《Dragonomy's: Waiting for Dragons》


 Dragonomys: Waiting for Dragons | Prolog | The Keeper鈥檚 Promise

    From the Journal of Suki Warren


    April 3, 1789


    On Departure from the Island


    I came seeking wonders. I leave carrying ghosts.


    The sea is calm today, an unearned kindness after all that has transpired. The ship rocks beneath me, gentle as a cradle, yet I do not feel comforted. My heart is not my own¡ªit remains behind, buried beneath the shattered ruins of what I could not save.


    I believed in discovery, in knowledge, in the idea that truth, once found, could never be taken away. But the island is a cruel teacher. It does not give freely, nor does it suffer fools gladly. I was a fool.


    As a child, I could never have imagined that the title "The Keeper" would someday resonate so profoundly. Now, as I gaze out at the vast ocean, preparing for the long journey home, I find myself standing on the edge of everything I once believed.


    I find I am not the same girl who first stepped onto this shore, filled with hope and purpose. I came seeking knowledge, believing I was meant for something greater. But I leave knowing that belief and truth are rarely the same.


    The island does not give its secrets freely. It always takes something in return. And what it took from me¡ªmy certainty, my hope¡ªI may never get back.


    I have come to understand how deeply my experiences on these islands have transformed me. Each wave that crashes against the shore seems to reflect the changes I have undergone. I stand here not just as my former self but as someone who feels uncertain about her future.


    The promise of what I once sought still flickers within my empty heart, like an enchantment that refuses to fade, though the illusion has long since slipped through my fingers.


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    When I first stepped into the science of Dragonomy, I thought I was walking toward destiny¡ªtoward purpose. The threads of my future were just beginning to weave themselves into something bold and bright, something worth remembering.


    Little did I know that the title of Keeper¡ªonce a name I imagined would bring me honor and purpose¡ªwould become a weight I could not carry, a mark of failure, not triumph.


    Yet, I cannot shake the feeling that fate is not finished with me. Even now, standing in the shadow of my own mistakes, I feel its hand tugging at the edges of my story. And though sorrow has settled into my bones, there is something in the wind¡ªa whispered promise, or perhaps a warning¡ªthat tells me this is not the end.


    Because as I stand on deck looking at the shore, I, I hope I am not merely waiting to return home¡ªbut standing at the threshold, at the exact moment before the real story begins to unfold.


    I was sixteen and on holiday with my father when I first heard the word ¡®Keeper.¡¯ I sat cross-legged on the cold flagstone floor of the abbey library, where I would often spend my days while my father was in port. With a book in hand, I listened as a storm battered the windows so fiercely that I thought the walls might crack. The sisters walked the halls, going about their daily chores, not a concern for the storm brewing about, whispering the word like an calling, "...the Keeper¡­


    the Keeper..."


    But even then it resonated with significance. It felt sacred and weighty, like a crown forged from iron, pressing down with a sense of gravity and purpose.


    At that young age I naively believed that the term was just a fancy way of saying caretaker. I imagined someone who would tend to the books, sweep the floors, and light the candles, bringing warmth to the dim corners of the abbey.


    Which sounded positively dreadful then. Little did I know, the reality was far more intriguing¡ªand nothing like I imagined.


    At the abbey, I learned that dragons are not beasts to be tamed or slain, but ancient embers burning through time itself, choosing hearts worthy to carry their fiery and beautiful force.


    Later I would learn what it meant to long for something so ancient to feel it pulse¡ªnot with blood, but with memory, older than the earth itself. And I would learn the feeling of loss, the kind that hollows the heart, leaving only silence¡ªmerely ash and regret, where hope once lived.


    So, as I gather the fractured pieces of this shattered tale and prepare to turn my back on this place, I carry with me the weight of loss¡ªthis is not the story of how I became the Keeper. This is a tale woven by fate, where the relentless sea devoured my courage, the tempestuous wind scattered my hope, and this desolate island, has taken everything I once held meaningful.


    Fate does not ask for permission. It chooses. And sometimes, it lays its hand upon the most unlikely soul¡ªnot because they are ready, but because the story is not over. And if the story is not over, then neither is my promise, to wait for dragons.

 Chapter ONE | Margaret "Emily" Blackwell, The Invitation

    Ok, Wait, until you read this. I almost flipped.


    Dearest Emily,


    We¡¯re thrilled that you¡¯ll be joining us for the summer at Sorell Hall! As we gear up for the upcoming gala and get to know each other better, we¡¯d love for you to create a fun video where you share a little about yourself and let us know what you know about the abbey itself. Feel free to share as much or as little as you¡¯re comfortable with¡ªjust let your personality shine through! We can¡¯t wait to see what you come up with!


    To enhance your experience and to help with the video, we¡¯re excited to provide you with a Vireo X-900-z cellular phone¡­I mean sick!¡­ Right! The newest version! -complete with a new contact number for our communications before you arrive. Plus, we''ve already input a list of all the staff and administrative contacts at Sorell Hall, ensuring you have everything you need at your fingertips before your stay.


    We¡¯re here to help make your time with us as enjoyable and smooth as possible! We look forward to your visit and ensuring your time at Sorell Hall is as comfortable and enriching as possible.


    Warm regards, The Sorell Hall Preservation Society


    I mean come on, who are these people? What a Ripper. Right? A brand new Vireo X900z! Too legit, this is crazy, never happens, I¡¯m still trying to figure out all the features on this phone''s video recorder, but here I go¡ªhitting that record button, let''s dive in!


    My name¡¯s Margaret Emily Blackwell...but everyone just calls me Emily. I love my name. I know many people don''t like theirs, but I do. It reminds me of bygone days¡ªa simpler time, you know.


    Like hint, hint, maybe a grand old castle or garden parties. This is really funny because of two things... first ¡ª I¡¯m like rubbish at parties. And second ¡ª I, Margaret, Emily, Blackwell, have just been invited to live at a castle for the entire summer.


    Flamin¡¯ hell! I almost pissed myself!


    Well, it''s not a castle, technically, it''s a BLOODY majestic abbey on the cliffs of the Isle of Wight in England¡ªOverlooking the ocean, but the devil''s in the details, right?


    I¡¯ve been asked to stand in as my Dad''s representative at Sorell Hall for a very posh gala in his honor, and then I was asked to stay the summer and see one of his projects come to life. I can remember Dad working on the Heritage Rose Project.


    MATE! I can''t believe my bloody luck! The Sorell Hall Annual Gala, the red carpet of England ¡ª that¡¯s right. Me. Little Miss strange and weird Emily.


    But it''s only thanks to my Dad, which is bittersweet.


    My Dad, Richard Blackwell, was a botanist¡­and a bloody damn good one. He spent most of his time either in mud over his Wellies or trapped in stuffy conferences that smelled like damp tweed, not you guys at Sorell Hall, the other conferences, you know - moving on, he''d always be dragging me through fields, and forests hunting for plants no one else cared about except, Apparently, Sorell Hall.


    Deep breath, Emily, it''s been two and a half years since my Dad was shot and killed at a bloody takeaway shop in Sydney, crazy. Wrong place, wrong time. Stupid kid with a gun, younger than me.


    I don¡¯t bloody know¡­what happened, but I was told he stepped in to protect a woman and her child and saved them both. I¡¯m really proud of that.


    They called it a robbery gone wrong. I call it bullshit times. But none of that really mattered in the end. All I knew was my father was¡­ gone.


    When he was home, he was home, one hundred percent. Badgie always said he had just enough Welsh in him to argue about tea like it was a legal matter and the weather like he had personally invented it.


    My mum was Jamaican ¡ª born in Kingston ¡ª and came to the Down Under when she married Dad. I never knew her. She died of cancer not long after I was born, so all I have are pictures and the stories Dad and Badgie tell me.


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    Sometimes, I think I remember her laugh ¡ª bright and warm ¡ª but maybe I¡¯m just remembering the way Dad talked about her.


    Dad always said I was a "looker" like her and had her spirit ¡ª wild as the wind, stubborn as the sea, and with just a little bit of magic behind my ears.


    I asked Badgie about that one day and she told me mum¡¯s blood carried Obeah ¡ª old island magic. Not broomsticks and black cats magic ¡ª but something quieter, the kind that shows you things before you even think to look.


    Like knowing a storm¡¯s coming before the sky turns, or being able to feel which flower will bloom first. There are moments when the wind suddenly changes direction or when the ground vibrates beneath me, and I can''t help but feel a surge of energy, knowing something incredible is about to happen!


    Anyway I feel that way now.


    I grew up in Richmond, Tasmania, a small historic town just outside Hobart ¡ª the kind of place where history clings to everything, and people know your business before you do.


    Badgie says, ¡°Use what you¡¯ve been given, girl about the knowing stuff ¡ª and if I ever find anything out juicy about snooty Mrs. Philips, I am to tell her first.


    After Dad, Badgie finished raising me on her own ¡ª Dad¡¯s mum ¡ª Welsh to her bones, hands always dirty from the garden, and full of sayings that made sense right up until they didn¡¯t.


    ¡ªlike, ¡°A crow on the roof means news at the door,¡± or ¡°Don¡¯t trust a wind from the east; it brings nothing but trouble and broken teacups.¡± I still don¡¯t know what that last one means, but Badgie swore by it.


    I was that awkward kid who knew too much about soil pH and would rather talk to trees than people. Never quite fit in ¡ª anywhere, still don''t really.


    Dad used to tell me all sorts of stories about Sorell Hall about how that place never fit in either but its the ¡ª spooky ones, I loved! the spooky ones.


    I guess only three ¡°families¡± have ever held onto it. First, there was some ancient lot back in the Eleven hundreds, who called it Domus Custodes ¡ª which sounds impressive until you find out it just means House of the Keeper.


    Apparently, around the same time, a ship¡¯s first mate even mentioned it in his logbook after the captain fell overboard ¡ª some kind of sailor¡¯s curse.


    When I was younger, I remember thinking, ¡°Yeah, more like he was probably just clumsy or was hitting the turps.¡± Honestly, I still reckon that¡¯s probably the truth of it.


    After that, for the next six centuries, the place belonged to an order of nuns who called themselves The Order of the Wise and Worthy - yeah, you heard it, Wise and Worthy ¡ª which, if you ask me, sounds like a group that hands out leaflets and throws in a free tote bag if you sign up.


    Ok, all kidding aside ¡ª that¡¯s when it officially became an abbey.


    Then, in the mid-Eighteen Hundreds, a generous benefactor (aka someone with more money than the Queen) funded the abbey¡¯s transformation into what it is today ¡ª a house of learning and research center.


    That¡¯s when the name changed from The Temple of Revelations (another heavy name from the nuns) to Sorell Hall.


    Oh, and just because history loves a bit of irony ¡ª there are parts of the abbey that are open to the public now.


    Imagine, hundreds of tourists and school kids stomping around loudly, leaving their chewy stuck all over the same halls, the Wise and Worthy, once walked in silent prayer.


    Then, two weeks before I finished Year 11, the letter came.


    Sorell Hall, the rich hub where my Dad spent countless days helping restore the gardens, felt it was important to pay tribute to his legacy. That''s so amazing. The society decided that I should take his place at the honored role,


    a decision loaded with emotions, I have got to say. I mean, wow, standing in the very place where Dad made his mark and lifelong friendships, I can''t even believe it!


    And I can''t help but imagine him up, there, laughing, and yeah, he''s up, there, I know it because he was a saint, for putting up with me and Badgie¡­anyway¡­ He''s laughing, that I¡¯m soooo excited about something he had to exit stage left for...or is it stage right? ...it''s one of those¡­I know it.


    I have read the invitation at least a hundred and fifty times, waiting for the words to change ¡ª like it was some kind of cosmic joke. But no. It was real. This is more than just a massive honor ¡ª it is the most thrilling spark in my otherwise pathetic life. Until this moment, I¡¯d void of anything even hinting at an adventure. Summers are the worst!


    I can''t shake the feeling that maybe Dad had somehow nudged this opportunity my way from wherever he might be. If that¡¯s true ¡ª thanks, Dad. You''re an absolute legend.


    When I got the invitation, there Badgie and I were ¡ª hugging¡­.jumping up and down, crying¡­ hugging, again, crying some more. It was craziness. Later that evening, before supper, she couldn¡¯t stop grinning like the Cheshire Cat in her garden hat. I have a sneaky suspicion she knew all along. I guess they would have had to ask my guardian first, proper brits.


    Or¡­ maybe she¡¯s a secret double agent who just needed time this summer to save the world.Either way ¡ª I love her for letting me go.


    Isn¡¯t it crazy how one little thing ¡ª a letter ¡ª can change everything?


    All that¡¯s left before me, now is to gracefully handle a dazzling gala, complete with A-list celebrities, draped in their designer gowns and sharp tuxedos and keep my nerves in check, steer clear of that charming actor with the award winning smile trying to catch my attention while I am stuffing my face. Avoid any unfortunate mishaps like throwing up all over some fancy-pants and above all, do my Dad proud.


    Oh man¡­ do I know how to ruin my own party.

 Chapter TWO-Pt.1 | 1182 - Captain Everard Lockes Logbook

    Captain¡¯s Log ¨C Captain Everard Locke, Aboard The Revenant | Off the coast of the Isle of Wight, Southern end of England | Date: July 14, Anno Domini Eleven-82


    I¡¯ve taken a man aboard today¡ªa man barely worthy of the name. Near-mad¡­ half-starved, wild of eye. We found him clinging to the wreck of a small skiff, lips cracked from thirst, mind lost to fever. I asked his name, but he gave none¡ªonly whispered nonsense.


    But we gathered¡­


    He sought the fortress perched on the cliffs¡ªthe one that people only speak of in hushed tones or after too much drink. It was not a haven for the lost, the doomed, or the dead, but rather, for what lay beneath. Treasure, of course. There is always treasure where there is trouble.


    The caves are the only way in, if you believe the old tales. A labyrinth carved by sea and time, leading not just to gold, but some say something older. Much older.


    He swore up and down he reached the gates. I¡¯d have called him a liar, save for the madness that clings to him still.


    He speaks of what first appeared to be a makeshift gate, crude and unassuming¡ªyet soon proved unyielding to blade, hammer, or brute strength. No force of man could breach its threshold, is his sworn claim.


    On his honor, he swears, to me, God, and Hodge the ship¡¯s cat, he was not there to pillage, but rather there simply out of curiosity. He insists he was able to squeeze between the bars, and weighing next to nothing, I believe that to be the only truth he has spoken this day.


    And then, he started screaming, and did not stop, for not even exhaustion could silence him¡ªthis was no ordinary terror, not from anything we had done, but from what he saw within.


    In his screaming, he confesses every blunder; no sin is spared. Every mistake he has ever committed is revealed. If all are forthcoming, then he is indeed an unholy man, wicked to his very core.


    Legend states the hold is impenetrable, and by the looks of it, those who seek its treasure pay the price in blood and wretchedness.


    Still, he screams, voice at a fever¡¯s pitch, and echoes through the rigging¡ªwords not his own, but what he saw carved into the stone at the gate, a warning.


    ¡°Beyond these stones, a hallowed shrine, To all unworthy, cross not this line.


    Your deeds shall carve your soul a tomb, and rise within to seal your doom!¡±


    Chiseled under the warning were two words, a title¡­ The Keeper.


    Whatever its purpose, whatever the warning¡ªone thing is certain. Those who step within its shadow are never the same when they return¡­ if they return at all.


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    Date: July 14, Anno Domini Eleven-82 - Time: Nightfall


    I shall be glad to rid myself of this wretched creature, for I cannot call him a man¡ªnot anymore. His rantings play upon the superstitions of the crew and are wearing on my nerves, by his own tongue, he is rotten to the core, and I must see him to justice.


    If not for that, I would have had him thrown overboard. But alas, as night falls, his screaming and ravings have quieted.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 | Time: Just before dawn


    The men inform me that the madman is dead. Not by his own hand, as I first assumed. What they told me should not be possible.


    Burned alive¡­the men say¡­


    We took on tallow ten days past, for our stores of lamp oil and torches were low. If he had set himself alight, the whole of the ship would have gone up in flame. Cinder and ash at the bottom of the sea.


    And so, I went below to see for myself. What I saw haunts me still.


    I sit now at my desk, filling this log entry, scarcely comprehending what I witnessed.


    The fire did not consume him from without, but from within. He burned from the inside out, as if something had ignited his very soul.


    A charred ash outline of the man lay upon the floor. A half-burned foot, part of his skull, and several teeth¡ªthat was all that remained¡­ and there was something else.


    ¡­in the center of it all¡­


    A large brilliant red, "gem," for lack of a better description, burning with a fire, held deep within, stood right where the man''s heart would have been, yet there was no possible way he had any object on his person, for we searched him fully,  and he was barely clothed when brought onboard.


    The red gem is as large as my fist and burned my hand as I held it. Its weight is much greater than its size and seems to hold every broken oath and sin I have committed.


    I have ordered the men to hasten to port. I believe the man has brought a sickness aboard. The crew is uneasy¡ªfrightened men become unruly men, sooner than not.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 - Time: Two hours past midday


    I am informed¡­


    A man the crew calls ¡°Little Pea¡± has sought an audience with me. His true name is said to be unpronounceable, and so they mock him with this foolish title. He is Moorish, from the port of Ceuta.


    Date: July 15, Anno Domini Eleven-82 | Time: Four and three quarters past the hour of midday


    I have learned that Little P''s name is Yusuf al-Qurtubi, he has just left. He is a huge man, dark of skin. I suspect Sub-Saharan blood runs in his veins.


    He speaks softly, cautiously, as if his very words might bring doom upon the ship. His speech is crude, difficult to follow, but I gathered this much: the madman was not ill.


    He was taken by something else. He called it Al-Nar al-Mahb¨±s.


    I am told it means ¡°Trapped Fire¡±


    Yusuf went on, "Once Fire settles in the heart, it does not rest. No ¡ª Fire seeks. It creeps, finds weaknesses, and stirs the quiet sins a soul has long buried.


    Should the heart prove worthy, the search ends ¡ª and Fire¡¯s Ember may at last come to rest. Yet I have known no soul worthy enough to bear such weight." He explains.


    Fire¡¯s Ember belongs to the Keepers. They alone remember the ancient ways of holding fast when the heart falters. Even now, Fire wanders in search, for Ember has not burned ¡ª not truly burned ¡ª for many an ages." and with that he excused himself and left my quarters.


    I have retrieved the gem, for the men refuse to set foot in the hold whilst it remained there.


    How strange, that I find the men weak of character, due to this, when mine own eyes cannot turn from it. I feel an irresistible pull to the flame within. It flickers with an unnatural light, casting ominous shadows that sway and twist, and haunt my quarters.


    The flame¡¯s vibrant red swirls are like a mesmerizing vortex, beckoning me closer. The air around it crackles with intensity, and I can almost hear a whispers hidden within its fiery embrace. Are you worthy?


    Is the question.


    Its very presence seems to weigh heavy upon me, I have pondered the question.


    And my heart tells me, I am not and the heart does not lie.

 Chapter TWO-Pt 2 | The Reckoning

    That night, Captain Everard Locke sat at his desk, the pages of the incident before him. Torn from his log. His hands were steady, but his mind was not as he burned the parchment with the lit candle. Some things should not be remembered. He removed the gem from his desk drawer, tucking it within his coat.


    Walking to the ship¡¯s rail, he gazed out over the moonlit waters. The ocean whispered, his name. Somewhere between his heart¡¯s hammering and the hush of the waves, he found his hand lifting the gem. Holding it high, watching the firelight dance inside.


    The wind bites through his coat, salt stinging his lips, but he feels none of it. All he feels is the weight ¡ª heavier than it should be ¡ª the gem is cradled in his calloused hands. It pulses faintly, or maybe that¡¯s just his own heart pounding through his fingertips.


    He stares at the dark horizon, waves ever rolling in, stars hung above like nails driven into the sky. The sea has always been his truth. He was born on it, lived by it. The sea is the only thing that¡¯s ever made sense.


    This¡ªthis thing¡ªmade no sense at all.


    He mutters questions to it. No answer, of course. Just silence and the wind, but in his mind madness, chaos, and atonement.


    The men crossed themselves when they saw it, others spat for luck. They think it cursed. Maybe they were right. Maybe it is some devil¡¯s trinket that should have remain deep in the earth. Maybe it was meant to be swallowed by the deep, never to touch human hands.


    His fingers curl tighter around it. He could cast it overboard right now. One clean throw, and it would vanish into the black, gone forever, secrets swallowed by the cold. The ship would be lighter. His soul would be lighter.


    But he doesn¡¯t throw it.


    Because the truth is that he feels something when he holds it. Like a voice, not in his ears but in his bones, whispering of lands no map has charted and skies no eye has seen. It¡¯s madness. It¡¯s folly. It¡¯s hope.


    But he knows, deep in his heart he is not worthy...


    ¡°The sea giveth and the sea taketh away.¡±


    ¡°Keep it, and it may damn them all.¡±


    Did it hum under his touch? Either way, he knows this moment will follow him to his grave, whatever choice he makes.


    And still ¡ª he, does, not throw it.


    then, lightening fast...


    ¡­Locke, casts it far into the ocean''s depths. For a moment, the water swallows the light...


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    ...Good and begone... he thought...


    But just before it vanished¡ªIt cried out. Primal, Locke felt it deep within his soul. and then it started to pulse beneath the waves¡ª


    Locke stood frozen. He tried to convince himself he had imagined it. But the glow did not fade.


    nor did the thing sink, it was heavy, heavier than it looked, it should have dropped like and anchor...he thought.


    Instead, it lingered beneath the water, pulsing, like a heartbeat in the abyss. And then- the whisper again. Not from the sea, nor from the wind, but from inside his skull and this time he understood the words.


    ¡°Beyond these stones, a hallowed shrine¡­To all unworthy, cross not this line¡­¡±


    He staggered back, gripping the railing. Your deeds shall carve your soul a tomb,


    The words seeped into his bones, he slapped his hands over his ears as if that would stop the words from coming.


    ¡°Shall rise within¡­ and seal your doom.¡±


    And then¡­an answer to the cry was returned, from where, Locke looked around panic seizing him, inside his mind¡­no¡­it came from, the fortress high on the hill, Domus Custode.


    The creature''s screech shattered the night¡ªa sound both ancient and raw with vengeance and of sovereignty. It was a shriek that was out of place in this world, a wail of fury and reclamation, a call that sent a primal terror surging through even the hardest men on board. It was not merely a scream¡ªit was a reckoning.


    As the captain struggled to comprehend the events, the words continued to thunder in his mind, it was then that something very large hit the ocean from above, unleashing a torrent of water that drenched the deck. Then from the depths, the colossal creature surged forth¡ªexploding out of the water with the tear shaped gem, still pulsing its eerie red glow.


    The air filled with the furious beating of massive wings, their force casting twisted shadows against the moonlit sails, throwing the ship and the emerging men into chaos.


    Talons, each as long as a cutlass, slashed through the night, piercing flesh and bone, sinking deep into Everard Locke¡¯s shoulders. Madness and terror overtook him, and he started screaming¡ªbut none could be heard over the deafening roars that now consumed the sky.


    And then, silence. A void where moments before there had been fury and flame. The men stood frozen, their faces etched with disbelief, as if their minds refused to grasp the terror they had seen.


    By the time The Revenant made port, the men had already begun to speak in hushed voices of what had transpired. Their captain, Everard Locke, had been seen falling overboard. So the men claimed¡ªhe fell. But none would say how. None would say why.


    It was the making of legends and of sailors curses.


    The first mate, grim-faced and silent, took the Captain¡¯s log in his hands, expecting to find and then try explaining, the recordings of the madness of those last hours, yet when he opened the book,


    The pages were gone. No hint of the crazed man. No fire held within the gem, nothing of the warnings carved in stone. No, explanations recorded. The book lay open in his hands, pages torn from the history, as if the past days had never happened at all.


    Date: July 26th, Anno Domini Eleven 82 Captain¡¯s Log ¨C Final Entry, Recorded by William de Clare, First Mate of The Revenant, Port of Caerhaven, Southern Coast of Brittany


    The voyage had been steady, our cargo secure, and the wind favored us well. By all accounts, it was an uneventful and profitable journey, with no ill fortune upon our course unto our departure.


    Alas, the sea is a fickle mistress, and she claims whom she will. While off the coast of the Isle of Wight, still in the shadow of The Keepers¡¯ fortress, Domus Custodes, our esteemed captain, Everard Locke, is now counted among those lost to her depths.


    Late in the night, while taking in the air on his nightly stroll along the deck, he fell overboard. How it happened remains unclear, though many men have testified that they were there and that there was no foul play.


    Captain Everard Locke, strong-willed and steady of hand, shall be on the lips of sailors long after his Revenant is docked, for the sea keeps her own counsel, and so too, shall we.