Traveller's Tales I: Death of a Dragon

As a bard it is often necessary for me to add colour to a story as I tell it, increasing the height of a certain foe by five feet, or gifting the hero with a magical sword. Yet this story requires no additions from me, and so I only need beg your imaginations to piece out the imperfections and to conjure from the page the bitter chill of the air, the crunch of new fallen snow, and, of course, the dragon.

Picture now a mountain shaped by Auril's touch, and with her blessing heavy upon it. Her creations stand opposed to the party, which now begins the climb. Lord Trintiren and Nightshade led the way, dragon-blooded bladesinger and enchantress, with Elric, warrior-mage, following (if his part in this tale seems a little smaller than those of the others, do not think it is for some personal slight, but because the prospect of his wedding day engendered a certain amount of caution in him).

Through the Frostmaiden's lesser creatures see them pass with ease, demonstrating halberd sweeps and incantations, until a roar is heard. All turn serious, and with hurried chants extra wards are raised. Feel the cloying stickiness of the air around you, the twinges in your muscles as they are infused with strength and see the glint of an eye, filled with a malice brewed over the centuries, high on the mountain ahead of you.

Suddenly there are two dragons, and the newly formed red tears at the white as, beneath both, the draconic elf waves and dodges sprays of black blood to make his own incisions in the dragon's hide. Behind them Elric draws on the weave to send threads of fire arcing into the white dragon, searing scale and flesh alike, and Nightshade's absence gives the true identity of the new dragon.

A single claw sweep ends it, as the throat of Auril's servant is torn out and it falls, cold blood flowing out onto the snow. Tiny crystals form, obsidian black, as the frostmaiden reaches out to embrace the dragon. The snow continues to fall, the adventurers move on, and soon there will be no sign that battle was ever fought on the top of that mountain.

(A small plate in the back of the book) If you would like YOUR deeds to be recorded for posterity, seek out Rhianne, the elven bard, and YOU could be the star of the next "Traveller's Tales."

*There is a picture of a slight elf with red hair wearing a grey dress and dark blue cloak, lyre in hand, following a group of indistinct adventurers*