He tells me the story.

He always tells me the story.

And as always, I listen...

The elven race, proud and strong, respected and admired throughout the world, not only for their talents and skills, but also for their warmth and hospitality. For thousands of years they inhabited the deep forests and tall mountains of the land called Athyria, bordering the Dragon land and the northern kingdoms of the humans. It was beautiful, forests that seemed to stretch on to eternity, and mountains of such height it was a wonder they did not pierce the sky with their summits.

But now Athyria is a dead land.

Twenty years ago, when I was but a mere babe in arms, Athyria was invaded by an army of creatures known only as the Dark Hoarde. The Hoarde wasn't a race as such, or at least they didn't appear to be. There were many different kinds of creatures within their masses, but they all shared one quality. Their forms were twisted, mutated, as if some force had taken the all the creations of nature and twisted them out of shape. They were frenzied, blood thirsty and, most fearful of all, intelligent.

Within days, they rampaged through the entire land of Athyria, befouling the forests, destroying the creations of the Elves, murdering my race in an endless rain of blood. It seemed there was no stopping them, despite the best attempts of the bravest warriors my kind had to offer. And so it was that they came upon the city of Korylth, the capital of our once great land.

The city I was born in.

Built upon the forested slopes of a great mountain, Korylth was well defended from attack. But that did not stop them. Wave after wave of twisted creatures charged up the slopes towards the city, and eventually, they broke through. The defensive lines and the carnage began anew. Everyone was dealt the same treatment, death at the hands of the Dark Hoarde. The city guards, merchants, the common people, royalty, all were slaughtered.

My family was no exception.

I was on the verge of becoming just another victim of the Dark Hoarde when he appeared. Larieth, great blue dragon, saw me, helpless in my crib, at the mercy of some giant twisted wolf-creature, its fangs dripping with blood and its eyes filled with the mindless destruction that had been wreaked. Diving from the darkened sky, Larieth snatched me up and flew me away from that terrible place, taking me to where I would be safe. As I am told, that one act made me the only survivor of our entire race. The Dark Hoarde spread so quickly through Athyria that not a single other member of my race survived.

Larieth flew me far southwards, to the southern edge of the continent, to the furthest lands of the humans, where the Dark Hoarde was all but legend and I might have a chance of living a happy life. Using his dragon magic, he shielded our true appearances, remoulded our forms into those of a father with his human child, so we would not arouse suspicion. The coastal village of Illashara became our home, and I spent most of my childhood there. Larieth named me Wyldfyre, the dragon term for an orphan, ironic perhaps, but I always liked the name and had been reluctant to change it, even though he had insisted more than once that I choose my own name as he had no right to place one upon me, a thought that I greatly disagreed with.

Through all this, I was too young to remember anything. All I have are the stories and lessons given to me by Larieth, who became my adoptive father, my tutor, and my friend. He has taught me a great deal about many things, not least of which has been the ways of my people, that I might not lose sight of my beginnings.

He also taught me about the world, the wonders contained within it, and the secrets of dragon magic. I learned how to defend myself, should the need ever arise, and I learned how to change my form, taking on the shape of a dragon and spending many wonderful days sharing the sky with Larieth, who I think was just as happy to have someone to fly with, after spending so much time far away from his own home. The rumours of a pair of dragons sighted flying near Illashara worried the people - as the stories of the Dark Hoarde are almost legend here, so is the knowledge of dragons - but nothing ever seemed to come of it.

Those were happy times.

Now Larieth and I travel together, through the southern human kingdoms, exploring and experiencing the world. There is a longing within me to return to Athyria, to see the land that was once my home, but Larieth tells me it is now populated by the Dark Hoarde, and such a journey would be far too perilous. So here we remain, the only memory of my homeland being a pendant, carved from hardwood and embossed with gold, in the shape of a leaf from an oak tree and bearing an inscription of a language so old, not even Larieth can translate it. I was wearing it when I was rescued from that crib so long ago, and I have never taken it off since.

Maybe one day, I'll find out what it means.