DWARVES

  A dwarf, a respected and renowned professor of runes, begins to speak.

  “The dragon descends into the chasm... I saw it in my visions! It comes to destroy us!” growls Durgil the Sage, an imposing figure despite his advanced age, his runic hammer always within arm’s reach.

  Others nod solemnly, their expressions grim. For them, it’s a certainty: the dragon, that titanic guardian, is awakening. Perhaps it’s enraged. Perhaps it has been wounded by something monstrous.

  But there are dissenters among the elders. And among the gathered, there are young dwarves whose minds aren’t yet constrained by centuries spent underground.

  “No!” booms a deep voice. Thorvak Bloodrune, renowned for his pragmatism and skepticism of legends, counters. “It was a battle! Something came to challenge the dragon! Those shocks... those explosions... they aren’t the work of its anger but of an enemy! Perhaps giants, or worse yet... beings from the skies.”

  His accusation carries weight. The “beings from the skies,” entities from the stars, are a myth to some, an ancient fear to others. The tales speak of colossal machines, lightning capable of cleaving stone, and soulless entities that plunder the world’s treasures to fuel their insatiable greed. Thorvak doesn’t fully believe his own words, but something caused this cataclysm, and he refuses to blame the dragon outright.

  “If the dragon wanted us dead,” he continues, “it would already be here, ravaging the depths. The farmers would have seen its shadow soaring above the chasm, and its fire would have immortalized its image in their minds, even in the realm of the dead. But no. All they saw were stars of fire crashing into the lake and forest. Some fragments even fell into the chasm.”

  The chasm—an unfathomable abyss stretching east of the lake—houses the dwarven citadels and most of their fields. The forest above is the dragon’s domain; no significant expedition has dared venture there in centuries.

  Since the cataclysm, rumors have spread among the miners. Some claim to have heard an earth-shaking roar, a cry that made the very stone tremble. Others swear they saw the light of a fire rising from the depths, briefly illuminating the caverns as if a volcano had awakened. Whispers of veins of magic escaping the earth, shocks pulverizing rock, and walls trembling have reached every corner of the kingdom.

  In this chaos, the elders seek answers. The council gathers around Durgil and Thorvak, while messengers traverse the galleries to report on the collapses.

  Factions form among the dwarves, each with its own version of the truth. No consensus emerges, and tensions run high.

  The dwarves gathered around the council table could barely contain their divided opinions. Each faction championed its own truth, its own explanation for the cataclysm and the rumbling signs of disaster.

  For Durgil and those who revered the ancient prophecies, there was no doubt. “The dragon has been awakened by the cataclysm,” he insisted, his voice resonating through the chamber. “It is enraged, furious at the intrusion of some foreign force into its sacred territory. Mark my words—it won’t be long before it descends into the depths to annihilate us all.” Durgil’s fiery gaze swept across the room. “The humans of the North, greedy and reckless, have stirred its wrath!”

  Thorvak, ever the pragmatist, slammed his fist on the stone table. “No! What you speak of is fear, not reason. This was a battle! Something challenged the dragon! Those explosions, those tremors—they were not its anger, but the result of an enemy striking from the skies.” His words carried the weight of his suspicion. “Perhaps it was the beings of the heavens, those entities from the stars. We’ve all heard the tales of their colossal machines and lightning that cleaves stone. They would dare to face the guardian of this land, and their struggle could tear through even our halls.”

  Thorvak’s words brought murmurs of uncertainty. The “beings of the skies” were myths to some, nightmares to others. Yet the miners’ accounts of flaming stars falling into the lake and forest lent his theory a shadow of plausibility.

  In the dim torchlight, another elder whispered grimly, “Perhaps something worse has occurred. Perhaps the cataclysm opened long-forgotten passages. Ancient horrors, sealed for millennia, may now walk free.” The room fell silent at these words, each dwarf imagining the terrors that might crawl out of the depths—shadows of forgotten ages, eager to reclaim their dominion.

  Yet the silence did not last. Accusations flew, voices clashed, and the council teetered on the brink of chaos. Tensions escalate, voices clash, and some nearly come to blows.

  The king, seated at the head of the table, observed this pitiful display with weary eyes. His kingdom was on the verge of collapse—hundreds dead, the citadels trembling—and his advisors did nothing but bicker.

  “Enough!” the king finally bellows, his voice cutting through the clamor like a blade. “Durgil. Thorvak. Gather your wits and your facts. If we are to act, we must act decisively and united. Now is not the time for petty squabbles or conjecture.”

  The council falls silent. Even Durgil and Thorvak exchange begrudging nods. For now, the factions remain, but the king’s authority binds them. The first step must be taken: to determine the nature of the threat, be it dragon, sky-beings, or ancient horrors—and to decide whether to face it or flee deeper into the earth.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MOUNTAINS

  The human oracles, scattered across their sanctuaries, had also perceived the echoes of the cataclysm. Confused visions, troubled by a blood-red light, came to them during the events. They spoke of the sky’s fury, a storm of fire and destruction, and the cry of an immense creature that resonated within their very souls.

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  Vixius, a young apprentice of the Inquisition, witnessed this rain of fire from the mountains, perched in the immense citadel of Kor Morne. He saw the sky break at twilight, the clouds parting, and the luminous bands trembling. Then, an immense metallic creature, reminiscent of the relics he had seen in the ruined lands of Holkomin but a hundred times larger, emerged from the heavens.

  BENAMIRE, ELBAK HUMAN KINGDOM

  In an inn in Benamire, the conversations are lively; here, everyone saw the rain of fire. On the frontlines are the hunters, robust men living on the forest and mountain periphery, the few who dare approach the dragon’s lands. They venture there only to track rare prey or gather precious plants, despite the risks of encountering the legendary creature.

  A wiry-bearded old man, known as Dornal the Tracker, recounts his tale:

  “I saw it. I was in the undergrowth near the cliff when the sky opened. A rain of fire fell, burning everything in its path. The trees were ablaze, and the ground itself began to quake. Then I looked up, and there, in the midst of all that chaos… the dragon.”

  His hands tremble as he recalls the scene.

  “It screamed. Not in rage, but… in pain. Flames poured from its jaws, but not to destroy. No. It flew, pierced by shards of metal—pieces of something, I don’t know what, that had fallen from the sky. It dove toward the lake… and, by the gods, I saw it pour tons of water onto the forest. Not for itself. To protect it.”

  Everyone listens intently to ol'Dornal, though some cast him strange glances. Feeling uneasy, he sits back down, clutching his mug, waiting for the conversations to resume. A few unsavory-looking men have noticed him.

  “What do these bastards want with me?” he wonders, his unease growing.

  Maybe he should have shut up.

  News travels through the kingdom of Elbak as swiftly as the wind. In the taverns of towns and the gilded halls of castles, one topic dominates conversations: the rain of fire. In the South, everyone felt it—the shockwave—but even in the North, closing shutters or watching as the luminous bands gave way to auroras, it was hard to miss the cataclysm, no matter how fleetingly bright it was. Yet, it’s not the fiery spectacle that ignites the imagination of the powerful and the ambitious. No, it’s the rumor of a weakened dragon.

  Whatever occurred, the dragon is undeniably tied to it. Tales from hunters venturing into the forest have already begun to reach the capital. In just one day, the nobles are abuzz with excitement, soldiers grow eager, and peasants dream of ambition.

  Rumors spread, fueling imaginations, ambitions, and fears.

  Hunters brave enough to venture into the Fissure Forest return to Ferdesang, the capital, with fabulous accounts. They speak of burning fragments crashing to the earth, forcing the dragon to its knees. They whisper that the once-invincible creature was pierced, its flesh exposed, its scales shattered. That it exhausted itself combating this invasion and now lies weakened.

  These stories quickly reach the ears of nobles and warlords. A wounded dragon. The very words carry a promise of opportunity. A weakened dragon is far more than a mere trophy; it’s a living treasure, a source of unparalleled power.

  The Council of King Aldrik

  Atop one of the three Black Mountains of Ferdesang, in the imposing hall of the royal castle, King Aldrik of Fersang, ruler of Elbak, convenes his council. The nobles flock to the chamber, armed with rumors and schemes, each eager to exploit the situation. A man, Dornal, has been brought before the king. He spoke with fear but conviction.

  His eyes were sincere, and his fear of the king far exceeded what he’d witnessed. He recounted everything to Aldrik—the cataclysm, the wounded dragon, and even the creature’s location, a secret long guarded by hunters.

  The king, a massive figure known for his iron will and thirst for conquest, listens intently. Now, back in the council chamber, his dark eyes scrutinize every advisor who dares speak, weighing the merit of their proposals.

  “Your Majesty, we cannot let this opportunity pass!” declares Count Soccro, a battle-hardened veteran. “A weakened dragon is a vulnerable dragon. Imagine what we could accomplish with such power! Its scales, its bones, its breath… Alchemists and smiths could transform its remains into weapons capable of crushing our enemies for generations.”

  The council murmurs in approval. But a calmer, more calculated voice rises—that of Magistrice Yvanna, a renowned mage celebrated for her mastery of the arcane.

  “Soccro, you are blinded by your thirst for war. A dragon, even wounded, remains a force beyond our comprehension. If we capture it alive, its secrets could surpass all expectations. Imagine the knowledge it holds, the magic coursing through its veins. That is the true treasure.”

  The king chuckles inwardly. This woman is mad—capture a living dragon, an ancient being? How would one control it, feed it—even clean the mountains of waste and shit it must produce? It’s ludicrous.

  But he says nothing publicly. He has an image to maintain, and Yvanna’s connections to the Inquisition make her a dangerous ally to alienate.

  The kingdom’s elite see opportunity in this event, but each through their own lens. For Aldrik, this is his chance to be the king who slew the dragon, creating powerful relics to sustain his dynasty for centuries. Others, like Count Soccro, envision expansion—slaying the dragon would secure the forest and its riches, extending the kingdom’s reach and establishing a frontier near the dwarves’ lands.

  In the end, each noble has their agenda. For Aldrik, everyone is both a potential ally and a rival. After hours of deliberation, the king rises, imposing silence. His voice resonates through the hall.

  “We have all heard the rumors. A wounded dragon, a rain of fire… It is clear something extraordinary has occurred in the Fissure Forest. We cannot remain idle.”

  He pauses, his gaze piercing through the chamber.

  “We will send an expedition. Not an army, but a chosen force: warriors, hunters, and our best mages. Their mission will be to assess the situation and secure what can be secured. But mark my words: we do not act rashly. If this dragon can still fight, we must be prepared.”

  The next day, the plan takes shape. The king’s emissaries notify military leaders and post announcements across the capital and forest towns. Adventurers above a certain rank are conscripted.

  Drums echo through the Black Mountain valleys as soldiers, mages, and hunters assemble. The king dispatches an elite force led by Captain Eldan Rochefer, a veteran renowned for his cunning and composure—a loyal man to Aldrik. Magistrice Yvanna accompanies the expedition, much to the king’s dismay, her scrolls and relics in hand, ready to analyze whatever they find.

  Guiding the group are hunters familiar with the forest. Among them is Dornal the Tracker, the old man who saw the dragon extinguish flames with lake water. He murmurs to his companions, ever talkative despite his forced audience with the king:

  “You’ve never seen a beast like this. Trust me, if it’s still alive, wounded or not, it could kill us all in an instant. If you ask me, we’d be better off leaving that guardian in peace.”

  But his warning falls on ears too greedy or too ambitious to heed it. And he follows, for he has no choice, though a part of him believes that if this venture succeeds, he will have played a part in it.