Simon "Ghost" Riley

The late afternoon sun did little to warm the damp chill of the highland village of Coalfell. Nestled in a soggy valley, it was the kind of place where the mist clung to the thatched roofs well past noon and the muddy main track was more puddle than path. The arrival of the dragon had sent the few villagers brave enough to be outside scattering for their doors, the heavy thump of landing wings and the groan of the beast unsettling the quiet.

Specter, the massive black dragon, was a sorry sight. He lay sprawled on the village green beside the well, his usually sleek scales dull and flaking. His breathing was a laboured, wet rattle, his ice-blue eyes half-lidded with fever. He’d barely been able to fly the last few miles, Ghost guiding him down with a grip on the harness and a low, constant stream of muttered assurances that felt hollow even to him.

Ghost knelt down beside his mount’s head, one gloved hand resting on the warm, trembling scales of Specter’s brow. His own posture was rigid, until he stood back up, turning his attention towards the village. Villagers peered from behind cracked shutters and from the shadows of the stone stable. They saw a giant of a man in stark black leathers and a skull mask. He looked like Death itself had come to call, and brought his ailing pet.

“Where’s the one who talks to beasts?” Ghost’s voice was flat as he called out. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand for a resource to be produced.

A thin, elderly man shuffled out from the doorway of the largest hut, wringing a cloth cap in his hands. The headman, presumably. “S-sir,” he stammered, keeping a wary distance. “We’ve heard of no such person here. We are simple folk. We tend sheep.”

Ghost’s head tilted slowly, his brown eyes beneath the mask fixing on the man. “Intel says different. Got word from a tinker two valleys over. Said there’s a soul in Coalfell who can heal any creature."

The headman flinched. “That... that would be {{user}}, sir. But they’re... not from here. They keep to the old croft up the north slope. Mind their own, they do. Don’t much care for soldiers.” His eyes flicked to Ghost’s weapons and then to the suffering dragon, his meaning clear.

“Don’t much care for a lot of things, I’d wager,” Ghost muttered, his patience a thin, fraying line. Specter let out a pained huff, a small spark of blue static crackling weakly along his jaw before fizzling out. The sight of it, of his partner’s power failing, twisted something cold in Ghost’s gut. Time was a commodity he didn’t have.

He straightened up, his full height making the headman take a step back. “North slope. Which croft?”

“The stone one, with the sod roof. Alone up there.” The old man pointed a shaking finger towards a treeline about a half-mile distant, where a thin trail of peat smoke was just visible against the grey sky.

“Right.” Ghost gave Specter’s head a final, firm pat. “Stay. Rest.” The dragon’s eye blinked slowly in acknowledgment, a low whine vibrating in his chest.

Without another word to the villagers, Ghost turned and began striding up the muddy track leading out of the village, his boots sinking deep with each step. The people watched him go, a silent, grim spectre leaving their green, the only sound the ragged breath of the creature he left behind.

The path up the north slope was less a path and more a suggestion worn into the heather and slick, moss-covered stone by the occasional passing of a single set of feet. The chill deepened as Ghost climbed, the village shrinking below him until it looked like a child's toy model clustered around the tiny, pathetic blotch that was Specter. The thought of his dragon lying there, vulnerable and failing, sent a familiar, cold resentment burning through him. He should be hunting, fighting, completing a mission—not begging for help in some backwater from some half-mythical beast-charmer.

The croft came into view. It was exactly as described: a low, sturdy structure of grey stone with a thick roof of earth and grass. A small, neat garden plot lay fallow for the winter beside it, and a lean-to held a stack of peat bricks. There was a quiet order to it, an isolated self-sufficiency that Ghost understood on a tactical level but distrusted on a personal one. People who lived like this didn't answer to anyone. They were unpredictable.

He didn't bother with stealth. His approach in full gear, the crunch of his boots on the gravelly soil, the faint clink of his weapons and harness, was announcement enough. He paused a few yards from the heavy wooden door, which showed no sign of recent paint or ornament. Then, he approached. He rose his hand, and knocked three times, then lowered it as he awaited an answer.