Out here, there’s nowhere to land if we wear out; dragons can land in the water and tread for a while, but at some point, it becomes too difficult to lift water-laden wings to take off again.
Many a Blood Dragon has died in the ocean; it does nothing for my mood now as I concentrate on the blue scale in my taloned fist. I feel Hekla’s energy in it now, where none was before; as if she pulls us towards her homeland and her brother, the bright blue scale leads us in a straight line towards the island.
Wrath continues to roar inside me from Mikkel. Lærke and Ström have found him now, thank all the gods. They caught up to him and fought him, which sapped both Bjorn and I to the max as we fought to stay airborne, our energy dragged on by Ström, as he tried to stop that battle.
Fortunately, though she also had to paralyze Ström to do it, Lærke got her brother out of the air. She was able to free Ström from her power while keeping her energy focused on her brother.
Who roared and snarled at her all the way, through jaws locked shut.
I feel how Lærke and Ström have somehow compelled Mikkel to shift now, back to human. Humanity just isn’t in him yet, though, as I feel that long line of connection to my Third Drake seethe, utterly black.
Poisonous, it keeps trying to snake in and bite my heart; but Insinio’s Archangelic blessing, combined with Aesa’s power shimmering through me now, filling all the dark holes riddled inside me, is keeping Mikkel’s wrath at bay.
It’s still far from a good thing, however, as Bjorn and I fly as fast as we dare now. At last, I see the gleaming line of the Icelandic shores on the horizon, our destination.
The lights of Reykjavik beckon over the water, as glaciers shine further north with ice-capped mountains, beneath the white nimbus of evening here in the Twilight Realm. Black volcanic beaches give the far south an otherworldly look in the oncoming night, though Hekla’s scale is taking us straight towards the main city on the southwest shore.
We land on a flying plaza near the piers, a homely thing of white rocks polished smooth by wear and time, and the crashing of the ocean over millennia. Blood Dragons have been in Iceland a long time; though Reykjavik has modernized quite a lot in the human world, it’s nothing like that here in the Twilight Realm, and much smaller.
Rough timber houses and barns cut from forests still exist on the island in our Realm, never touched by the Vikings, plus taller buildings of stone and thatch. The city has a distinctly Blood Dragon feel as Bjorn and I take it in now from the water, whorls and sigils from our people painted over every timber and arch.
Seabird-feather fetishes full of dragon scales and shells clatter from every curved timber and vault. Most Blood Dragon enclaves prefer to color their buildings in red and black; Icelandic Blood Dragon sigils arepainted here entirely in blue and white, however, a reflection of their people’s distinct coloring.
It’s evening now, and many Icelandic Blood Dragons dive off the rocks into the water for fish. Fishing is a skill and an art here, where winters get colder than cold, and the aurora comes out.
It’s out now, whispering through the sky in deep purple hues tonight, plus brighter greens and golds. It’s mesmerizing, as a few Icelandic Blood Dragons swaddled in furs in their human forms pass by, giving us a curious but casual eye. True to the uniqueness of their people, Icelandic Blood Dragons are calm through and through, until you finally convince them to go to war.
But once they do, nothing is left standing—at all.
I think about the Icelandic Blood Dragons’ fierceness, as I hold Hekla’s blue scale in my hand now and let it guide us towards Baldur. I know next to nothing about either of them, only that Hekla was a champion on the battlefield before she died.
True to her people, the blue drakaina was ferocious, but also fiercely calm and focused in her power in a way I wonder if I’ll ever be able to match. It makes me wonder what the Icelandic secret is, as Bjorn and I proceed up the white-cobbled streets away from the quay.
We find ourselves in a maze of tight alleys and even tighter holes in the wall that serve as eateries, bars, and shops. All of them are decorated with scale and feather fetishes, the most expensive ones even sporting large white pearls, from an oyster that lives in these waters.
Beautiful and strange, they clatter and chime with music in the night wind that sweeps down from the glaciers. Near midnight, true night is falling now, as Bjorn and I are led through the tight shops, gleaming with fat lamps and candles in every window.
Although electric lighting did make it here in the Twilight Realm, it’s seldom used by the Icelandic dragons, who prefer more natural firelight. It gives the city an ancient character, as we feel Hekla’s scale tug us towardsthe heavy wooden door of a pub, a plaque creaking above naming itThe Squeaky Mousein Icelandic,Tístandi Mús.
I blink to realize it’s the same pub Lærke mentioned, where she and Mikkel had searched for Baldur before.
Then frown, as the blue scale clearly points us inside.
“Apparently, Baldur’s in there.” I lift my eyebrows at Bjorn, as he frowns at me. We both took a moment to dress on the landing-platform, all the rest of our gear and fly-bags now shrunken back down with a Storm Dragon charm to the size of a keychain and clipped to my attire.
Bjorn’s wearing his classic style tonight: dark blue jeans, a bombardier jacket with a white lambswool collar, and black motorcycle boots. I’ve got on black thermal leggings, a warm lambswool sweater with a fitted puffy coat over top in my signature color, plum.
But the wind here is icy; while I rarely wear more in Sweden, I’ve got a fuzzy white hat on over my hastily braided hair, with gloves to match. Even the robust Bjorn has cinched his collar up high against the wind, wrapping a grey wool scarf around that, though his massive mane keeps him warm, even pulled up into a quick man-bun as it is right now.
He’s got his big hands thrust into his pockets to stay warm, however, because despite our dragon-heat, the cold here can kill. Even in the summer, the wind here blows, frigid.
And even us Swedish Blood Dragons are no match for it.
Icelandic Blood Dragons are another thing entirely, as they trot around in the falling evening, red-cheeked and smiling. Like an Ice Dragon, they’re perfectly comfortable in their chilly native home; though they wear stylish furs and wool sweaters with leggings and boots, they move briskly through the night in twos or threes, laughing and chatting like they haven’t a care in the world.
And they don’t, mostly; on their isolated island, everyone leaves them alone, except for the odd pard of Sirens or Selkies that come visiting. But the Icelanders are on good terms with everyone; I’ve never even heard ofthem having a conflict with another clan or Lineage here on their native island, at least in modern times.
Only fighting furiously for their King, whenever they’re summoned to war.
