The sea captain eyed his unusual passenger as the ship pulled into port. “Agratta tis little more than a barren wasteland bordered by the sea with craggy rocks and bandits. Why do you wish to disembark there?”


The bay was surrounded by jutting basalt rocks, and the port seemed little better than a shantytown. The cry of gulls and boom of the surf filled the air.


The passenger was imposing: A tall dracoz - one of the rare draconian species - dressed in a dark tunic with a cape made from dire wolf fur and a kilt. His scaly feet were bare with visible claws. His body was covered in black scales, with gray down his throat and chest. Two long horns protruded from his draconic head, and a spade-shaped tail thumped against the deck. He was easily seven feet tall, towering over the barrel-chested captain, with a large greatsword with a gem set into the hilt at his side.


“I seek something,” the dracoz rumbled as he fixed the human captain with a yellow, reptilian eye. “I must leave no land unexplored.”


“Oh, aye? Well, I wish ye luck, Draknor.”


The captain made a sign with his hands at the oncoming shore - A common sign to ward off evil. “That land is a bad place - and not just the terrain, mind you. I’ve heard tale of many a wandering bravo who met his end there. Press on to more civilized country as soon as you can, I say.”


Draknor inclined his head in lieu of responding.


“You’re the first dracoz I ever met - I’d hate to hear you met your end here.”


“Hurr,” Draknor growled as the captain went back to overseeing his crew.


Agratta.


Long ago, Draknor knew them by another name... but that was far into the past: when his people still ruled and before humans came into prominence. He wasn’t sure what he would find among the rocky wastes, a place where his fellow surviving dracoz could settle? Perhaps. There were many caves, caves that had existed since the dawn of time - it could be a private place for his people to settle, far from human civilization.


Draknor pondered as the possibilities as the ship moved alongside the dock, the ropes quickly fastening the vessel in place and the gangplank lowering. Agratta, it wasn’t always a wasteland, he could remember when a teeming wilderness thrived, but that was before the campaigns.


As the imposing dracoz made his way down the gangplank, the townspeople all gave him curious looks. Some made a point of avoiding him altogether, quickly changing the direction they were walking or looking down. Draknor was used to such a reception, he didn’t mind: Sometimes being intimidating had its advantages.


As the dracoz wandered along the muddy street, his sensitive nose picked up many scents - Hay, dung, smoked meat. He shifted his eyes and saw a few humans quickly duck behind the wall of some run-down building. He saw another human duck behind a hay cart.


“Hurr,” Draknor rumbled. “Come out and face me already!”


A human behind the haycart jumped up a crossbow in hand.


“S-Stranger,” the mugger said. “You m-must pay your, uh, docking fee...”


“Really, now?”


His reptilian eyes focused on the crossbow and Draknor twitched his tail in amusement. It was no crossbow but a stonebow: capable of hurling stones at great velocities. A look to his left and Draknor saw a group of humans brandishing daggers and clubs. There was also running feet behind him.


Draknor moved as the stonebow fired the stone impacting his left shoulder, it stung but it was hardly effective. Draknor whirled and caught the wood chopping axe by the handle as the mugger behind him had tried to bury it in his back.


“Grrr,” Draknor growled as he lifted man and axe in the air, with a pivot he sent the owner of the axe flying into his cohorts and they landed in a mass of limbs. Another rock impacted Draknor, this time in his back.


The dracoz hurled the axe at the new shooter, the skinny bandit ducking and scrambling away for dear life as his axe sunk into the wood.


“Last. Warning. Be smart for once.”


Maybe it was the implied insult, or maybe it was stubborn pride, but the bandits that had been flattened got to their feet brandishing their weapons.


“So be it,” Draknor huffed as he drew his greatsword.


The sight of an unsheathed blade sent one of the bandits running as the others rushed Draknor. The Dracoz met their charge, his giant sword scything two bandits down before he impaled a third through the shoulder. His tail lashed and sent another to the ground. Draknor extracted his sword blade which now had red upon the blade. The scent of blood and the rush of battle sent Draknor down the familiar path.


Reinforcements had arrived: two bandits armed with falchions.


Draknor rolled his shoulder and shifted his greatsword as he met their charge. Strike, parry, strike. He kept the humans at a distance as he engaged and disengaged, never allowing them to coordinate an attack. A fatal telegraph by one and Draknor’s greatsword cleaved into his head.


A jerk on the sword and Draknor spun with a slash that tore through the other bandit. The old dracoz looked around, seeing dead and wounded around him, the stonebow shooters had fled.


“Hurr,” Draknor muttered, wiping his sword clean.


A pair of men with wood shields and spears, wearing gambesons happened upon the scene. Their faces drained of all color at what they saw. One was a youth the other an older, mustachioed man.


“They started it,” Draknor rumbled.


The guards looked from the dead and wounded to Draknor.


“Is there a problem?” Draknor asked.


One of the guards gulped, “N-no, not at all. This lot is always stirring up trouble.”


Draknor nodded as he strode away. “I leave this to you.”


“Shouldn’t we bring him in?” The younger guard whispered.


“I’m not ready to die,” the older guard replied. “Besides, folks like him tend to meet their end soon enough here.”


Just outside the town stood an imposing fortress: built into the cliffs of Agratta itself. A marvel of engineering: manmade structures mingled with the natural rock formations. An impenetrable fortress for everyone other than the Earth Goddess herself, perhaps.


Well-armed and equipped guards kept watch as the gates were open to receive visitors. In the past hour, several messengers had rode into the fortress. Overhead, the vultures croaked and the sun was barely visible through the clouds. Nothing but rocks, cliffs, and the most hardy of plants dotted the landscape.


Deep within the bowels of the imposing fortress the instruments of the minstrels played, flutes, drums, and chimes. Lithe dancing girls in sarongs and chest cloths performed risqué dances while others carried wine and food.


Seated on his throne, a dark-haired man sat: His features hard and skin tanned with a well-groomed beard upon his face. He surveyed his guests imperiously. The simple gold crown left no doubt that he was the ruler of Agratta.


“King Thurn! Your majesty,” A sweaty messenger prostrated himself before him.

With a languid wave of his hand the king permitted the messenger to rise.


“Speak messenger: keep it brief.”


“Yes, milord. A traveler has arrived in port. He has killed and wounded most of Roland’s gang.”


The king smiled. “Is that so? Good news indeed. Send for him at once!”


The messenger bowed, “There is one more thing, sire: He is a dracoz!”


The king smiled. “That is a rare sight indeed!”


He tossed a bag of gold to the messenger. “Well done. Take your cut from that, and offer the rest to this dracoz as an incentive.”


The messenger bowed low. “As you command.”


Thurn steepled his fingers as he sat back on his throne. This was a stroke of good luck, right when he needed it.


Draknor stood in the inn. “No rooms?”


The innkeep shook his head quickly. “Afraid not. As you can see, it’s not a big inn. I suppose I could offer the stable to you. I-If you don’t mind, that is!” The innkeep added quickly.


Draknor shook his head. “No, my presence tends to frighten animals of burden. I suppose I shall just set out and rest late: we can go longer than humans without sleep.”


The door to the inn opened and a well-dressed man entered. Spying Draknor, he smiled.


“Greetings traveler - I’ve been sent to fetch you.”


Draknor fixed the man with a stare, his hand resting on the gem of his sword hilt. “Is that so?”


“No need to draw steel! I come on behalf of king Thurn. Word travels fast in a country this small. He was impressed by your performance, and wishes to hire your services.” The messenger tossed Draknor a bag of coins. “...Just for hearing him out.”


Draknor squinted his eyes and pondered. He could possibly learn more of the terrain while earning money and with lodging as a mercenary: plus it was always good to have something physical to do.


“I’m interested,” Draknor replied.


“Splendid, splendid - Follow me, then. The name is Furillo.”


“Draknor.” The dracoz followed the man out of the tavern.


“Have you a steed?” the messenger asked.


“No. I should be able to keep pace with you easily enough.”


Into the setting sun they traveled, Draknor keeping pace with the horseman.


“We should make it to the castle by nightfall,” Furillo informed him.


Draknor grunted an acknowledgement. The two traveled over the rocky and barren lands until Draknor could see the lights of the fortress. The former dracoz general tilted his horned head, he had to admit he was somewhat impressed by the defenses. Taking such a keep would be difficult with conventional means.


Such fortresses were usually when fulcrums were employed. Fulcrums were also part of the reason this particular land was so rocky: Manufactured earthquakes tended to do that to the landscape.


The guards waved the two through and Furillo proceeded to lead Draknor through the winding tunnels of the fortress. Eventually he found himself in the throne room. The festivities had wound down and king Thurn was slouched in his throne before spying Draknor and sitting up.


“Dracoz, welcome! Welcome to my court.”


The king strode down from his throne as the servants quickly set chairs at a table. Draknor noted the obvious signs of wealth and power: the amount of food, the slaves, the rich tapestries. It was a far cry from the ramshackle town Draknor had just been. The guards around the throne room nervously looked at Draknor and the large blade he carried as they nervously shifted their halberds.


The king sat on one end of the table and Draknor the other. “I am king Thurn, and you?”


“Draknor,” he rumbled.


“I hear you took care of some troublesome bandits, well done - well done, indeed.”


Draknor could tell he was laying the flattery on thick.


“It was nothing.”


“Well, I have need of such a fighter as yourself. You’ve probably heard tale that this land is a bad one: how wandering bravos have met their end here, yes?” Draknor nodded. “Well I’m trying to make this country more civilized - to put an end to all the monsters, bandits, and other terrors that have been plaguing this country.”


“A difficult undertaking, I’m sure. I suppose many have died already.”


Thurn nodded, “Indeed. Many adventurers have pledged themselves to the cause and not returned. I’ve lost so many patrols. I need a strong fighter and a leader. Perhaps fate has sent you my way?”


Draknor grunted. “I wouldn’t go that far: I haven’t agreed to anything, yet. But I have led battles and fought many threats. I was once a general among my people, now I am a wandering blade.”


“My word, you are more than qualified. I beseech you Draknor, join my service. I shall ensure you are well paid and put you in command of a platoon of my troops. Perhaps I can even grant you a fiefdom after you’ve proved yourself?”


That was a tempting idea, a place to call his own where he could gather his own surviving dracoz.


“Quite generous, yes I’ll join you.”


“Splendid!” The king clapped his hands. “Now, there is one Agratta tradition I always adhere to: that we drink to seal the deal.” A serving girl in a skimpy outfit brought a pair of goblets.


“To our futures,” Thurn declared.


Draknor sniffed at his goblet, definitely wine. He couldn’t discern the scent of anything else. He downed the drink in a gulp. Thurn watched him as Draknor stared back.


“Yes?” Draknor asked.


“Oh, nothing at all,” Thurn replied. “One more?”


“Fine,” Draknor replied. Another goblet, another drink. With that, Draknor stood to go, “I assume you have a guest quarter? Or a barracks at least?”


Thurn stammered something but then Draknor felt dizzy, his vision beginning to blur.


“About time that took effect,” Thurn muttered.


Draknor growled as he went for his sword, if he had been drugged or poisoned he was going to take someone with him. But no sooner had his blade cleared the scabbard then the dracoz pitched forward onto the hard unforgiving stone below.


The warnings the captain had given him were playing in his mind as he fell.