Character Profiles

The Traveler's Companions

There was a dragon curled around a campfire. It was a little thing–about the size of a pony in the middle, with neck and tail no longer than playground jump-ropes. Its eyes were old and tired, though.

And there was something like a lizard made of flames playing in the coals.

With such legendary monsters dancing in the warm glow of the campfire, you wouldn't notice the cockatrice lurking in the shadows, or the mottled wyvern stalking field mice in the tangled tallgrass.

You would notice the traveler, though. You'd look right past the dragons at him.

He had a hat you'd notice first. It was a fancy gentleman's top hat, but instead of a silk ribbon, it had a moonbeam wrapped around three times and pinned in place with a childish dream.

His cape rippled black and scaly like a serpent breaking the surface of oily waters.

His waistcoat was despair. His shirt the finest-spun sorrows bleached white as bone. His trousers were night, and his fancy, shiny shoes were everything you hate.

He had a lovely smile, though. And his laugh was fun. Apart from everything about him, he seemed nice. Ordinary.

But halfway through a cup of tea, he'd raise a finger to interrupt your anecdote, turn politely away, and watch in fascination as the salamander leaped in blazing embers into the sky. Or when the wyvern reared back and roared like towers coming down.

Every time the dragon moved.

The dragon–the proper dragon–seemed indolent as a happy old hound. But he was a favorite hound, by the look of things, because every time he shifted a muscle, the traveler turned hopefully to him again. But it was always still sleeping.

So the traveler would turn back, but sad.

There are many kinds of monstrous things out lurking in the dark. Not the traveler. He's a friendly sort, and wherever he goes, the local dragons come to him, and find peace. He's a helper.

But... don't learn his name. If you ever learn his name, the deal is done.

Easy. Right?