Four days after her skirmish with her back-stabbing compatriots, Drachia prowled down a familiar street in Greenpool with her hood drawn tight over her head. Every other step dipped in a pronounced limp, and she paused frequently to glance over her shoulder. Her passage over the rolling woodland had been considerably hampered by the first of the autumn rains, and her crimson skin held no great love for the icy winds rolling down from the mountains. Even now she held her wings clamped tightly to her back under her damp cloak, and the tight wool steamed faintly in the gloomy light. 

Her claws gripped her pouch warily. With a sneer and faint rumble in her throat, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following her, and as yet she hadn't decided if she was still simply angry at Tarvick's uncharacteristic betrayal or if there was a genuine threat.

She allowed herself no sense of relief until she had reached Max's abode, her face twisting with distaste at the prickle of rune magic that crept across her flesh as she drew up to the front door, which opened to admit her immediately.

"Drachia?" The deep voice preceded its owner as Maximus came down the wide staircase to meet her. "I almost forgot what it's like to have you arrive by the front door." He was wearing his usual charming smile, but it faded into a frown as his eyes traveled the length of her storm-tossed figure.

"What happened to you?" 

"Tarvick and his apes have a new financer," she snapped with a hiss, sweeping past him into the parlor where the flicker of orange light promised warmth. "I don't know who it is. But I am sure I will find out when I get back to Nautilus."

Maximus didn't miss her wry, rueful tone. He drew close, more than willing to help the half-dragon peel out of her horrible, soaked garments. "Oh? You sound certain."

"Well, only because I have what they were looking for!" She retorted. But the smug glitter in her eyes didn't last for long. Her wounds had gone untreated long enough and her onerous tenacity was no longer enough to keep the pain at bay. The broken-off crossbow bolt glinted grimly in the hearthlight and the gash across her stomach was weeping blood that trickled down the pattern of her scales.

"And paid for your trouble, I see," Max remarked, using the same disapproving tone she had employed when admonishing him about the scarification of his skin.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You have your hobbies, and I have mine, Max. If you don't mind, I am going to need a healer before this gets much worse. I'd appreciate a recommendation."

--

Two days later, Drachia lounged pensively on the floor of Max's modest library with books scattered all around her, each open to a different page. There were scrolls also, unrolled and held open by random knick-knacks from Max's desk or her pack. The winding script of a dozen different hands from a dozen different authors was exposed to her prying eyes.

She shifted slightly, flexing against the linen bandages twining around her thigh and midsection. She had been sitting there for hours, hunched like a buzzard over a piece of meat as she tried to piece together the story of the three books she had recovered from the old castle.

The tip of her tail twitched as her mind worked over the intricate puzzle, forgetting all else in her continuing quest for knowledge and magic.

At length, Max came to join her, looming darkly in his place deep in a wing-backed armchair slightly further back from the fire than Drachia enjoyed. She was vaguely aware that she was missing meals, but she didn't stop turning pages, her cat-like eyes snatching words from the mouldering parchment as she read paragraph after paragraph.

Finally, even the patience of the dark-skinned nomad was no match for her and Maximus dared interrupt, but not without bringing a piece offering of food. "So, my shining ruby, what have you discovered amid all those scribbles?"

Sighing and stretching her wings for the first time that day, Drachia looked up, blinking slowly. Before she answered, she took the time to pick a few choice mouthfuls from the tray Max set near her, momentarily basking in the knowledge that she could keep him waiting for quite some time if she wished.

"I think I have riddled out some of the puzzle of these three tomes, but every page I turn gives me more questions than answers," she began, gesturing to the first book. It was the thickest book of the three, and seemed to be the oldest. Bound in a blue-dyed leather with the silver emblem of the old kingdom stamped on the front.

"This tome is a History of the old kingdom. It follows the line of the royal family for over three hundred years, as well as the most notable actions of their chosen Champions. One of the last was this...Belamica Darkthorn, whose tomb in which all three books were hidden." 

As she spoke of the books, her fingertips traced almost lovingly across the thin vellum. She moved to the second book, which was the smallest most fragile, having the somewhat battered and well-traveled appearance of a personal journal rather than a sturdy tome.

"This is the journal of the old kingdom's castle Maestor's. There are five who contributed, and it contains more or less what you would expect. Everything from recipes and healing remedies to religious parables and philosophical ramblings meant to be passed down from one Maestor to the next. From this, I learned that Belamica's tomb never contained her body. One of the Maestor's took her away across the Crescent Sea to entomb her at Starfall." She re-read Maestor Jaemon's confession again as she lifted the book into her lap, a mixture of pity and wonder at the strange actions of a man's grief and unrequited love. Love was an impulse she had squashed in her own life with a fierce determination lest such temporary and useless distractions impede her personal progress. 

"It seems that the elfmaid Belamica was entrusted with information about the location of the Durandana."

Recognition of the name dawned slowly in Max's eyes, and his stern brows knitted together. "Isn't that the enchanted sword, the one that Fentauk the Elder recovered from the hoard of Targaskoriax the White along with the..."

"...yes!" the fire-drake hissed, "The Flameheart Collar." Her excitement was almost palpable. She had never been this close to discovering what had happened to the Collar after the warrior Fentauk had slain the white dragon.

"Do the books tell you where it is?" He was struggling to remain aloof and out of the influence of the half-dragon's enthusiasm.

"No," she replied, her chagrin obvious. "But then there is the third book."

It was the only book that did not lie open on the floor, because even the impulsive and ambitious half-dragon felt a chill when she gazed upon those pages. The cover was a leathery brown, and at first Drachia had thought it to be nothing more than animal hide. But as her hands stroked that tough cover the residual prickle of vile workings crept across her scaled skin, and she tasted the fetid reek of corpseflesh. Only then did she realize that the binding was crafted entirely out of human and elven skin.

"This is a book of the Bloodmages of Nerull," she murmured, her voice low and wary. "It contains several intricate rituals and spells. It was apparently recovered at the sanctum of a Necromancer called the 'Dark Father', who was ultimately destroyed by Belamica Darkthorn, even though the effort cost her life."

The red bloodmagic runes caught the firelight as Drachia looked down at the book, shining darkly like wet blood. Once again, she surveyed the clutter of paper across the floor. But the web of information kept leading back to one thing, Belamica Darkthorn.

Assuming a somewhat smug resignation, Maximus sighed, folded his tattoed arms behind his head, and leaned back in his chair, "Too bad she's dead."

"...yes...too bad..." the dragoness replied, her gaze falling back to the vile book.