shares a story they believe deserves to be recorded. I am not certain that Humanity is remotely interested in their histories and anecdotes. Nevertheless, these are the stories of the Draconian Realm.

Reviews

[aubreydiamond]

Wow what a fascinating first part to a story! Absolutely love your way of writing, was very captivating and alluring. I’m already very intrigued and looking forward to seeing where this is going to go. Lookig forward to future chapters 😊 Keep it up! ✨