Lennithon… I still think about that battle in the village. I still remember the dragon’s soul-piercing roar. Suddenly I was a child again, unable to hear for the screams, lungs filled with smoke and running between burning buildings.
It took all my effort just to stay in the keep. I wanted to not find a dark closet or a well to hide in until it was over.
Back in the monastery, I was drawn to the study of dragons, as if by an unseen power. I poured over the ancient texts, the historical documents, the anatomical drawings. The language of dragons came to me naturally, much more more easily than Elvish or Dwarven.
Most of the other monks interpreted my interest as desire for vengeance and some even discouraged me from my studies. I admit that revenge for my family and my village is still always on the horizon of my thoughts, like a dark storm I carry in my mind, but it always felt like there was something more to my studies. Dragons seemed…right…somehow.
Looking back on their reactions, I now realize that perhaps the monks were trying to discourage me from discovering our monastery’s horrible secret. Our ties to the Cult of the Dragon.
Lennithon was my first encounter with a dragon since I was a child. Magnificent and sublime, it bent the elements to its will. Somehow, with my knowledge and my anger, I thought I would be more prepared. Again, I learn the lesson that knowing can never truly prepare you for doing.
And now Tiamat, the Queen of the Dragons, the worst dragon of all, is returning. Motherfucker. I had better be ready.