Fall of the Fumic Fang
Many thousands of years later when no memory of King Breaker or Fume or his Fang remained, their came to the castle a man with a dying tribe. They had been wandering the lands far longer than they cared to remember. Foul luck uprooted them from every home and ill will kept them on the move. People seemed to sense that they were trouble and shooed them away from their crops and livestock and children. In this beleaguered state the broken tribe arrived, desperate, at the castle of the Fumic Fang. Their leader, a thick-skinned man named Rogant, approached the Fang alone. His tribe stayed back, overwhelmed by the malice breathed into the air by the Fang. Only their desperation kept them from running away. They knew there was no where else to run. They were spent.
Rogant pushed through the malice and stood before the Fang. He would not let this accursed sentinel stand in the way of his tribe and a final home. He’d seen his once mighty people diminished in both number and passion. They could not move again. If he did not house them here they all would pass into the dark of history, unwritten and forgotten. He closed his eyes and looked at the Fang. It was awake now, somehow, as it had never been before. He felt its malign focus sharpen, its greed and hunger narrow and he knew what the wretched thing wanted. Rogant was ever a practical man, making the hard decisions necessary to keep his people alive. Was this any different?
Still, he shed a tear (the first since his wife passed away) as he called his beloved girls to him. He knew that if he did not please the Fang it would not let a single person leave the cliff-top alive, now that they awoke its ire. His two little girls, twins who had seen only four summers, came rushing head-first into his kneeling arms. He hugged them both desperately for a moment and bade one sit at his back, facing away from the Fang. The other he hugged close to his chest. He could feel her still-baby-soft skin on his spoiled flesh and sensed her large, questioning eyes upon his face. He could not meet her gaze, so he swiftly gave the Fang what it wanted. He shut his eyes and secured a new home for his people.
Blood streamed from his daughter’s silent wound. The rivulet fell toward the earth and gently flowed toward the Fang, which soaked it up greedily. Soon the accursed tooth sucked at the blood, drawing it out of the body faster than it fell. Rogant felt his daughter’s body pulling away from him and for a moment he held tight, caught in the horror of what he had done. Then, between the fury of the Fang and the grim determination that had kept his tribe alive for so long, he released his grip and watched his daughter fall to the hungry sentinel. Her body tumbled through the air and turned to dust as soon as it touched the pale green tooth. The Fumic Fang, its hold on the castle spent, dropped to the ground and gave way to the numb witnesses. The leader picked up his remaining child and carried her into the dark, but untarnished castle; their new home.
King Rogant now rules the Fifth Kingdom. His lands are still infested with monstrous abominations, but there are, now, safe paths and bountiful crops. The livestock thrive and the fish are plentiful. The curse of the Fumic Fang has been lifted from the kingdom.
As both a show of power and symbol of inspiration, the now-dormant dragon’s tooth travels the country every year escorted by a healthy squad of hand-picked soldiers. Some villagers celebrate its pilgrimage. Others hide within their houses, peeking out from their shutters as it passes by. A very few say that they can feel the Fang still humming with power and intent. When it passes through your town, what do you hear?