There once lived a dragon named Deathwing.
Well, at least that’s what they called him. Deathwing was growing old, far too old for his liking. The joints of his claws ached and groaned under his ever-growing weight and his scales were beginning to lose their amber luster. As one of the most ancient and experienced of the dragons, Deathwing pioneered the ability to shape-shift and masquerade in the form of humans for those dragons who wished to learn. Thus, Deathwing spent much of his time as a spindly old man. Even with the visible age in his human form, he much preferred the lightness and dexterity afforded to him by his newly opposable thumbs and nimble hands.
For hundreds of years, Deathwing traveled all the world as this small, wispy-haired man. He found his new form extraordinarily conducive to hobbies and trades. Knitting was what inspired awe and passion in Deathwing, for creation with such intense beauty at such a small scale was previously an unknowable thing to him. Centuries of knitting and embroidery created a master out of him. His complex and aweinspiring creations catapulted him to the status of one of the most coveted tradesmen in the known world. Deathwing learned of all the most major markets and received offers of exorbitant commissions, secretly traveling close to them in the form of a dragon and appearing to the humans as the man who called himself “Laurence the Weaver.” He’d not missed a single opportunity to create and sell in centuries, on account of his shape-shifting, and been paid a king’s ransom in return.
His cave was alight from the glimmer of a thousand jewels shimmering from the first morning sun. A thick steam rose from the dragon’s gaping nostrils, as steady streams of clouds drifted to the top of the cavern. Beneath the massive amalgamation of scales lay a treasure worthy of only the most opulent of rulers. Rubies, diamonds, and gold pieces from every era of the last millennium adorned the walls and floors of the dragon’s home.
His eyes, brighter than any of the gemstones he hoarded in this cave of his, fluttered awake and fixated their piercing gaze on the cave’s entrance. He felt it. What was once a minuscule vibration in the mountain’s stone had turned to a steady shake only perceptible to those in-tune with the Earth’s most silent songs. The approach of a human was inevitable. He let out a deep grunt and snaked his bronze tail out from a massive deposit of gold coins behind him. The dragon curled himself into a ball, now a massive egg lying dormant in the remaining darkness, and contemplated. He would not be the first dragon to face this human.
Bryngel the Healer was a dragon of nine hundred years, a studious and empathetic spirit that appeared to most as a fragile woman capable of no harm. Every major medical and apothecary advancement of the last century could be traced almost solely back to her. Aside from her retreat atop
