Rotclore lay still in a cave beneath the Himalayas, his last thoughts rolling through his aged mind. It was long since he last flew or breathed fire and many of his teeth had fallen out, while his famous red claws were now blunt and split.
It was at least a hundred years since he had last seen a fellow dragon and not a lot less since he had taken refuge here under the great mountains of Central Asia.
In his life Rotclore had seen many major events in the history of dragons and of men. More than a few times he had fought with men and had helped in other ways, too.
Until the time came when magic began to drift from the minds of men and dragons became mistrusted and then hunted with great ferocity.
And thus, burned and with a diamond-tipped arrow in his hide, Rotclore flew east, away from those who had turned against him. Always he had regretted and wondered if he could have helped the rest of his kind. But his mother had bid her son, much faster (and weaker) than most, to flee in such a way that Rotclore knew he could not refuse.
And so he flew east with the three eggs hoping to keep them safe, hoping to be joined by another dragon some day, or to find a wizard to hatch them. But finding only safety, Rotclore had finally come to the end of the line and passed on without fanfare.
It was at least a hundred years since he had last seen a fellow dragon and not a lot less since he had taken refuge here under the great mountains of Central Asia.
In his life Rotclore had seen many major events in the history of dragons and of men. More than a few times he had fought with men and had helped in other ways, too.
Until the time came when magic began to drift from the minds of men and dragons became mistrusted and then hunted with great ferocity.
And thus, burned and with a diamond-tipped arrow in his hide, Rotclore flew east, away from those who had turned against him. Always he had regretted and wondered if he could have helped the rest of his kind. But his mother had bid her son, much faster (and weaker) than most, to flee in such a way that Rotclore knew he could not refuse.
And so he flew east with the three eggs hoping to keep them safe, hoping to be joined by another dragon some day, or to find a wizard to hatch them. But finding only safety, Rotclore had finally come to the end of the line and passed on without fanfare.
No comments:
Post a Comment