2022-09-22 Of Dragons And Prophecies - Wik

"Cechec? What about gold dragons, comrade? Where do they like to live?" Mr. Castiron, the goliath, eyes me up and down as we walk up the mountain, following the map that Ms. Èirigh holds aloft, checking it as we reach a fork or a twist.

"Ruins, lakes, rivers. Anywhere, really. Some even make their home amongst the people, changing their shape to look like you or I."

Derthaad, the blue dragonborn sorcerer, looks me over as I speak, and I watch him from the corner of my eye. He's a suspicious one, isn't he. And a member of the Watch, at that. I wonder if he's heard of any of my- He nods, returns his eyes to the trail. None of us are sure about gemstone dragons - of us, only Ms. Èirigh had visited before. But the crystalline structures that dot the sides of the trail as we continue our hike inform us that we are in the right place.

•••

More undead. Keep a straight face, remember, you haven't seen this before. I turn to peer into the opening to the tunnel as the others inspect the body they have pulled from the landslide. A green dragonborn this time, dressed in the robes of a follower of Tiamat from Kundar. One of those called away, then.

"What should we do with the body? Keep it? Or burn it?" one of the others asks. Damn. No potions of Fire Breathing on me. Stay calm...

"We should burn it. Here, allow me..." Ms. Èirigh kneels down, and with a flash of light, the remains begin to burn.

•••

The wind whistles past the hole in the crystal barrier separating the cave entrance from the rest of the mountaintop. Each gust tugs at the robes of the two figures that lay dead on the other side - kobolds, both of them, a black one in the robes of Tiamat and a gold one in the robes of Bahamut.

There's very little of them that can be sent back, but Ms. Èirigh and Derthaad try their best regardless. A few holy symbols are tucked away to return to their respective temples, but there is nothing more to send: just torn garments and burnt flesh.

•••

"How... dare... you... attack... a Herald..." The figure growls, the geode that it holds in its hand glowing and pulsing as it draws more and more shimmering light from the gargantuan dragon behind it. Its free hand rises up, a withered finger pointing at Ms. Èirigh as it begins to glow a sickly green. A bolt arcs out towards the source of the tidal wave, narrowly missing her braced form. The figure howls, turning to the rest of its undead cohort.

"Tear... them... apart..."

•••

The dust of the undead coats the floor of Grougaloragran's lair. The only record of the fight is the charred black scar that cracks across the ceiling: the flaming black visage that sprouted from the undead figure as Mr. Castiron crushed it into the ground.

Grougaloragran is stretched out on a dais. The radiant light within him beats very slowly. Ms. Èirigh runs to pick up the geode, climbing up the crystals that line the pedestal.

They speak, the frantic murmuring of the living no match for the relentless march of time and the inevitability of all things to return to the cosmos from which they originate. I cannot make out the words, but I can assume what they are.

Grougaloragran lifts his head, the great pride of ancient dragons clear on his face, and it is done. Starting at his edges, he begins to shimmer and change. Scales turn to crystal, and as the light that shimmers within him begins to fade and die, the transformation is complete. Shimmering opalescent crystal stands where before there was only a gemstone scaled beast.

And then it shatters.