April 2025

The Freshet Wildcall

Darkwood raced through the peaks of the Stormhorn Mountains, flying four hundred feet above the floor of the gulch carved by the roaring Stormvein River, now swollen with the melt of winter’s last snow. He was on the three-mile straightaway, one of the few stretches where a dragon could build true speed, and for the first time since he had begun racing in the Freshet Wildcall, the annual spring race of the dragons, he led the pack.

His lead was slim, however, with the other frontrunners close on his tail, and the Dive loomed ahead, the treacherous seventh turn that separated the brave from the timid, or, perhaps more accurately, the foolish from the sensible.

The Dive formed where the gulch narrowed and twisted sharply, following the path of the river. At this point, the wind was forced into a violent, chaotic eddy that one could avoid by diving to the floor of the gulch and skimming low along the river. It was a maneuver of risk and spectacle, and often where a slim lead could be lost if not executed with perfect control. Darkwood fixed his focus on the coming descent.

Then suddenly, a blur of bronze streaked past him at incredible speed, the wind of the wake tilting Darkwood off course. Darkwood blinked. Was that… Needles? Had the old man of the Manor just taken the lead?

Darkwood recovered quickly, but the disruption had cost him time and speed. Another dragon raced past him, dropping Darkwood’s lead to third with Needles at the head.

Needles? The old dragon had raced every year since Darkwood could remember, always with good humor and zero expectation of placing. Needles, one of the most good-natured dragons of Darkwood’s acquaintance, raced for the silliness and camaraderie, not the victory. He had become the beloved underdog of Darkwood Manor, known more for his laughter than his racing record.

Trickery was afoot; Darkwood was sure of it.

The Wildcall had not earned its name by accident. Illusions, tail swipes, spellcraft, and cunning were not only permitted—they were celebrated. Some dragons trained year-round, mastering the course with speed, endurance, and precision. Others schemed, plotted, and enlisted help. However a dragon crossed the finish line, it was always considered a fair win, so long as the trickery was well played. Some years, the mighty won, and other years, the clever won.

The spectator stands along the Stormhorn cliffs erupted into cheers. The revelers, dressed in vibrant colors and crowned in spring garlands, knew mischief when they saw it—and they were delighted. Needles, the jolly underdog, had taken the lead.

Tucking his wings, Needles dropped into the Dive, falling like a stone into the narrow gorge. Darkwood followed close behind, folding his wings and plummeting into the Dive.

Then to his amazement—and to the astonishment of all who watched—Needles began to spin in a tight, controlled corkscrew. An acrobatic display so reckless and elegant, the crowd leapt to their feet with a roar as the old dragon carved the sky in a spiral, descending like a storm-borne arrow toward the river below.

Like the crowd, Darkwood knew such a thing was not possible. It was too dangerous as one plummeted to the bottom of the ravine.

Wind screamed past Darkwood’s ears as the canyon walls narrowed and rose around him. Below, Needles pulled out of the dive with a grace that belonged to a dragon half his age, cutting through the mist and skimming the Stormvein as he flared his wings enough to steady his speed. Then, to entertain the crowd further, he flicked his tail and dragged the tip through the river, sending up a shimmering arc of spray that caught the morning light like spun glass. His sense of theater was rewarded as the crowd screamed their delight.

But Darkwood had no time to marvel. He opened his wings to slow his descent as he pulled out of the Dive and maneuvered through the tight gully, but he had lost too much momentum. Three more dragons overtook him in a blur as the gulch widened.

By the time he emerged from the Dive, Needles had vanished around the bend. Darkwood climbed into the updraft, riding the winds out of the gorge as he banked and flew through the Dwarven pass, approaching the eighth and final turn of the race.

Then he saw her, Iris, standing on one of the Aerie platforms, her arms raised in invocation. Her white hair and blue dress billowed about her in the chilly embrace of her friend, the North Wind, who danced around her, reveling in the mischief.

Darkwood followed her line of sight. She was keenly watching Needles with the fixed stare of a witch guiding her spell. Her right hand flicked forward—and the North Wind obeyed. The wind shot off in a mighty gust, whipping Iris’s clothes and hair into a frenzy as it raced after Needles, lending speed to his wings.

Darkwood chuckled. Well, there it is.

Needles shot forward like a bolt of lightning, carried by the wind… and the race was over.

Darkwood landed at the final platform, placing seventh, a respectable showing, given the forty-two competitors. With the familiar pull of magic, he shifted into his human form.

Needles, also now in his human form, was surrounded by a jubilant crowd. He had the largest grin Darkwood had ever seen on him. Darkwood pushed through the throng and gave him a handshake as he patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a clever man, Needles.”

Just then, Iris joined them. Needles swept her up into a massive hug, lifting her clear off the ground. “Did you see me?” he asked as giddy as a dragonling. “I flew like the wind!”

Iris laughed, breathless. “Everyone saw you, Needles. I think even the gods were cheering you on.”

Darkwood crossed his arms, watching the mischievous pair with quiet amusement.

Later, as Iris and Darkwood sat together in the stands, watching Needles receive the gilded feather and be declared Fleetwing, Darkwood leaned close. “My little secret keeper,” he whispered into her ear. “Not a word did you say.”

Iris laughed. “I promised him faithfully. Though I don’t know which he was more excited for: having a chance to win the Wildcall or…” she turned to look at Darkwood with a mischievous grin, “surprising you.”

Darkwood chuckled as he pulled his wily witchling close. Needles, once more in his dragon form and with wings spread wide, roared in victory as the crowd cheered his name.

Starfall Rest News from Benign Chaos

Hello, friends, and merry April!

I am so excited for The Sleeping Dragon chapter 7 audioplay! I have been working on it for the past few weeks. This chapter has taken a bit longer because I’m learning a new creative tool, Kling AI for video generation, which lets me bring the characters a bit more to life on the screen.

AI, being in its infancy, still has rough edges. But even so, it’s wildly exciting to see Iris and Lord Darkwood move, to watch them take shape, stretch, and exist for a moment in movement. Honestly, it’s been so much fun experimenting with the new tool, and I really hope you find as much delight in the magic as I did.

For chapter 7, I’m adding brief animations at the very beginning with the brand logo, the opening credits after the cold open, and perhaps the ending credits as well. It’s been such a playful adventure, and, hopefully, will add a bit more cinematic sparkle to the story.

I hope April is treating you kindly. As we all know, the perfect date falls this month: April 25th, which, according to Cheryl Frasier in Miss Congeniality, is “not too hot, not too cold… all you need is a light jacket.” May your perfect day be full of joy, laughter, and just enough mischief to make it memorable.

Until next time,
Benign Chaos

Note from Sylwen the Lorewarden

So, dear seekers of knowledge, I have a story for you this time.

After a quiet year tucked among the scrolls, I ventured beyond the Shrouded Isle this month, at the personal invitation of an old friend, the Master of the Dragon Dens himself. Stern as a thundercloud, that one, but not without warmth. He insisted I attend this year’s Freshet Wildcall, and I, missing my dear friend whom I had not seen for some time, said yes.

Friends… I was not prepared. It is one thing to read of an event, and quite another to attend.

Dragons shrieking overhead, wind mages flinging gusts like festival streamers, and the crowd roaring as an elderly bronze dragon named Needles spiraled through the Dive like a corkscrew on fire. (Yes, I did cheer. Yes, I may have startled a dignitary.)

All in all, it was a delight. There’s something invigorating about watching creatures of such power engage in such joyous nonsense. I highly recommend it—as a spectator, of course.

And for those curious if Moonwinkle, the traveling cat, attended: no, she is not one for crowds or commotion. She spent a lovely week with her friend, Bella Crystal, at the Stormhead Lighthouse on the Shrouded Isle, finding peace in the sunshine and the gull calls, and being very pleased with herself for having avoided the pandemonium.

If you’d like to know more about the Dragons of Ebonhorn who hold the annual race, you’ll find an entry in the Codex Arcana under Dragons of Ebonhorn.