Book of Ellagar

Chapter 1: The Clutch

In the heart of the murky swamp, Ellagar moved with an ease that belied her dragonborn heritage. Her scales, a mottled green that blended with the surrounding foliage, glistened with each step she took on the spongy ground. The air hung heavy with the scent of rotting vegetation and the distant croaks of amphibian choruses, yet she remained unfazed. The young druid's eyes, golden irises gleaming in the twilight, darted around the dense thicket, searching for any signs of disturbance. Her mission was clear: protect the clutch of eggs entrusted to her by the one called Grandmother.

The cave lay ahead, its opening hidden by a cascade of vines and shadows. Inside, the clutch eggs lay in a nest of the finest swamp grasses, their shells a peculiar shade of blue-white that seemed almost luminescent in the dim light. They were the focal point of Ellagar's world, a silent promise of a new era of peace and unity between dragons and humans. Grandmother had whispered to her of the prophecy of the child that would rise from these eggs to bridge the gap between the two species. But Ellagar had her doubts. The first few hatchlings had been... less than ideal. Their forms twisted and frail, a stark reminder of the delicate line between creation and aberration.

The whispers of the swamp grew more insistent as Ellagar approached the cave, the air thick with tension. Grandmother's voice echoed in her mind, soothing and firm. "You are the clutch-mother of this pact. You must have faith, Ellagar." Faith was a double-edged sword, the druid knew. It could bolster one's resolve or lead one into the jaws of despair. Yet she had sworn an oath to the ancient one, and she would not fail in her duty.

Within the damp cavern, the six surviving eggs of the clutch lay, pulsing gently with life. The light from the bioluminescent fungi cast a soft glow, illuminating the intricate symbols that adorned the eggshells. These were not the simple dragon eggs of myth and legend but the result of a complex, forbidden magic that Ellagar understood only in fragments. Grandmother had been cryptic in her instructions, revealing only what was necessary for the druid to perform her task. The price of even this scant knowledge weighed heavily on Ellagar's shoulders.

Her vigil had indeed been long. The days had blurred into one another, filled with the monotony of tending to the clutch, reading ancient texts, and meditating on her role as a guardian of the future. Her thoughts often strayed to the last time she had seen another sentient being—the previous Clutch Guardian. Her sister Druid, Thelara, had promised to relieve her a week ago, but Thelara had not arrived. Or sent any word. Ellagar felt the first twinges of concern. Were the WrynLore cultists responsible? Had something happened to Thelara?

Ellagar knew the Dragon Cultists as a misguided group, their beliefs a distortion of the natural order. They were humans that revered dragons as divine beings, bound to the will of a pantheon of draconic deities, and in turn the cultists sought to bend the power of the dragons to their own ends. Ellagar had always found their worship distasteful—a blasphemy against the very creatures they claimed to serve. Dragons were not gods but living embodiments of primal forces, best left to be respected; and revered from a distance. The idea that one could manipulate or control them was ludicrous.

Yet, as she paced outside the cave, Ellagar felt a presence lurking in the shadows. Her senses heightened; she could almost taste a malicious tang to the dense air. Had the cultist found the cave, and with it, the blasphemous clutch that she had sworn to Grandmother she would protect? 'Blasphemous?' She felt Grandmother snort and chide her for her thoughts.

Still, something was gathering in the night. She moved to investigate.

A soft flutter on the wind alerted her to a magical message from her expected replacement—Thelara's voice was weak. "They come... I am wounded!" Ellagar's heart pounded in her chest as she absorbed the urgency in the fading message. The cultists had found them. Her hand tightened around her staff, the wooden shaft carved with ancient dragon markings that hummed with latent power. She prepared to defend the clutch.