Dragon's blood is powerful, but, is said to carry a terrible curse. When the need is great, a warrior drinks the blood of a dragon for strength. -- Deathshead419
Dragons are powerful. They're a fact as large as mountains, as devastating as tidal waves, and as hazardous as living itself[1]. Thus it was no shock that lesser species required a large amount of dragon parts to make their magic.
They were warned. Take only that which was discarded, or given freely. Take it by force or steal it, and a terrible curse would follow.
Ymyr the Reaper knew the warning. Like most Elves making their place in the world, he had heard it all. Unlike most of his kind, he suspected it was a ploy to prevent Elves from gaining Draconic power. Once they were all equal, then the Dragons would stop being such arrogant pricks and acting like the world was made solely for them.
They said the world truly was made for and by Dragons. Since it was the Dragons who said it and no Elf nor Faekindred witnessed that... Ymyr was inclined to believe it a lie.
Besides, there were a bunch of other species cropping up and acting uppity about Elvenkind 'invading' their sovereign territories.
It was clear. Elvenkind needed the upper hand. That was why Ymyr had dared enter a Dragon's den to take what no Dragon would give. He had heavy protections, because he was entering a Dragon's den. He didn't have a blade to slay the beast, just a channeled needle and a large, empty waterskin.
Silent as a mosquito, and with the same intent, he crept closer to the sleeping Dragon.
All he needed was a vein close to a chink in those scales. Or perhaps a bare patch of skin he could plumb. He was careful to seek with his eyes only, watching carefully for a pulse before he risked his next step.
A numbing balm spread over the area. Waiting for it to take effect before he pushed the needle in. Filling the skin with the dark red fluid and, because he could not deny the hubris, sipping from that profane fountain like it was the flow of a spring.
It was just as nasty as he expected it to be. At first. By the time the waterskin was halfway full, he wanted to try it again.
By the time it was time to seal the skin, he was desperately drinking it like it was the only water in the world. He viewed sealing the bag as an annoyance, taking him away from the most delicious flow.
The Dragon caught him, eventually, and negligently flicked him against a solid wall, sending him tumbling into a pit of sharp and spiky rocks. Too late. Far too late.
The curse had already taken effect.
The stones were not magical enough to harm Ymyr, they were not special enough to leave lingering injury. After some struggle, Ymyr pulled himself off and healed by drinking from his waterskin of Dragon blood.
The Dragon had left to make another den by the time Ymyr had emptied his supply and pulled himself up. The touch of the sun burned him quicker than Dragonfire, but that was of no import. The caverns were deep and spacious. There were other creatures residing within. Other hearts beating with blood to slake his eternal thirst.
Ymyr the Reaper, the first of Alfarell's Vampires, began to stalk the endless tunnels and caverns of the Everdark.
[1] You don't get out alive.
[Photo by Paula Morin on Unsplash]
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