Far off in the north where the stars are frozen in crystalline ice, nestled between the valleys of the Mordict fjord lies the city of Buefordor. A fire burns with the bright blue light of the moon at the city’s heart, calling those at sea back home. Homes and business radiate from the flame up into the high lands of the Mordict fjord, with twisting and winding streets that make the most skilled navigators lost. To the southwest of the grand fire, a quarter hour by dragon wing, is the old gate; a pair of towering ancient oaks stand out agents the fresh, young pines that blanket the area, their grand old limbs knotting together. The long road leading from gate to flame bears the worn scars of cart wheels, animal tracks, and foot prints of a hundred travelers and a thousand passes, each with a tale to tell. The docks down in river Kytin tie a fleet of over three quarter hundred ships; many for fish, other for trades and travel, and a few for games of war. As the sailors load the carts heavy with fish the haling beasts stomping their hooves and rear their heads, anxious to move. With the suns last rays riding up the eastern face, the seamen drive and trudge up the long path to home.
The hour journey to Buefordor is filled with men bragging about the haul the ship brought that day, trading stories, asking how the others life and wife are, and talk of the coming festival. The young green claws compare how strong they are getting, while the old buck they should be driving leads itself. The gentle sound of water smashing ageist the hard mountain stone soothes the old, wiry bodies of the master sailors who lead the young trainees back to town. The Twin Rivers, Zectin and Reshtin, flow on either side of the path but are hidden out in the ferns and bushes in the forest. The three, rivers and path, cut and divide the area and all the way up the city too. Walking in to the simple city, the men are met by many of the other people to help with the communal meal and packing. Both women and men cook and pack, trading the day's stories while the seamen rest and tell grand tales of the past to the young children. Their small eyes widen in terror as the dramatic climax peaks, girls gasping and boys wanting to hear how the hero gets out and saves the day, mouths gaping like the fish on the table.
As the many hundred people chat and eat, rumors weave in and out of the ears and mouths of the people. They ask and wonder if a legend as old as them rings true. In the New Tarveck's Hall far up on Mordict, the calendar is coming close to a day warned and feared by the Legends themselves. The people worry for the day that is coming; will they return to the past they fear, will they all die, will war raving the lands once more, will New Tarveck come and save them? The children, oblivious to the ramped rumor, ask of a story of the past. When the story is told, all the people remember that their kind has been through great tragedy in the past and will survive. They are the Tartin of the New Kyocit.
The Dragons of the North Seas