A Most Necessary Correction to Wyvernic Delusions

Let me begin, with no politeness and less patience, by stating what ought to be obvious: wyvern riders never existed.

There. I said it.

I would carve the words into every schoolhouse door in the Empire if I thought the dull-eyed masses would read them. But no—the myth persists, feathered in glory, set in stained glass, and dribbled from the mouths of court poets with all the grace of a drunk vomiting prophecy.

Let us dispense, once and for all, with the romantic fantasy of men galloping through the clouds on the backs of leathery sky-lizards.

Every spring I receive a clutch of letters (mostly from amateur antiquarians or spoon-bent mystics) breathlessly informing me of a “newly uncovered tapestry” showing a hero astride a wyvern, sword aloft, wind in his periwig.

Well, I could commission a tapestry showing a warlord astride a pair of juggling narwhals. Would that convince future imbeciles that he ruled the oceans on tusk-back?

Tapestries are not evidence. They are propaganda in wool. They were made to flatter lords, to awe the unlettered, and to entertain bored duchesses. They are no more reliable than a bard’s breath or a fishwife’s dream.

Let us speak plainly about physics—a subject long neglected by wyvern fetishists.

Modern wyverns, even the so-called “mountain reavers,” lack the muscle mass and skeletal structure to lift a full-grown human, let alone fly with one aboard. Their wings, while impressive in surface area, are adapted for gliding, short bursts, or—at best—elevated ambush.

I would sooner ride an enraged goose into battle than trust my life to the spindly back of a wyvern.

And don’t prattle on about ancient breeds. Yes, we’ve found fossilised bones larger than current specimens. We’ve also found bones of fish with teeth the size of pikes—yet I don’t hear scholars insisting they hosted annual regattas.

Extinction and exaggeration are twin parasites on the spine of historical truth.

And, of course, there is the “wyverns can speak” fallacy.  

Ah yes. The old “Witz could talk” fable.

Let me be clear: I have met wyverns. I have observed their behaviour. I have listened to their so-called ‘language’. What passes for wyvern speech is nothing more than melodic mimicry—a glorified parrot with ambition.

“Oh,” cry the mystics, “but they sing in harmony and understand politics!”

Nonsense.

You can train a crow to answer questions. You can teach a hound to fetch your slippers when you mention the King. This is not sentience—it is conditioned response, and should not be confused with reason.

If your wyvern tells you the harvest will fail, it is not prophecy—it is indigestion.

The modern obsession with treating wyverns as equals is not only laughable, but dangerous. They are apex predators with mood disorders, capable of tearing a grown man in half and sulking about it.

Their so-called psychic powers? Overblown. Manipulating emotions? Half the court’s concubines can do that with a raised eyebrow. Projecting thoughts? If you hear a wyvern’s voice in your head, seek medical attention. Quickly.

These creatures are not wise, ancient beings. They are beasts—clever, yes, but no more deserving of reverence than a well-trained horse or an unusually punctual goat.

If you must honour the wyvern, do so properly: mounted, taxidermied, and mute. A fine specimen above the hearth of a hunting lodge? Excellent. A trained wyvern on the battlefield? Impressive, if cruel.

But do not dress them in royal brocade and pretend they whisper strategy into the ears of kings. Do not pen sagas in which they cry crystal tears over the fate of empires. And do not, under any circumstance, let your children believe that a man once soared through the heavens on the back of a beast with the mind of a philosopher and the wings of a curtain.

Wyvern riders are a myth.
Wyvern speech is mimicry.
Wyvern sentience is fiction.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have real work to do—cataloguing the mating calls of the south-coast swamp drakes, who at least have the decency not to pretend they understand tax reform.

Yours with dwindling hope,

Gellin Drouth

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