Bibrid, when they are far from even the most remote of villages, takes his full dragon form and flies them all to the edge of a beautiful, bountiful, valley full of wild game and wild-growing fruits and vegetables. They're going to gather a large harvest to help a village that is currently cut off due to severe flood waters. -- BKF
"Wraithvine," said the raven as it lit on a nearby branch. "Hiland Vale needs you." It swooped down to the ground, and squawked in a demanding fashion.
Chance had flinched into a defensive stance, wooden sword ready to defend themself. Scramble's own readiness was more half-hearted, because ze recognised a raven as a true bird[1]. Scramble said, "It's harmless. You're safe."
Wraithvine calmly took a small bun from one of hir pockets and tossed pieces down for the bird.
Bibrid was looking at the maps, muttering, "Hiland Vale, Hiland Vale," to himself. He barely reacted when Chance swooped under one arm for comfort and security, just added a gentle pat to the little Hellkin. "There. Hiland Vale. Not far from here. I can do a scouting flight. Do you want to fly with me, Chance?"
"Nuh-uh," managed Chance. "Be safe?"
"As only a Dragon can," Bibrid promised. "You be safe, too." He carefully delivered his adopted child to Wraithvine's arms before stretching into his true self - a gigantic silver Dragon.
Chance stared. "Oh," they said. "You're bigger on the inside."
"Always," said Bibrid. He took wing and quickly reached the height where his view matched the map. The same height where middling-sized creatures would just begin to have trouble breathing.
The day that Dragons made peace with other intelligent creatures, was the day that map-making changed forever.
Ah. There was the problem. The township of Hiland Vale was surrounded by floodwaters. Its crops were not only underwater, but also being washed away. The town's druids could protect the people from the water, but that was all.
Bibrid glided back to camp. "They're temporarily waterlocked. They need food, most of all." He did not mention that Draconic senses could detect the relative health of any 'herds' he viewed. Or that a town full of people counted as a herd. That sort of thing greatly disturbed the larger portion of civilised folk[2].
Wraithvine simply nodded, producing a long, strong rope. One sufficient to improvise a Dragon's flying harness. "You two children have a choice. Ride Bibrid with me, or stay safe with us in my portable tower."
Chance held up their hand. "Tower please."
Scramble was grinning and hopping in place. "I wanna ride. I wanna see the world from the clouds."
"We won't go that high," said Bibrid. "The air is harder to breathe the further up you go." He helped Wraithvine tie the harness, and settled down to allow the two to climb him. "I'll take this slow. If you feel sick, knock on my skin twice."
He launched. Climbing into the sky at a much slower rate than initially. Bibrid knew a lush valley that was the birthplace of Mastorava. The goddess of fields and harvests would not mind immortals answering a great need. Hells, the first son of the Great Gold and Silver Dragons could likely get the goddess Herself to weave the panniers for him.
Not that he expected Her to do it. Gods were busy with many prayers, after all. Besides, Wraithvine could use hir magic to make them anyway.
Bibrid was careful when landing on hallowed ground. Mastorava's holy place was abundant with fruit and other crops, and would not reject Hellkin on its own. The faithful shaped the hallowed force, not the gods. Therefore, Chance could tread on this holy ground with no fear of harm.
Chance immediately dove into a flourishing raspberry bush and rendered himself red in hand and face with fresh juice. He was still getting used to the concept that food was not something that could vanish without warning.
"You'll eat yourself sick, love," sighed Bibrid. "And we're here to gather food for people who have none."
This got the little devilborn's full attention and horror. "No food?"
"No food," agreed Wraithvine, using hir magic to weave together enormous baskets for Bibrid's draconic withers.
"Can you help fill my baskets with the good things?" asked Bibrid. "For the people who have nothing?"
The result was spectacular. Chance leaped from his rasperry bush and was up the nearest fruit tree like a hyperactive squirrel. They hopped back down in a moment with their shirt bulging with the best and shiniest apples. They bounded off into the shrubbery and emerged once more with a shirtload of fresh berries. Not one of them entered his ever-capacious maw, and Wraithvine could barely weave carrying baskets fast enough with hir spells.
Scramble, using his time power, was more sensibly gathering grains, vegetables, and nuts. Someone had to, or the people of Hiland Vale would have to concern themselves with a plague of sweet-sickness next.
[1] Shapeshifting as a skill has made a lasting impact on Alfarell.
[2] Definitions of 'civilised' vary, of course. Kobolds, for example, see nothing wrong with using dead nestmates as nourishment. They see burials as wasteful.
[Photo by Alicia Christin Gerald on Unsplash]
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