Rotwing, the Perceptive

Undeath has plagued Arelith since the first settlers. It took root in our heartfelt need to mourn the dead, embedding itself in graveyards. None more haunted than Cordor's.

Cordor's graveyard teems with cultists and fanatics, with curses and monstrosities. And there, lurking among them, lies our story.

In the age of Sarog Pethanos, the famed priest of Velsharoon known as the Harbinger, the island languished beneath his cold and wretched grasp. His influence crept through the shadows, unseen yet unrelenting.

It is said that a white dragon came to him in desperation. Its name now lost to time. The creature begged the vile priest for power, and Sarog obliged. A pact was forged, service in exchange for power everlasting.

In the bowels of the Cordor crypts, a ritual was conceived. The wicked Church of Velsharoon gathered, and with foul sorcery they twisted the dragon into an abomination. A heavy fog, like no other, filled the chamber. The dragon's scales peeled and rotted as it writhed in agony; its screams echoed through the stone to torment mourners above.

The dragon's soul was bound into a relic, which the Church hid deep among the dead of the graveyard. From that cruel rite, he was reborn as Rotwing.

In his pursuit of power, he is said to have turned to divination, seeking answers in the ancient past. From the rolling, magic-laden fog, he stalked mourners and wanderers alike. Those he deemed worthy were taken for their eyes, the windows through which he sought to see beyond mortal knowing.

Deep within the crypts lies a hoard of preserved eyes, unblinking and ever watching, guarded by a rotting dragon.

Even in death, he does not rest; his bones knit anew within the mist, cursed to rise again and again. So when the fog stings your eyes along the edges of Cordor's graveyard, take heed; it may be Rotwing, watching, waiting, ready to strike.

[Based on a true story! Written by Marlo Fenwick Starmere of the Ruckus Troupe]