The wind screamed through the blackened spires of Mount Varthagal, where the bones of forgotten kings lay scattered like broken swords. The air reeked of sulfur and old blood, and the sky wept ash upon the war-band of Jorund Black-Spine as they climbed the Stair of Woe, their boots crunching on the scorched remnants of those who had come before.
Their leader, Thrain Iron-Tongue, raised his notched greatsword—Frostbane, forged in the heart of a dying star—and bellowed a challenge into the howling dark.
"Come forth, worm! Face the judgment of men!"
And the mountain answered.
A sound like the splitting of the world shuddered through the stone—a deep, resonant groan that shook the marrow in their bones. Then came the voice, slow as grinding glaciers, ancient as the roots of the earth:
"You… stinking… maggots."
The dragon unfolded from the shadows, its scales blackened and cracked like old armor, its wings stretched taut over the ruins of its nest. One golden eye, slit like a dagger wound, fixed upon them. The other was a ruined socket, weeping thick, smoking ichor.
Renlyth, the scholar-squire, clutched his amulet of Kyne. "By the Nine… it’s dying."
The beast’s breath hitched—a wet, rattling sound deep in its chest—before it coughed a gout of sputtering flame that barely cleared its jaws. The warriors flinched, but the fire died in midair, dissolving into acrid smoke.
"You… persistent lice," the dragon wheezed, its voice a landslide of scorn and exhaustion. "You burn your fields… poison your rivers… and now you come to slay me… for daring to choke on your filth?"
Thrain hesitated, Frostbane trembling in his grip.
Then Renlyth saw it—beneath the wyrm’s talons, half-buried in the cinders: an egg, its shell veined with faint, dying embers.
The dragon followed his gaze and let out a sound that was neither roar nor growl, but something worse—a laugh, broken and hollow.
"Yes, little thief. Look upon the last… and tell your songs… how brave you were… to slaughter it."
The wind moaned through the ruins. Somewhere far below, a river of fire guttered out.
And Thrain Iron-Tongue, slayer of the Frost Giants of Drangheim, did something then that no saga would ever recount—he lowered his sword.
"…We are done here."
The dragon’s eye closed. "No. You are only… beginning."
And as the war-band descended the Stair of Woe in silence, the last wyrm of Varthagal curled around its dead hope… and waited for the dark.
~ FIN ~
Lore Addendum (For True Nords & Lore-Nerds)
Mount Varthagal: "Dread-Peak" in the dragon-tongue, where the first and last of the fire-drakes took refuge when men began to burn the world.
Frostbane: A blade said to be quenched in the tears of a Snow Elf princess (or possibly just really cold ore).
The Stair of Woe: Carved from the spine of a fallen Titan during the Ehlnofey Wars. Now mostly used for dramatic entrances/exits.
Dragon’s Last Words: Optional. Can also be replaced with "Fus-Ro-Damn-You-All" if you’re feeling cheeky.
Moral: Sometimes, the real dragon was the environmental damage we caused along the way. 🌍🔥