GMIf somehow the scene were to be sped up, as if from a god's eye view, it would appear that the party scurried around the site, to and fro, bending, straightening, fidgeting and fussing around the wreckage and farther afield.
Some of these frenetic figures criss-crossed the dragon's remains, others spiralled outwards, creating an unintentional and fascinating dance. All the while the shadows under the trees shifted, growing longer and deeper as the amber light gained a more fiery hue.
***
Zoltan dropped the canvas pack amidst the other equipment salvaged from the site. It had burst at the seams from the crash and the contents bulged from inside.
D, Jex, and Weston stood around, having gathered their findings in the same spot. Tindarien meanwhile, was sat on his haunches inside the dragon's ribcage and examining the backbone with the beam of his lantern.
They were overlooked by Sergeant Almador, whilst Nestaron and Seyja had left to scout uphill for a camp site.
The dragon rider's saddle appeared to have been ripped from the back of the mount, the tack was high quality leather but had snapped. Not only did Dragon Knights of the Empire wear the Imperial livery, but their saddles were said to be made from bulette hide, crafted in the First Age. This was not of the same ancient design. It was also well cushioned with a sloped back and wooden armrests. It had the look of a comfy chair and wasn't greatly suited to mounted combat.
Embossed on the seat, however, was a crest. A spiked gauntlet holding a wand and a sheathed sword in the same fist.
Inside the pack Zoltan had found was a suit of armour. Cold blackened steel with electrum trim and a fluted plackart, evidently to be worn without a surcoat. Hardly noticeable at a glance, but the armour was almost devoid of rivets, with the plates being fused together. By hellfire. It was fine workmanship, a merging of human and demonic craft that could come from only one place, the smithees of First Triumph, Fortress of the Crusader.
Weston unrolled the bundle he'd found lashed to the saddle. A sturdy quilted blanket, in the middle a scimitar and scabbard. It had engraved quillons and a long, wire-wrapped handle with room a wide range of one or two handed grips. The blade was marvellous, curved and single-egded for the most part, but on the backside it flicked up into a spike and then down into a sharpened, clipped point at the tip. Most remarkable was its length, maybe three and a half feet long in all. A heavy cutting blade on one side, for unarmoured foes, and then a spike on the reverse, if needing to hook or bludgeon an armoured foe.
Jex could roughly translate the Draconic pictograms, etched into the blade. They read
Fusillade.
The bard had made his own interesting discovery. The claws and teeth of the dragon had also petrified, reducing their value (though they were still more valuable than say, a rib). However, a leather bandolier was caught in one claw, once stuffed with glass vials. Most of the loops were empty or the vials cracked, but he finds one still contains an irridescent fluid that seems to glow beneath the surface. Enchanter's oil. Also, three saccharine, syrupy potions, a classic halfing recipe for healing.
Nothing around the dragon's mouth, except the muzzle, which had intrigued D. After all, a muzzle might stop a dragon biting, but not clawing, so what was achieved? It wouldn't stop it belching death and destruction from its nose either. So the only thing it would achieve was to stop the dragon speaking. Dragons were legendary for their cunning words, worming their way into your mind, and some could evoke powerful geas.
D might have been pondering this when he found a pair of saddlebags twisted in a tree. The buckles had torn off, so most of the contents had spilled out across the valley. But he did find papers, quills and ink, an old grimoire written in Giantish, and a rune shard. These shards were raw magical energy, somehow captured in a mundane material and then inscribed with a crafting rune. This one looked like a piece of quartz crystal, mined from the earth.
What did any of this tell you?
- That the dragon rider travelled in comfort
- Their sword and armour were packed, not worn
- They didn't trust their mount to speak
- They knew some magic
- They had some connection to the Crusader
Zoltan and Jex had a sound idea that these were the remains of Caeric, dragon mount of the swordmage, Renn of Quagglen. Notable rival of Sir Edward the Red, he was an agent of the Crusader, procuring magical artefacts for the counter-invasion. Red Ed on the other hand procured magical artefacts to turn into gold coin, gift to fashionable causes or noblewomen, or hang on his wall and boast about. The two had crossed paths (and swords) before, once famously leading to Renn's incarceration in the floating prison of Darkskye.
It seemed he'd gotten out....
Tindarien overheard the discussions and having blown out his lantern, he rolled nimbly out from the dragon's ribcage and to his feet. His examination of the remains made him certain that 'Caeric' had either been killed in flight, or mortally wounded, such that it couldn't control its descent or landing. The pectoral girdle and the vertebra around the wing joint were crumbling like old masonry. The high elf wasn't an expert on dragon physiology, but he'd survived enough treacherous ruins to recognise fractures. Caeric must have been struck by a heavy impact to the shoulder or across the back. It was tempting to imagine a boulder, not so tempting to imagine what might've hurled it.
Still, if it was the Beast of the Titan's Elbow that slew the dragon rider, Tindarien felt he had a better grasp of its size and strength.
Then Nestaron appeared on the slope above them.
"We've found the rider!" He said.
***
Nestaron stood at the precipice and pointed with an outstretched hand. D, Jex, Tindarien, Weston and Zoltan were beside him. Sergeant Almador had gone to link up with Seyja.
They were several hundred of feet uphill from the wreckage, where the ground hardened and became rocky, and the trees thinned. It was a narrow defile between two foothills that dropped even further when it joined the river gorge.
There was a dark stain on one of the rocks below. Light was failing, so at first it looked like someone had swotted a large and juicy fly but a moment later it resolved into the shape of a mangled humanoid, possibly wearing shredded robes. The splatter pattern suggested he'd fallen from greater height than the precipice and been carrying speed. He'd hit the rocks face first. If it was Renn of Quagglen, he'd fared no better (and probably worse) than his mount.
The light really was failing though. Where was Seyja?
You saw her on the hillside above you, standing on an outcrop, silhouetted against the sky.
***
It was the last light of the day as the sun set on the Sword Point. The horizon was fierce vermillion and the sky above it had turned magenta. It was a breathtaking spectacle.
Seyja watched it, with the Titan's Elbow looming behind her. Whatever she was thinking, she had survived another day and for the first time in a long time, she'd not fled, but stood and fought and won.
It may be a furtive moment, but the barbarian woman had already scouted two viable camp sites.
One was a low-roofed cave, bone dry with a carpet of soft pine needles. She stood at the second. It was level ground, a glade with the bedrock close to the surface. There were some trees, but mostly bare earth and green moss, with one aspect terminating in a lumpy rock outcrop and steep drop. It was somewhat open, which had its own set of cons, but so did the restrictiveness of a cave.
It would soon be nightfall.
In true CSI style, rarely has eyeballing a shred of unidentified material been so 
