She squinted and tilted her head as she peered at the strange inconsistency that seemed to be calling out to her. She approached the wall and ducked behind the tall bush that was hiding most of what she’d seen. Reaching out a timid hand, Jahrra began rubbing away the loose grit and thread-thin roots that stretched along the layer of soil caked against the vertical stone surface.
Hroombra found his ward there, pressed between a shrub and the ancient stone, following a design with her finger, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“There you are!” he announced jovially, trying to mask the hollowness he imagined lingered in his voice.
“I’ve found something,” she said simply, not moving or looking away one inch from the obscure image.
Hroombra pulled his entire length into the remains of the room, turned his head, and caught his breath in a strangled gasp too quiet for Jahrra to hear. He knew this room. A clear, bright picture of it coursed behind his eyes like a flash of lightning, and he realized then exactly what Jahrra had found.
He allowed her to study the wall a few minutes more, forcing his mind’s activity to ebb; his startled heartbeat to relax. When she attempted to brush away some more of the dust and grime, Hroombra decided it was time to speak up. His voice sounded like a deep, dry cavern.
“Here, this might help things a bit.”
He motioned Jahrra to stand back, and then took one mighty breath and let out a massive blast of air, just as he’d done in the entrance hall. The effect of this act was immediately visible, and what was now revealed was astounding.
“Wow!” Jahrra gasped, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. She no longer looked at a grimy old wall covered in stringy roots, but a faded painting that must have continued on under the layers of dirt all along the entire interior of the massive room.
“What is this?” Jahrra whispered, looking up at Hroombra.
“It’s a mural, a story painted upon the wall. This was once the great dining hall of the castle, and this is where the history of Oescienne is recorded. It starts over here somewhere with the story of how Ethoes created this earth we live on,” Hroombra nodded to the opposite side of the entrance, “and it continues all the way around the room to about where you are standing.”
Jahrra was standing about twenty feet away from the entranceway, and decided she had been looking at part of the final installment of the great mural. She moved closer to the paintings on the wall and began soaking in the faded images.
“Here, let me clear some more for you.”
Jahrra stood back as Hroombra let out several more blasts of air, clearing one whole wall and the small section on one side of the doorway.
“That should be enough for now,” he said, nodding.
Jahrra began in the corner of the northwest wall and worked her way southward, following the painted scenes with her eyes and her fingers the entire time. She found dragons and elves, dwarves and a strange variety of other beasts and beings. The mural depicted battles and celebrations, births and funerals, peaceful times and periods of turmoil.
The colors were dull now, but Jahrra could tell that this painting once held immense detail and more pigments than she could name. She placed her hand on the wall and closed her eyes. She could almost hear the clash of weapons, the music and laughter at a wedding celebration, the intense silence of the night sky painted above much of the scene. A feeling of wonder crawled over her skin, and when she looked more closely at the wall in front of her, she realized that she’d finally reached the end.
Disappointed to be finished so soon, Jahrra concentrated on the small section in front of her, trying to make the tale last a bit longer. The story, at its end, began with a frightening looking figure surrounded by large, shadowy dragons. Jahrra gasped and a shock of fearful memory burned through her. The menacing figure, despite its worn and degraded state, looked exactly like the one from the nightmares she’d had after her parents’ deaths.
Jahrra shivered and forced herself to keep looking at the scene. She pulled her eyes from the dark demon and instead focused on the dragons, creatures that didn’t frighten her. When she saw the winged reptiles, however, her heart sank even further; these dragons looked nothing like Hroombra or Jaax, they looked ominous and evil, like the monster they surrounded.
Jahrra covered the frightening animals with her hand and tried to finish the end of this tale. Much of the painting had been eroded, and about halfway to where Hroombra stood, there was a large portion that was horribly damaged, as if time had taken it upon itself to chisel away at this particular scene. Fortunately, it didn’t impede Jahrra’s progress in following the story.
Near the final section of the mural she spotted a proud figure on a great horse, and soon her attention was drawn away from the sinister creatures. As she drew closer, she noticed that the elf on the horse seemed unafraid of the fearsome, dark dragons. His face was faded and chipped away and try as she might, Jahrra couldn’t conjure up an image in her mind. That’s strange, she thought, I can usually imagine anything!
The young girl frowned and focused on his other features. His clothes were ancient, like those worn by brave warriors in the fairytales she read. He held a great sword, broken in half from a missing piece of wall, and the color of his great cloak had faded over time, making it impossible to decide whether it had been blue, green or violet. She couldn’t tell why, but as she gazed at this figure she felt a vague familiarity towards him. Maybe I’ve seen him in one of Master Hroombra’s books, she pondered, not giving the subtle feeling of acquaintance any further thought.
Jahrra moved on to the final scene of the painting, a picture of more elves fleeing the black, menacing figure from before, now billowing overhead like a great, poisonous cloud that engulfed the sky. The elves were extremely frightened, and in the background their twisted shadows looked like black, screeching dragons.
“What does all this mean Master Hroombra?” Jahrra looked up at the great dragon, her brow creased in concern. “Who is that horrible creature, all black and red, and who’re all these elves?”
Hroombra gazed down at her in cloaked consternation. Was he really ready to tell her this story? Yes, his conscience told him, yes.
Hroombra drew a long breath and said very slowly, “Jahrra, those people aren’t elves. They’re humans.”
-Chapter Eleven-
The Legend of Oescienne
Jahrra gazed up at her mentor with a blank look on her face. “Humans?” she said disbelievingly.
She thought humans were just a myth, a fairytale like everything else. Had they really once existed, or was this mural just another story? She waited patiently for Hroombra to go on.
“Yes, Jahrra, humans. The king and the queen of this land were human beings.”
The old dragon paused, as if to gather the thoughts that churned in his mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind.
“I have a story to tell you now,” he continued after some time, “a story that I believe you’re finally old enough to hear.”
Jahrra sat down upon a piece of crumbled wall and gazed up at him, not believing her luck today. I finally get to come to the Castle Ruin and now new a story?! she thought with delight, trying not to look overly eager.