Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The Brazen Bull, Chapter 1 - Renard

Of the major holds within The Kingdom of Iron Fen, the mining town of Charn was derided as the least glamorous. It lacked the stately character of Port Shorishal, the elegance of Alindal, or even the rustic charm of Morningshire. Moldy eaves shaded decrepit stone buildings blackened with smoke. The streets were filthy with pig stool and vermin. The only building with any notable beauty was Charn Manor.

On the outskirts of town, it sat behind a gate of curled iron and ivy-draped stone. It had an arcing carriage path and well-manicured lawn. From the steps of the front porch, in front of the carved oak door, the child of The Dutchess, Marquess Renard spent his childhood watching the manor staff engage in the physical labor he would never need to know.

Renard was a quiet child, delicate and always small for his age. He had straw-colored hair and rosy cheeks. He had a love for every animal, from the ginger cat in the barn to the noisy oxen that pulled dwarven wagons. Animals treated him like any other being, unlike the citizens of Charn who knew him as royalty and behaved accordingly. While he was often told that he was special, deserving of his station, Renard did not believe himself to be anything other than ordinary.

Once, as an eleven-year-old, he suspected he might wield magical power like the Archmage. It was a mild summer day. The lawn was being decorated for Dunganarfest, the annual celebration of the historic ceasefire between the dwarven settlers and the human natives of Iron Fen's southeast shores. Dwarven day workers from the countryside were hammering stakes, setting up tents for traditional food and entertainment.

Renard was captivated by them, mostly because they were more gruff and woodsy than the usual men in his life. They didn't mind getting dirt under their fingernails and grease on their shirts.

Among the crowd, he spotted a pair of dwarven boys. They looked close enough to his age, perhaps older. They were crouching, their attention captured by something in the grass. Renard was curious as well. He wandered to them, hopeful against doubt he would make new friends.

"Hello," he said quietly.

The boys jumped to their feet, startled by the mousey voice in their ears. Renard could tell from their faces that they were indeed older than him, likely fourteen or fifteen. One had the beginnings of a moustache beneath his lumpy nose.

"Hello," the younger one replied gruffly. "You the boy who lives here?"

"Yes," said Renard.

"Pssh. Of course he is," said the other, "Look at his fancy shoes and his dumb hair. He looks like a porcelain doll. I'll bet just as fragile."

Renard ruffled his own hair with his hands. It was soft and light and fell back into position. It would never be rough and unkempt like the boys in front of him. He crossed his arms in front of his embroidered scarlet doublet. His polished shoes fidgeted against each other.

"I have to dress like this," he explained. "Mother says I must look presentable."

The boys snorted. Renard decided friendship had become unlikely. Still, his curiosity remained.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

The older boy shrugged and lifted a magnifying glass from behind his back.

"Found it in my pa's kit," he said. "We used it to burn holes in leaves and flowers, but then we found this anthill, so-"

The boys turned away from him and crouched again above the anthill. Renard had never seen a magnifying glass used for anything other than its intended purpose. Its use to create fire was a marvel. He watched the boys carefully focus sunlight in the direction of the small black scurrying creatures. In an instant, the boys had found their victim; the ant tried in vain to flee from the intense light, but the heat was too unbearable. Renard watched it curl up and die, a small ribbon of smoke wafting from its corpse.