The Riders of the Green Dragon

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Evening fell over the mountain ranges of Gorgath, where the rocky pinnacles jutted into the sky like teeth. Clouds hung heavy over the peaks, illuminated by the light of the setting sun as if shot through with fire. Two old gnomes rode along a narrow, windswept ridge, their tall, pointed caps flapping like banners in the storm. Beneath them stretched the back of a being more legend than flesh: Skarlath, the Mossborn, a dragon as old as the mountains themselves. His scales gleamed with a green shimmer, crisscrossed with veins of bronze and gray stone. Living moss sprouted between the slabs, as if he wore a piece of the forest on his body. Each of his steps made the earth tremble, yet he moved with the lithe calm of one who knew that even the rocks would yield to him. His eyes glowed a deep red, alert, watchful, and filled with ancient intelligence. The two brothers on his back—Thargrim and Eldran—had traveled far. Thargrim, the elder, with a beard so long it reached below his belt, carried a lance inscribed with silver runes. Eldran, thinner and more taciturn, held a spear whose tip still bore traces of fire. Both looked like warriors from a forgotten age, their clothing rugged and scarred by past battles. "The air smells of rain," said Thargrim, raising his head. The fine lines around his eyes spoke of years of battles and wanderings. "The skies are preparing for a storm." Eldran nodded, his eyes never leaving the clouds. "Rain is our ally. It will cover our trail." A rumbling growl tore through Skarlath, as if he had understood the words. The dragon launched itself, leaping effortlessly over a gaping chasm, and for a moment they floated between heaven and abyss. Wind tore at the gnomes, whipping their beards and robes. Eldran held on, but in his eyes glowed a light reminiscent of pride. "Remember," he cried against the wind, "when we found Skarlath? Chains around his neck and wings, forced to quarry rock in the mines of the North? No gnome dared touch him." Thargrim laughed harshly. "No one believed he would ever fly again. And now he carries us as if we were his heart." The dragon roared as if it had confirmed the words, a sound that shook the clouds and echoed the mountain walls. There was anger in that sound, but also loyalty—a promise stronger than steel. But the sun's light faded, and darkness fell over the peaks. An eerie howl wafted from the distance, a chorus of voices that were not human. The brothers exchanged a solemn glance. "The Ice Lords have sent their hunters," murmured Eldran, gripping his spear tightly. "They scent us." Thargrim squared his shoulders. "Then let them come. We are not the ones who flee." The dragon flexed its muscles, its talons digging into the rock. Below them lay the Vale of Eryndar, where the ruins of a fortress rose—a place of ancient secrets, a gateway to forgotten ways. There the brothers hoped to find the weapon that alone could break the Ice Lords' rule.