The Chronicles of Dragon

'''Hi, I’m trying my hand at writing a book and wanted to see if the first few chapters are good. It’s an original story, set in a mythical world called Elvaria. I’ll let it explain itself, please please please tell me if you like it! '''

CHAPTER ONE: AN KNOCK AT THE DOOR

I never meant to be a Dragonrider. I mean, growing up as an Eladrin tailor’s daughter was basically foreshadowing being a peasant seamstress.

See, my mum died when I was one, and my dad had a hard time of it. Growing up ‘peasant’ was bad enough, seeing Schroonstown was on the border of elvin metropolis, but Eladrins were shunned even worse. Not shunned. Just low-class. Elves seem to be superior, superior, superior. And since Eladrins get different powers, apparently the elves have ‘better’ powers than us. Which means they are better.

I guess I’m a little prejudiced. Though let’s face it: my dad and I have a much harder time than other folks. Though they are no better than us. Elves are the best, elvin peasantry is practically just as good, and Eladrins, who have no metropolis of their own, get second fiddle everything.

Mount Everest Acadamy. I wanted that so bad. Even when my powers never came. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I was no better off then a human. Even my dad, he’s with his fire powers. Barely trained, so bad nothing less, he had them. Said my mum had them too. Water. I think that’s sweet, in a metaphorical way, like willing to crush his fire, my dad, to marry my mum.

Mount Everest Acadamy. How I longed to toss those initials, MEA, around as I threw on a blue satin cloak with those silver letters. Silver letters meant that place. I wished them on my cloak, which was nothing but itchy woolen brown.

Instead of beauty magazines like other girls, I read Mount Everest Acadamy brochures. No powers. No dragon. No money. No scholarship. I was nothing, plain and simple. No reason for them to take me. But nothing would stop my dreaming.

Then Smith came.

I was laboriously redoing a shirt seam for the third time (I was an absolutely terrible seamstress. Father just sighed and told me, “No, Ammalea, this way. For the tenth time, don’t sew your finger.” He needed all the help he could get.) when I heard a knock. I sighed and got up. I wasn’t very good with customers, and often turned them around. I think it was because the only thing I was thinking of was how rich they looked, so I could charge them more. Anyway, since Father wasn’t there I had to answer it.

“What do you want?” I asked the boy at the step. He seemed only a few years older than me, about fourteen, and a bit scrawny. His hair was brown, with greenish streaks and electric blue eyes. Blue cloak, bronze clasp, neat pants, probably your average rich elf. Though elves usually had solid hair. Perhaps he was rebellious, though he didn’t really look it. Me, some people say I look rebellious. Personally, I don’t see why. Maybe it’s my black bright blue highlighted hair. Or narrow eyes. (Actually, I didn’t dye my hair. It just naturally does that. I don’t know why.) The boy seemed nervous, and started talking at once.

“Is this Mr. Sir. Tailors residence?” He asked. I stared at him. No one called my father Mr., much less Sir., much less both. Wow, this kid must be rich to have such manners to Eladrins. Most people just call my father ‘tailor gyp*’

* gyp is a nickname for poor or untidy characters. For example, a beggar would be a gyp. Also, instead of inquiring names at first meeting, people in Elvaria peasantry normally just call people by their occupation if they do not intend to get aquantanced to the person.

Double charge for this one. Ha. “Yeah, so place your order. We’re a busy place.” Actually we aren’t busy, lucky if we get two orders a day, but you have to make an impression to get the business.

“I have an urgent message for Mr. Tailor’s daughter. Urgent,”

He replied. What? Urgent message? Probably trying to scam or kidnap me. Still, the posh ones don’t usually do that. “From Aria, and I’m Smith. Is she here?” What was he talking about? No way I’d give him my identity. “Tell me your message, his daughter’ll hear.”

“No. Strict instructions. Just tell her it’s Smith.” His voice was getting agitated. Who was I kidding? I could take him. Oh well.

“This is she.” I finally said.

“Name,” he said skeptically.

“Ammalea, pronounced Ammalee but spelled l-e-a. Last name’s Akutilin.”

“Very well.” Here Smith cleared his throat. “We intercepted, at least your Aunt Aria did, a message going to the Fern clan for you. Obviously they didn’t realize you didn’t live there, but know about you. It was from an anymoyous rebellion leader, telling you that you were the one to lead them, that you could save us. They’ll probably figure

out where you are, but you shouldn’t go to them. Fern sent me to take you for safety back to us. No buts.” I stared at him. Ok, this guy was officially a lunatic. Fern clan? Aunt Aria? Rebellion? I tried to shut the door in his face, but Smith was stronger then he looked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m going no where with you. Get out.”

“What? What about Fern? Going home- well, to the village, why not? Haven’t you been getting our letters?”

“What letters? Sorry, I’ve got no home ‘cept here. Got the wrong person.”

Honestly I had no idea how he would’ve gotten the wrong person. I’d told him my name, hadn’t I? Probably he was drunk on mynar berry alcohol. Still, he didn’t really look drunk. Nor crazy. Dressed too well for that.

“Wait- you didn’t get our letters? From Mother, your Aunt Aria, and Fern? And me? We were sure we got the address right. You didn’t get them?” Again I stared at him. Had I been getting letters? Father always got the mail, but- he wouldn’t keep anything from me. Would he? No, silly notion. “I haven’t got any letters from those people. Who are you, anyway?” Now he stared at me. “So- so you really don’t know. I-“ He looked at me. “No wonder you never answered. I’ve got a long story to tell. Didn’t your father ever tell you who you are?”

“Me? I’m Ammalea Akutilin. Eladrin peasant, tailor Emmund Akutilin’s daughter. My mother, farmer Eladrin Melinia Arveress, died when I was one. My father’s powers are fire. Mother’s were water. I have none. I have lived here my whole life, stopped school when I was ten to help in the shop. That’s who I am.” I realized a split second too late that I shouldn’t have shared all of that to a stranger. I’m a bit impulsive. However, I was suddenly burning with want for what this boy had to tell. Lies or not, maybe this was my start of a fairytale, the part where I’m whisked away to be married to a prince. I knew it wasn’t, but I wanted an adventure badly. Besides, this was a break from sewing. And I could take Smith, or whoever he was, I was well used to roughhousing. And so I listened to the story this strange boy had to tell. And it did indeed change my life.

“Your mother, Ammalea, was not Eladrin. She was a witch. Belonging to the Fern clan. A dragonrider. And on one of her patrolling missions, she met a poor Eladrin farmer who wanted to open a tailor shop. They instantly fell in love, but at first kept it a secret.

Now, your mother had another secret. A quiet rebellion had arisen, having seen that the world of Elvaria had many flaws. And your mother was part of it. Her sisters,

Fern and Aria, were also part of it. It wasn’t dangerous at first, but soon, the Warlord Asscosation of Power, or WAP, realized the rebellion would ruin their scheme for dictatorship of Elvaria. So a quiet war arose between WAP and the rebellion. Both sides realized it was dangerous, but carried on, one side working for good and the other for evil.

Finally your mother married her secret love, now not a secret. She decided to leave her clan village to be able to live with him and fulfill his dream of opening a tailor shop. Meanwhile, Aria, my mother, had married to my father six winters before and had already given birth to me. All three sisters kept working with the rebellion, Fern throwing her whole self in it. My mother did the more mundane tasks. Then, your mother had you. One summer and winter later, she went out to fulfill a mundane, least-dangerous task. However, the enemy just happened to find her. And she died.”

Here Smith paused for a moment, looking sad. Then he went on. “We invited your father to bring you and himself to the Fern clan, so life would be easier and you could be raised traditionally even without your mother. But he refused, angry with the witches and sad with the death of his wife. So we wrote letters instead to keep in touch, thinking you could come for a couple weeks each summer, but all were ignored. We thought you had moved. It appears not.” Here Smith stopped again, and I got that the story was finished. There was silence. And I realized that I wanted to believe him. That I already did, in my subconscious. It was too far fetched. Too different. But…

“So you’re my cousin?” I blurted. For some reason, that was the first thing that popped through my mouth. With all the other obvious questions and doubts, you’d think that wouldn’t be my first question. But there was something unbelievably hilarious about this boy being my cousin. Did I have any others? Was Fern, if she was real, married?

“Well… yes” Smith responded.

“Prove this story.”

Smith seemed not to know what to say. I mean, how could he prove this? It was crazy. Something out of a book. Finally, he dug out of his pocket a small torn piece of fabric. It was half of a pretty cloth hairband, and was very familiar. Dad had one just like it, almost as if it were the other half. Or maybe it was the other half. I had seen him twist it whenever times were rough, and once I tiptoed past the curtain that separated our sides of the room to see him crying over it. I knew it was from my mother, but Dad never told me anything else about it.

“Aunt Melinia told me it was from your father. He had sewed it for her only a couple weeks after they met, and when Aunt Melinia had to go she ripped it in half so they could have something from the other. She gave it to me for safekeeping before she left on her last task, so she wouldn’t lose it. I guess I’ve kept it since.”

Then I knew. Even if it wasn’t true. I believed. No, my mother hadn’t died of a plague that had never even crossed to our village from what I’d heard. This was true, and I knew I had to follow Smith. I’d never belonged. And I knew I never would belong here. Someday I’d have to leave, and that very well could be this day. The only issue was that Dad probably wouldn’t let me go. Oh, but I had to.

“What if my father won’t let me go?” I whispered.

Smith looked uncomfortable.

“He can’t know. You’ll have to leave before he comes back.”

The shocking realization of what I wanted to do dawned on me.

“I’ll leave a note,” I said, determined.

Smith bit his lip.

“You can’t tell.” He repeated.

“I’m leaving a note. Fine, I won’t tell him goodbye, but you can’t stop me from telling him where I’m going. It’s the right thing to do.”

Smith sighed. He could tell there was no stopping me. “Fine.”

I walked inside, knowing that this would probably be the last time I ever saw the tailor shop and my home. I’d better take whatever I thought I’d need. Granted, I had very little, but I always seemed to forget things. For the longest time I’d had all T’s (terribles) in school because I never brought my homework back.

That was when I saw it. An envelope, that Dad had probably tried to hide. It was next to the paper stack (which was quite small, considering the price of it nowadays. Besides, we didn’t need it for much.) where I hadn’t walked all day. And as I glanced at it, I gasped. Large letters spelled:

YOUR EXPIRATION DATE FOR RENT BILLS HAS PASSED. YOU WILL HAVE ONE WEEK TO CLEAR THE HOUSE, THEN WILL BE EVICTED.

I dropped all of my possessions I’d been carrying, then gasped again. Yes, I had no choice. Home wasn’t home anymore. I wouldn’t leave a note. No point. I was leaving.

Smith came in at the sound of my gasp and crash of five items exactly, and I wordlessly pointed to the envelope. I realized that until this point, Smith hadn’t exactly realized what this meant for me. He also wordlessly gathered my  battered quill, smooth pretty stone I’d found one day, cloak, notebook, (that was my most prized possession: it had cost all of my birthday money, 2 kiroj* a year, from the age of six. That was twelve kirojs, and the notebook was very small but beautiful with a leather gold and turqouise embossed cover. The reason it was so cheap was that it had already been used. I ripped all the pages out and painstakingly replaced them with sewed together pieces of paper.)

* a kiroj is the equivalent to a penny

and small book, the only one we had, that come from my mother. It was adventure poems from Acaturpa, who was apparently Elvaria’s greatest poet. He was dead now, and honestly the poems were hard to read and didn’t make any since, but I read any scrap I could. I then grabbed my underwear and socks from the upstairs room, and I was ready.

It was time to begin the adventure of a lifetime, time to start the life I was supposed to have.

'''Anyway, that’s the first chapter. If you like it, I’ll post the second. Thank you for reading!'''