Notes: Midsummer, the Pampas Plains, in the southern grasslands
Additional Notes: If your name is not Lysander Crane, and you are reading this without my permission, I strongly advise you to remove your nose from my personal journal. If you choose to continue, I will find out about it, and I will publish something about you that you do not want the world to know. Let this be your final warning.
Mother Iwilanga foresaw the arrival of a visitor today. Although she at first advised me to remain inside her hut when the guest arrived, she made no further attempt to persuade me when I protested. She merely gazed up into the pale blue sky, an action that quite befuddled me until I followed her eyes and saw her guest.
A dragon, and what a dragon she was! Her scales white as pearls and as bright as morning sunlight, and her horns and talons the glistening black of obsidian, when she touched the ground with her great wings spread, blocking out the sky, she seemed to put all the world in her shadow. For a moment, I admit, I was afraid, as the rodent trembles in the shadow of the hawk, but then Mother Iwilanga approached her and spoke to her, and she adopted her human form, and my heart resumed its normal rate.
All this while, words were exchanged, probably concerning my unwelcome presence, although I could not say for certain, as I was so overcome that I forgot to listen. I simply stood there, gaping, and most likely conveying an air of unparalleled idiocy. How many miles I have walked in search of a dragon, and here one had landed, unexpected, before my very eyes! It was a lucky thing I did not swoon.
At length, Mother Iwilanga returned to her hut, leaving me alone with the disguised dragon. Still I stared at her. I knew it was rude, but I could not take my eyes from her. Somehow, her face looked familiar.
And then I remembered.
Several years ago, I was in Vale on one of my many travels, staying with an acquaintance who there resides. This acquaintance is an artist, and at the time, he was putting the final touches on a portrait of the famous mage, Lady Faylore. Her features, I recall, were so incredibly distinct, that none could possibly share them, save, perhaps, for a close relative.
This could only be she.
Buoyant with excitement, I made my introductions. To my immense happiness, I discovered that she knew of me as well, and owns several of my books. I think that I won her trust in the end, for she has agreed to teach me the lore of the dragons, on condition of anonymity.
I do not think I shall sleep very well tonight.