End of Black Traveler (Tchanel's Story)
The wings of the black Traveler cut the air, but left no mark behind to write their presence. Not like the ground far below, which unhesitantly accepted the liquid line of sapphires that fell in the last great Traveler's path. He had fled long but his desperate run was ending here, that much was clear. He hoped this was far enough. His kin were here, if his kin of another heart, another flame, so much brighter than his own--the fire in his chest, in his eyes, was nigh extinguished, and he felt the cold in his tail, in his wings, in the tip of his thorned snout. He pushed himself, for he knew this was not safe. His kin were here but still the Traveler knew this place was not safe, for far below was a land stricken by the dreadful blackness that reminded him so of--
But he could not think of that. He had to remain focused. His black hide, his name, was cracked and fragmented, letting his fire show through, exposed to the unforgiving green air above this land of dead storms. His kin were to the west. To the west. He must--to the west... but it was so difficult to focus, and his wings shook as he straightened them out to glide downwards, closer to the beckoning ground. It would be such a relief to simply drop from the sky, hurtle down, end his Travels with not a whimper, accepting the coldness of the storm-torn dirt and broken earth into himself, extinguishing his fire. His eyes, all the colors of the sunset, were dim now and streamed with tears from the ache in every bone, every muscle. The gaping slit stretching from neck to stomach bled his flame down to the hungry ground below. Brass bones gleamed with a blue-green tinge where they showed through his lightless black hide.
He was, as far as he knew, the last of the Travelers. Where they would come from, where they would go, such were not things for the Travelers to know. They were mere agents of some greater power that remained unseen, that did not speak or manifest, simply drove them. Such was the fate of a Traveler, to be driven from place to place, always searching, never finding. The hunt ended only when the fires of the body cooled to ashes, and nothing of the Traveler remained to continue the quest. He had not come from this land, this land that was scarred with sickness in bands and patches, but he had been driven here. Driven with the only precious thing, the precious thing that he sacrificed himself to create. A Traveler's curse. Like the mythic phoenix, a Traveler was eternally alone, able to produce a new life only through the end of their own. He, Black Traveler, had not opened his eyes until his creator's ashes were cooled to soft gray and long lifeless. It was the fate of the Traveler; those that did not die from the hazards of Travel died by the unwitting claw of their sole method of procreation. It was a pain too great to bear, but it was the curse of the Traveler. And now there were no more, only he and the young one that devoured his flame from the inside out for its own survival, unknowing of how it consumed its parent's strength.
The sick lands far below him ended with a startling abruptness, but perhaps his clouded vision was simply playing tricks on him and had neglected to recognize signs of its ending. He did not know, he only knew that now he was coasting downwards rapidly over untainted land. There were stretches of green and gold, bright in the sunlight, and in the distance he could see the marks of settlements, but he knew this was not the place. It was a horrid struggle to force his aching wings into action once more, climbing laboriously higher up into the sky, gasping and hissing deep in his throat laboriously. On he went, until at last the final drops of strength bled free from his frame, and then it was all he could do not to drop to the earth like a stone. He stretched his wings wide and locked his trembling, burning joints, the membranes snapping and whistling as he picked up speed, gravity hauling him downwards towards the earth at a steadily increasing rate. There was nothing for it. He couldn't even try to slow down now, he would simply drop out of the sky altogether. The ground whipped by at a blinding speed, he lowered swiftly...
And with a resonating, thudding crunch, crumpled into a hillside, skidding a furrow across the green grass, smearing it with blackish blue of torn hide and Traveler blood. He stared with fogged eyes, vision flickering and faiding. The roar of a waterfall not far off filled his ears as sensation faded away and the cold crept into his heart. His body crumbled away, corroding to a thin black misty ash on the brilliantly green grass. Left behind was a small black form, curled tightly upon itself. Tiny black wings, a prominent snout, little nubs of bronze-shaded horns, the newborn Traveler was silent for several minutes, as still as if dead.
As the last of the ashes blew away with the wind, the creature stirred. Deep blue eyes blinked open, narrowing at seeing bright daylight for the first time--and not the first time. For even as the young Traveler climbed to his paws, shaking out his rumpled wings, he knew of himself, his purpose, his name. He was Black Traveler, for he had come out the body of Black Traveler, and was made of all that Black Traveler had been made. He was his predecessor, but at the same time he was not. It was not so much reincarnation as it was potent genetic memory--he knew what the former Traveler had known, and what had been learned by each Black Traveler before him, though the memories grew progressively more fuzzy the farther back he tried to remember and he could recollect nothing of the origin of his line. That didn't matter, as he knew enough to keep him alive in this hostile new place. Or so he thought.
He padded about slowly on the hill. The first order of business would be eating something. Black Traveler always pulled his sustenance from the water, for his fire was the Blue of the ocean. The waterfall caught his eye--a waterfall must end in a river or pool, the memories of Black Travelers past told him, and so he started to pad down the side of the hill, surefooted and calm. There was the pool, and his sharp eyes could see fish swimming about in it--that would feed his Fire perfectly. He stretched out his small wings and studied them. The land in which he was created would dictate his form--and apparently, in this one, a creature such as he could not fly so young. Walking it was, then. Fixated on the fish swimming about mindlessly in their watery trap, he scrabbled and slipped down the steeper wall down to the spot. And came upon a mess of creatures that held only one desire--kill everything. Black Traveler realized his error seconds too late, turning and trying to flee--but something caught at his paws and held him rooted to the earth like he was heavily chained, and arrows sailed through the air. It took only one clean shot to puncture the smooth black hide and spill his Fire out of him, and his only thought was how much a pity it was that the line of Black Traveler would end here, at the hands of such vile beasts.
******
Thought was a murky thing. He was sure he knew who he had been, but the memories and pictures flitted madly out of reach like terrified moths whenever he reached for them. He hurt inside and out, everything spun. He gave up trying to remember who he was, or where, focused instead on getting his eyes to open. Shaded, greenish light met him and he frowned--didn't he recall... but no, there was nothing. He trembled as he pushed himself to his feet, slowly looking around himself. Tall trees, small pigs and spiders and beetles milling about somewhere distant, delicate deer picking their way amongst the undergrowth. And a creature like himself, squat and chubby and possessing wings and a tail much like his own, was seated nearby, watching him calmly. He stared at this other creature for several minutes, uncertain. Thoughts of memories faded.
"Hello there," the stranger finally spoke up, apparently presuming the little black hatchling was not about to speak up. "I'm Spitfyre. I'm here to help Gifted dragons like you get their legs under them after their first experience with death."
"Death?" the dark dragon--he was a dragon? Well, he supposed this Spitfyre fellow would know, since he was one too--said hesitantly. "I'm dead?"
"Not exactly," he replied. "You have died, but you returned to life because you're Gifted. It's... a bit complicated. Your spirit is bound here to this existance. You'll return to wherever your spirit is most called--for now that's right here, since it didn't know where else to go and this place is a beacon to young dragons. So, what's your name?"
The black dragon just stared at him. Name? He didn't know. "I don't think I have one." He turned away from the chatty reddish hatchling, wandering away and ignoring Spitfyre's calling after him. He wanted to explore this new place before he went any further... and a name, what would he be named?
Ultimately he just made something up. The next time he came by Spitfyre, he said, "I think I'm named Tchanel."
(Other details--The spot where Black Traveler fell is the hill just west of the waterfall and pool west of Last Stand. The reason Tchanel is no longer Black Traveler, if you don't understand, is because death severed him from the genetic memories of the Black Traveler line. Whether or not he'll ever regain those ancient memories, I have no idea.)
