Fateful Wing

The wind was cold; cold to the winter, cold to the ice, cold to the storm, cold to the raging sea. Through the blister, a dark and swift form could be seen, racing fast as black starlight. Coming in quick ascent up the snaking path, the ocean’s mighty slaps roaring against the mountain slope and spilling across the white coated pass a shadowy equestrian sped, both steed and rider bearing the crest of Balara, and to the Dragon’s Keep rode.

Far along the snaking path, high into the rock and cloud and deep into the craggy depths of the alpine peak a beast did rumble. In wakeful rest a Dragon waited, keen to the approaching gallop of yet another eager subjugator, and from the conjure of it’s inner wing the Dragon watched in soothsaying vision, what fate was being brought upon it’s step. In moment’s time, to the earth, its head laid down, and listened longer to the distant hooves, pounding ever closer to it’s door.

The Dragon longed to dream one last dream, and the equestrian neared faster still.

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