Chapter what? (Part 1)

Completely out of order, but at this point I don't care. 

Background info: 
Estelle, the evil queen of Tek, crashed a party and then made everyone inside Delmar Castle fall asleep with magic. Among the snoring is Princess Philia, Alva's close friend. Alva (the main character, durr) and her friend Graff (a dwarf who hasn't met many humans) want to break the spell on Delmar, and they have NO CLUE what they're doing. So they took a dragon to the castle to see what's crack-a-lacking. 

[AN: This opening is so laaaaame!] Alva had been riding dragons for over ten years, but she nearly toppled off the saddle and fell 500 feet to land in a wheat field when she saw the state of Delmar. Graff tightened his grip around her waist, he saw it too; a mass of green clawing up the outer curtain wall of the castle, thorny vines and tendrils wrapping around buttresses and reaching up, up, up to the battlement and watchtowers, choking the gateways and moat. A black wound scorched the south-east wall, a dozen cottages were nothing but burned out shells. The streets and squares were empty, motionless, no one hurrying and jostling and shouting in the market. Graff saw it and he didn't, he didn't see it with Alva's eyes, who had gone to school on State Street and sat in a crowded stand at tournaments and loitered with other bucket-laden young women at the well. She woke up every morning to clean, white, limestone towers sparkling above a bustling city, she spilled cake on her skirt at a birthday party with laughter and flushed cheeks. How could it change so drastically in less than three months?

They began their descent; Graff squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in Alva's hair. The dwarf still couldn't stomach heights, the downward tilt and sharp banking did unspeakable things to his digestive system. Peaches touched down in Lower Delmar, in the widest street leading up to the East Gate. He flapped his wings madly to break speed, knocking over flowerpots and banging into lampposts, his claws slid over the slick cobblestones, still damp from the morning fog. Once halted, Peaches folded his wings indignantly, shaking his tail like an angry house cat.

Alva hopped down expertly and immediately began peeling off layers of warm riding gear. She didn't look back to see if Graff needed help dismounting, which he did. Just as Graff was preparing to slide out of the saddle, Peaches abruptly sat up on his haunches and sent his passenger tumbling backwards to land gracelessly on his rear. The string of verbal abuse directed at her favorite dragon didn't register in Alva's mind, she stood frozen, gazing dumbly at the barbican. It was overgrown like the rest of the castle fortifications, covered in dark tangles of vines with thorns inches long. The vegetation clogged the tunnel leading through the gatehouse, it wound around the portcullis, and worse... it moved? Alva rubbed her eyes, but yes, the snaking vines were moving at a pace uncommon for plant life. Slowly, but enough to give the writhing appearance of being very alive and very dangerous.

“Is that the front door?” Graff's voice was muffled behind his scarf, “through that mess?”

Alva nodded resolutely, more confident than she felt, “There's no room for Peaches to land in a courtyard, and the other gates are completely buried in weeds. This is the biggest entryway, so it's our best bet.”

Graff located his morning star, a type of mace, among the saddlebags and pulled it out, swinging it experimentally. “I hoped its first taste of battle would be of troll or goblin blood, but vegetable juice will have to do.” Its stout wooden shaft was four feet long, nearly as tall as Graff, ending in an iron head boasting twelve deadly spikes. A metal pommel, reinforcing bands, and runes carved around the handle gave it the appearance of being decorative as well as painfully functional. It was a gift from his father, Khor, to aid him on his first adventure. [AN: That will probs be explained earlier in the story]

The task of unloading Peaches was made all the more wearisome by his uncooperative nature. He refused to stand still while they emptied the saddlebags, and then plopped on his belly when Alva attempted to loosen the straps of his harness and saddle. Alva, already short of patience, kicked the stubborn beast in the side, leaving a scuff mark on his scales but no injury. Peaches looked at his mistress with eyes full of reproach, but didn't budge an inch.

A gravelly shout interrupted them; a grizzled old man rushed toward them, hollering and waving an impressive pair of pruning sheers above his gray head. “Hey you!” he bellowed, shaking a bony fist at Graff and Alva, who gawked incredulously at the elderly man. “Get out of here, thieves! Looters! Hooligans!” He berated them with orders to “scram” yowled with all the force his lungs could muster as compensation for the somewhat laggard pace that the distance between them was shrinking, thanks to a limp acquired decades ago.

Graff placed himself protectively in front of his friend and raised his mace, but Alva tugged on his arm to hold him back even as her own hand drifted to the knife sheathed at her waist. “We're not thieves!” Alva yelled, “we're friendly!”

Their assailant hobbled to a stop, cupping one ear but still brandishing the long handled shears, regarding them with a mistrusting squint: “eh, what's that you say?”

“We're friendly!” Alva and Graff roared, displaying empty palms (although Graff kept a tight hold of his morning star behind his back).

With this information conveyed at the correct decibels, the old man's face unfolded like pastry dough into a delighted smile. “Well why didn't you say so? Young 'uns these days, always mumbling, never speak up.” He shuffled forward with weapon lowered, extending a hand in greeting. “Elias Weatherby, how d'ye do?” Prickly runners were latched onto the rough fabric of his work-clothes, twigs and leaves peppered his head and shoulders, casualties from a battle with the mysterious greenery.

The dwarf warmly clasped hands with the stranger, eager to meet another human, which were something of a rarity to him. “It is good to meet you, madam,” he said, “I am Graff of the Aurumite, son of Queen Haltak, daughter of Tola the Strong, daughter of Ruhe the Goblin Slayer, daughter of – ” 

“And I'm Alva Drake!” Graff's lengthy recitation of his illustrious ancestry was cut short by his impatient friend, “Nice to meet you. How do we get in the castle?”

Mr. Weatherby clucked despondently, “oh no no, can't be done.” He shook his head, “the weeds would tear you to pieces, and supposing you did make it inside, the ghosts would do a pretty quick job of convincing you to turn back around.”

Graff forced down a lump in his throat. “G-ghosts?” he stammered.

Alva crossed her arms, “Ghosts, huh? Doesn't matter. We're still going in. Will you help us?”

“Well...” the old man scratched the white stubble on his chin, the grime under his fingernails was stained green. He eyed the large, spiked mace the dwarf carried and the dragon idly flicking his tail. “I can see you're a determined young lady, so I'll help best I can, but have a cup of tea first! We don't get many visitors these days, and you travelers look like you need a rest.”

Leaning closer to Alva, Graff whispered, “I've never had tea before.”

*************

Hunched over Mr. Weatherby's plain kitchen table, a steaming mug of black tea warming her hands, Alva couldn't keep her mouth shut. Questions burst out like water under pressure: Did he see what happened that night? Was he the only one living in Delmar? What were those plants? Were the victims of the spell safe as they slept?

Old Man Weatherby responded with a query of his own, “shouldn't that dragon be on a leash? It will dig up my petunias!”

While Alva reassured their host that his annuals were safe, Graff inspected the flavored water in his cup with suspicion. He dipped one finger and licked a drop off it; it did not meet his approval. “Is all man-drink so weak? This 'tea' has no fire in it!” Mr. Weatherby offered him sugar and apologized for having no cream.

Alva sipped her own tea contentedly, “It's not alcohol, Graff, just leaf-water.”

Non-alcoholic beverages were an entirely new concept to the dwarf, as were human-sized chairs – he swung his feet several inches above the floorboards and dumped a generous spoonful of sugar into his drink.

Mr. Weatherby was reluctant to discuss the pressing issue of an entire city sleeping soundly under a spell. He dodged Alva's questions, abruptly changing the subject to complain about the weather or tell stories about his numerous grandchildren.

Graff, meanwhile, examined his surroundings. A toddler's high chair in the corner, a frilly apron on a hook, and footwear of various sizes piled next to the door suggested the old man shared his house with others. Graff listened for those feet, big and small, pattering about upstairs. He was accustomed to being surrounded by the muffled sounds of people, having grown up in systems of caves filled with other dwarves breathing, talking, and occupying space. He was never truly alone in the dwarf hills, around a bend in the tunnel or behind a few feet of rock there was the constant clinking of pickaxes striking stone, the indistinct murmur of distant conversation, and sometimes a low song reverberating through the mountain. There was only silence behind the thin wood walls of Mr. Weatherby's house, and Graff heard it clearer and louder than a chilling scream.

“Is your family sleeping, Mrs. Weatherby?”

The old man broke off from listing his oldest grandson's many accomplishments, most impressive of which was mastering the complicated task of shoe lace tying before he was five, and tapped his earlobe, “What's that you say?”

Alva lashed out with her foot under the table, bruising Graff's shin, and raised her voice, “Mister Weatherby, your kids are asleep, aren't they? And your grandkids?”

He folded his hands on the tabletop and examined the wrinkles and liver spots on them, his head bowed. “Yes,” he admitted softly, “they're all in the castle.”

“I'm going to wake them up,” Alva said, “please, just tell me what you know.”

Mr. Weatherby chortled humorlessly, “it's impossible, you can't. We already tried.”

“We'll do it,” Graff declared, “even if we must kill the witch who did this thing.”

“Very well,” he nodded slowly, “no harm in trying, eh?”

**********

Aaaaaand that's all for now, folks! I have another page written, but I keep retyping it because it sucks like a hoover vacuum. It's spring break now, so theoretically I have time to write more. Maybe you can expect updates soon??? (hahahahaa no don't believe me I lie.)