The Candidate

Submitted for the Writing Battle Verdant Owl short story challenge. The story required the following three prompts: BEAST TAMER, BOOKWORM, PICNIC. Word count limit was 2000 words.

Results: TBD

Dr. Rhyan Wyndsor, esteemed draconologist and professor at Dawncrest University’s College of Zoology, was having a terrible day. His arthritic knees ached. Half of his first-year students didn’t complete their summer research paper on the migratory habits of the local wyvern population. And, most saliently, his latest application for tenure had been denied. 

Again.

There were few things that could improve Dr. Wyndsor’s mood on a day like this. Fortunately, he had a free afternoon block, and the weather was uncharacteristically temperate for the mountaintop campus. The blue sky was scattered with clouds that looked more like a dessert topping than an environmental phenomenon. Even the students, not yet burdened by the trials of late-term exams, were out and about.

Indeed, today was the day for a cliffside picnic.

Despite tuition fees as steep as the cliffs on which it was founded, Dawncrest was notoriously stingy with its professors’ compensation. None of their meals were subsidized, and the daily food stipend — established nearly two centuries ago — could barely cover a present day loaf of bread. As such, this “picnic” was more like soldiers’ rations: week-old bread, a handful of nuts, and some cheese pilfered from the latest faculty meeting snack table. 

At least they splurged on the good cheese, he noted appreciatively before tossing a morsel in his mouth. 

Feet dangling over the edge of the eastern cliffside, Dr. Wyndsor felt younger than his sixty some-odd years. In his youth, he aspired to be one of the covetable Dragon Riders of the Dawnsguard. It was nothing short of his life’s dream. However, with age came reason, and being a Dragon Rider was far from a reasonable pursuit. It was prestigious, dangerous, and even more demanding than the life of an untenured research professor. Not to mention, the Dawnsguard and their mounts were agents of war. They rode dragons for conquest, not companionship. The very notion wrinkled his nose. 

No, it was the academic life for Dr. Wyndsor. He would spend his days surrounded by open scrolls instead of open skies. It was a good life, was it not? He had a steady job, which was far more than many of his fellow alumni could boast. Best of all, when he was not overwrought with his teaching responsibilities, he could sit upon this very cliffside and dream of the days when touching the sky felt possible. 

“Dr. Wyndsor!” a deep voice called out, stealing him from his reverie. “Dr. Rhyan Wyndsor?”

He turned around to see a uniformed man approach with long, commanding strides. The crisp navy blue fabric meant only one thing: the Dawnsguard, the region’s military force. However, the form-fit of his jacket and slacks were unfamiliar. They looked nothing like the standard-issue of the footmen who frequented campus.

Before Dr. Wyndsor even rose to his feet, the Dawnsguard closed the distance between them. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, with a hardened expression. “You’ve been summoned, sir.” 

The professor frowned. “Summoned? By whom? I have a class to teach, and—” 

“I’m afraid I cannot share details here, sir,” the guard cut in. He glanced around anxiously. “I need you to come with me. Now.” 

The professor knew a command when he heard one. It would seem his students would have to wait. 

The Dawnsguard led Dr. Wyndsor to the campus front gate. Beneath the immense stone arches, which were carved from the mountain itself, two sturdy warhorses waited. With some difficulty, he managed to mount his beast. He gave it a gentle pat and asked for its name. The guard, rather bemused, replied that the horse didn’t have a name. None of the Dawnsguard mounts did. 

Then I shall call you Cumulus, he noted silently. The horse’s coloring looked just like the voluptuous clouds overhead, and the name sounded regal enough to befit such a steed.

Much to Dr. Wyndsor’s relief, the guard led them at a light trot. He didn’t think his joints could handle anything more strenuous. They rode for the better part of an hour, through a deep ravine framed by towering mountain ridges. Eventually, they came upon a gathering of several more Dawnsguard. All of them wore the same fitted uniform; however, one boasted at least a dozen small badges on her breast panel. She was the first to greet him upon his dismount, extending a firm hand. 

“Dr. Wyndsor. My name is Colonel Astra. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” 

“Of course,” he mumbled a little awkwardly while surveying his surroundings. As though I had a choice. “Although I’m afraid I still do not know why I am here.” 

“I’m aware the term has started, and you must be busy. I will keep this brief.” Astra spoke with a rare combination of warmth, authority, and unshakable confidence. “We understand that you are the region’s leading expert on draconic behavior.” 

“I suppose so, yes.” In academic communities, it was rare to have one’s distinction so readily acknowledged. A subtle flush crept into his cheeks. 

“We’ve acquired a candidate of an unfamiliar species. Our usual methods of subduing it have proven ineffective. We require your expertise.”

A candidate. Dr. Wyndsor recognized the term as one the Dawnsguard used to describe the wild dragons they captured and aimed to tame. “Surely you have dracolinguists amidst your ranks. Have you not tried to speak with them?”

“We have,” the Colonel responded without a hint of impatience. “But it seems the dragon speaks an older dialect of draconic. Our linguist’s attempts have resulted in nothing more than baby babble. You, on the other hand, are one of three scholars in the world who speak it fluently.” 

The Colonel did her homework. The professor shifted uncomfortably. “And what, exactly, are you asking of me?” 

“As you know, dragons adhere to clear hierarchical structures. My men are adept at establishing submission over the known species through a series of ritualized alpha behaviors. Without knowing its species or temperament, and without the ability to communicate, dominance cannot be asserted.” She gestured to Dr. Wyndsor with an open palm. “You are here to get us the information we need.” 

As if on cue, a sonorous rumble resounded from around the bend in the ravine. Dr. Wyndsor felt his bones vibrate in response. Had he not known any better, he might have thought it an earthquake.

Astra put a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the sound. “I have the fullest faith in you, Dr. Wyndsor.” Before he had a chance to protest, the Colonel forcibly ushered him around the bend. 

In his early professional years, Dr. Rhyan Wyndsor spent a great deal of time around dragons. It was how he made his mark in the scientific community: his observations, sketches, and insights were without equal. Even with the past two decades spent behind a desk at the university, none came close to his record of logged hours in the field. He was — in the eyes of all but the university tenure committee — a legend. 

And yet, in all that time, the scholar had never once seen a dragon half as frightening as the one before him. 

Its scales were a deep black, reflecting blue and red and violet in the afternoon sun. A single one of its talons could have bisected poor Cumulus down the middle; and were it not for the massive chains wrapped around its body, its wingspan easily would have stretched thirty men. 

“Good gods,” Dr. Wyndsor muttered, awestruck. 

“Your gods will not save you, human. I have watched your kind invent and abandon dozens of them.” 

The dragon seethed beneath the restraints of its iron muzzle. As the Colonel had said, it spoke in an ancient tongue lost to the known world. 

“I mean you no harm,” the professor said quickly, the harsh sounds strange and ill-fitted for his human mouth. The half-truth in his words were no more comfortable. 

“No, you only wish to make me a pet. Pain fades. Indignity lingers.” The dragon pulled fruitlessly against their restraints. Thick metal bands were affixed around each ankle, attached by chains to a wheeled metal platform beneath their feet. It was the size of a small cargo ship . 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Colonel mused. “It’s a good thing there were sightings of it months ago, or else we wouldn’t have had the right equipment to bring it home.”

Beautiful? The words rang in the professor’s ears like a tritone. There was nothing beautiful about this hellish contraption. It was wrong. It was all so terribly, terribly wrong. The professor could feel his insides reeling at the sight.

Dragons did not belong in chains, no more than they belonged to the Dawnsguard. The absolute absurdity of the notion made him want to laugh, then cry, then tell Colonel Astra to leap off the very cliff where the Dawnsguard had found him.

It shattered something inside the esteemed Dr. Wyndsor.

“Take me with you,” he said, each syllable carrying the finality of a resignation letter. 

The dragon’s eyes went wide, their slitted pupils exploding to the size of a clocktower’s timepiece. 

He straightened his spine. “Take me with you, and I will find us a way out of this.” 

Another deep rumble, this one even more terrifying than the last. “You dare make demands of me?” 

“I would never. I—” Dr. Wyndsor searched for the words. He looked around and found his eyes met with encouraging glances from the Dawnsguard Riders. They clearly mistook the courage he sought. “I wish to be free, too.”

The dragon huffed, and a billow of steam poured from the holes in its muzzle. A long stretch of silence passed before the dragon spoke again. “Very well. Untether me, and I will bring molten death upon their arrogance.” 

Dr. Wyndsor thrashed his head. “We must be more clever than that. They will strike me down before I unfasten the first manacle.” His brain whirled with possible schemes. It felt akin to sweeping up dust from an old attic. Suddenly, an idea took hold.

“Follow my lead,” he said, before rounding towards the Dragon Riders. “Yes, it’s a good thing you brought me. This dragon is of a particularly isolated genetic branch. Its behaviors are most akin to the Catellens genus.”

“The Catellens?” one of the Riders asked, clearly unsettled. He had been sulking in the corner until this moment. Dr. Wyndsor suspected he was the aforementioned dracolinguist. “As in, our Cats?” 

Cats, or Catellens minusculus, were the small species of dragon the Dawnsguard used as flying bloodhounds. They were lively little things, often prone to mischief.

“The very same,” the professor nodded sagely. “Their species branched millennia ago, but social structures are surprisingly enduring. Indeed, I suspect a similar approach will be quite effective.” 

The dracolinguist rifled through his bag and produced a thick tome. Dr. Wyndsor recognized it immediately: it was the publication that resulted from his graduate thesis, a compendium of draconic behaviors. He suppressed an amused smirk. 

The man flipped through the pages until he found the right entry and began to read. “The alphas of the Catellens minusculus are, without exception, the most vocal. They assert their status through an array of high pitched, recurring…” 

“EEEEAAKK!” 

The poor man nearly dropped his book at the shrill sound coming from Dr. Wyndsor. Without missing a beat, the professor turned to him expectantly. “Do continue, if you would. I am simply getting the process started. EAKKAA!” 

Far more flustered than before, the linguist continued. “...high pitched, recurring shrieks. Others in the dragon’s flight will demonstrate their submission by first bowing their heads, then turning belly-up.” 

“Like literal cats?” the Colonel asked, unable to hide her disbelief. 

“Precisely,” both the professor and the linguist replied simultaneously, prompting an annoyed frown from her thin-set lips.

“Finally, the alpha-prospect will mount the submissive’s back and bite firmly upon their neck to reinforce their ranking.” 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” the dragon roared — at least, it would have roared, were it not for the metal casing affixed to its snout.

Dr. Wyndsor flared his arms out. “Do you wish to be free or not?” 

He took the dragon’s grumblings as reluctant acquiescence.

The Dawnsguard shared quizzical looks, clearly out of their depths. The professor put on his most scholarly voice to address them. “We will know the rite is working if the beast bows its head to me. Then, we must untether it—” This assertion was met with obvious anxiety. “— and allow it to expose its belly to me. Once that is done, I will climb upon its back, clasp firmly upon its neck, and it will submit. I will then hand the beast to you.” 

“Why must you be the one to do it?” the linguist accused with obvious suspicion. 

Dr. Wyndsor opened his mouth, hoping another lie would present itself. Yet there was no need. Colonel Astra rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up Kevrick. You had your chance.” Then, she turned to the old professor. “Very well, Doctor. Win us our candidate.” 

He could see the hunger in Colonel Astra’s eyes. Acquiring a dragon like this would be a career-defining accomplishment. Even more, it was the sort of creature that could single-handedly secure the country’s western border.

A self-righteous glimmer flashed in the professor’s eyes. Hopefully, the Colonel would mistake it for his ego. “Very well. Let us begin.” 

The next several minutes contained all the charade and spectacle of a festival’s theater performance. When it came time to roll over, the dragon looked as though they might sever the professor’s head from his neck; however, they played their part well. Eventually, he instructed the Dawnsguard to approach and unlock the restraints. To his great relief, the dragon did not act on their fiery threats. They were a proper accomplice, even until the very end, when they outstretched their leg to provide a ramp for the professor’s ultimate climb. 

His heart raced as he settled into each unsteady foothold. He could hear the incredulous murmurs from the Dawnsguard below.

“My patience thins,” the dragon warned. It was enough to expedite his climb, even as his knees protested. Finally, he plopped himself between two sturdy spines on the dragon’s back. After a brief moment to ensure his grip, he made a great display of throwing his hands over his head. 

“And with this final act,” he called out, voice echoing through the ravine, “I claim this dragon in the name of the Dawnsguard!” 

Then, he thrust his torso upon the dragon’s back, gripping as tightly as his feeble arms would allow. 

The next thing he knew, Dr. Wyndsor was flying. 

The dragon let out a deafening roar, claiming its dominion over the skies once again. When the professor finally caught his breath, he felt the unmistakable ache of laughter in his gut. 

“That was clever, little scholar.” The dragon sounded almost impressed.

He dared free a single hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Please, call me Rhyan.”