Appendix A: Miscellaneous Anecdotes
by

Quill Dragonson, a Scribe of Wissena

#1) The Crown of Insight

	The main character of the narrative blessed me with this keen insight on the temptations of power. I failed to recall which of the western realms he hailed from and have since sworn to keep a pen and paper with me at all times.Despite this, we enjoyed sharing bits of our lives with one another during the shared leg of our respective journeys on the caravan routes. It has been a true pleasure to speak with him. When I told him of my plans to chronicle the rulers of Genesis, he shared the following story...

	Lord Thomas Thumb could reign as king, but he just needed a crown. He kept this singular goal in mind as he meandered through the labyrinthine tomb of near-forgotten kings. He shivered in the subterranean cool of the preexistent caves as if the archaic phantoms lingered in a place where even bone had faded into dust. 
	He wiped a black strand of his now dusted head. His echoing footsteps stirred up the dirt which had settled on the floor for decades if not centuries. In the same way, his quest for the throne had unsettled an order established a century before his birth. Like the old kings of legend, his wit and skill, not his pedigree or money, would place him at the top. Soon, he’d have their old crown to prove it. 
	The hallway ahead lay in almost utter darkness. Only faint runes of a dead tongue pointed the way like a purple constellation through the winding passages. The darkness continued to unnerve the aspiring claimant, but the thirty-year old Lord Thumb steeled his heart with the appearance of each rune. The power of the ancient magic lingered in the dim lights, not activated since the current lineage came to power. 
	“Bless you, Geoff!” he exclaimed when he saw the last rune light up and then a whole spiral of them on the indistinguishable wall directly in front of him. Being the right hand of the now deceased king didn’t give one a claim to the throne, but said king refusing to name an heir certainly did. The once impoverished Lord Thumb merely needed the fabled relic which his dear friend told him lie just beyond. The ancient door thrummed audibly with potent spells. Most scholars doubted the existence of this place, and fewer still could read the ancient tongue which once granted men the power to bend reality itself. “Crown of Insight, Giver of Choices.”
	The words caused a shudder throughout the cavern, and the runes brightened. Where before only a trail of faint glow stretched from his position to the entrance, now every detail from the tomb could be seen. Ancient masonry, worked from the natural cave-system, stood out in stark relief in the amethyst light. 
	He glanced over the rest of the spell woven around the door, murmuring them to himself almost inaudibly. As he did so, it felt like a small crowd spoke with him, the whispers of kings who once sought the same crown as he. His murmurs ended and the large circular stone before him slowly grinded, rolling to its side. White light, shot through with violet, poured out from the room opened to him. The circle of runes around the unsealed entrance grew faint as he stepped through the door. Lord Thumb glanced back to assure himself the way to return still shone. WIth a sigh of relief, he entered the opened vault.
	He let the new sight before him nestle itself deep into his mind. The craftsmen of old possessed secrets now lost to his people. Lord Thumb assumed this for he knew of no craftsman or guild who could craft such stone safely so far underground. He found himself in an octogonal room. A total of fourteen empty stone beds circled about the room on two levels. A mural depicting the life of the kings once buried here stood in faint contrast from the violet and white light which danced on the wall as if wrestling. 
	He made his way reverently towards the mural closest to him. He knew this ruler, Grywnthred. The infamous first king who united the disparate tribes which once constituted the current kingdom. He saw an image of the old gods who supposedly gave these old rulers the crown. These sovereigns of old ruled without relation to birth status. Only the one who bore the crown. In those days, their people knew only peace and unity and prosperity. That much their ancestors had recorded in song and legend and written word.
	He rose from the kneeling position he'd taken to inspect the mural depicting the ancient lord's rule. Like the burial recesses outside in the winding halls, nothing remained here except rusted metal artifacts not worth salvaging. Body and cloth both had crumbled to dust. Despite times inexorable attempts to erase them, these past glories lived on in his memories. Lord Thumb wondered what legends might one day be sung of him. 
	With a firm nod to himself, Lord Thomas thumb ascended the dais and grasped the crown without further delay. The moment his hand clutched the silver strands of the wrought headpiece, white-light shot out along his arm and blinded his eyes. The light seemed to probe his mind. Lord Thumb had heard of this and supplied a question.
	How do I win over the people? 
	A vision then surged into his mind from the crown. He could see the warehouses and treasuries filled to the brim. He knew those stores intimately. He'd spent the past three two decades of his life filling them through diligent effort. Some belonged to close allies or friends. The images receded and showed the poorest slums and dilapidated villages. Then, he saw the same stores, empty now. He then heard a crowd cheering his name. 
	Lord Thumb released the crown with a smile. Charity at its finest mutually benefited all those involved. A monarch would protect and provide for his people who in turn should support him. Just like the legends, Lord Thumb thought with glee. He grabbed the crown again, this time grasping it with two hands. The light came again and received another of his questions. 
	How do I win over the guild masters and merchants?
	The visions he had just seen replayed, the same reserves and needy people. However, he noted that they played out with a little less scope. Some reserves found themselves emptied into the personal pockets of various merchants. Coin bought some while treaties and agreements bought others. Together, they garnered him more support than any individual contended currently possessed.
	He let go of the crown which floated back to its pedestal. He felt a sense of unease grow as his stomach turned over on itself. He'd never once used bribery in his dealings. Such integrity brought him this far in the first place. Memory recalled the discovery that several of his opponents had already indulged in similar tactics. Yet, none had executed the same sequence of events shown him by the relic. Paired with the old crown itself, people, noble and common, would flock to his cause. He placed the crown on his head for a third question. 
	How do I overcome my opponents?
	Several visions flashed before his mind's eye. Each one grew more terrible than the last. Poison here, blackmail there, and at last a knife in the back of his old friend's brother. This last one abruptly cut off as Lord Thumb found himself flat on his rear from stumbling back away from the dais. Reeling from the sudden pain which jarred him from pelvis to skull, the young nobleman found his focus still on the unfinished vision. 
	He slowly returned to his feet, a hand on his aching rump. He looked at the relic with a new apprehension. Greater still, the allure of its dark visions stirred a want in him. With these last visions, Lord Thumb could see an almost clear line to the throne. Besides, the man had arranged for his death once before, but the man's son had delivered Lord Thumb with an earnest apology and plea for his father. Thomas had never fully wrapped his mind around his complicated relationship with the other branches of the royal family.
	With a timid hand he timidly reached out to the crown once more. His ruminations provoked a new question, but the crown's power wouldn't necessarily extend that far. If this relic empowered the kings of old to rule well, then what did that mean for the visions he just recieved? He grasped its oddly warm metal.
	Did the kings of old receive such visions, and did they follow them?
	To his horror, he witnesses the memories of the men whose cadavers once rested in this cavern. Between the visions, the crown would allow him to glimpse one of the murals around the room. He shuddered as he saw their supposed achievements for what they really were. Peace simply meant effectively suppressed rebellion. Prosperity meant the national treasury remained full, even if some peasants barely scraped by. 
	He slowly removed the crown from his head, and it floated back to its pedestal, purple and white light dancing around it. Like the crown over the dais, Lord Thumb felt suspended between two choices. Ambition had brought him from rags to the right hand of the king. Honor checked it, blocking occasional opportunities for advancement. Yet, the integrity of his honor ultimately served his ambition by gaining the king's trust. Now, the king lay in the earth as wormfood, and his garnered influence waned with every passing day as his opponents filled the power vacuum. 
	His eyes looked again to the crown. The white-silver reunes engraved upon its metal danced in his mind's eye. He knew the words. Only a simple incantation stood between him and the power to outsmart his opponents, not only in the contest for the crown, but for the every conflict to come. The artefact is the sole reason the king's of old had reigned undaunted for a life-age. Until his late friend's great-great-grandsire turned it aside. He paused at that thought and shuddered.
	The silence followed startled him as he realized he'd almost inaudibly begun to recite the incantation. More than that, he'd almost finished the spell. Any could question and touch the crown while it was unbound. Then, it would only answer its bearer until death severed the magical bond. The crown had thrummed at his inaudible recitation, calming only when Lord Thumb stopped. He had a final question before his decision and grasped the crown for an answer.
	Why did they set the crown aside?
	Like every question before, a scene played out before him. A young man stood before the same dais. Desiccated skeletons could be seen in the alcoves in the background. It took Lord Thumb a moment to realize the man's identity: Haran Thususlan the Undying. He took the throne and ruled for 70 years. He'd been a tyrant, suffered exile, suppressed rebellions, and expanded the kingdom. All without the crown. He'd also enacted reforms, protected his people, and pardoned former enemies. Some of those who then responded by sparking unrest. Lord Thumb could see how this crown would've made his impressive reign even more stable. 
	The young Thusulan though didn't look like any of the contradictory portraits which lingered to the present. He saw him asking questions with the crown in his arms. After the passing of a few minutes, the young monarch-to-be merely left the crown floating over the dais and departed. Lord Thumb reflexively asked why, and suddenly he heard the voice of Thusulan, or at least what he guessed the man sounded like.
	"I'll not bear the uncaring crown." 
	The young nobleman paused to digest that. The images of other ancient kings, now seen not as legends but men with magical insight, replayed in his mind. With them came the same shock and discomfort of political assassinations or uncaring taxation. Yet, for all the discomfort, he couldn't deny the stability of their nation, and their reign, and their power...
	Lord Thumb caught himself beginning the incantation again. He paused as he felt his honor and ambition war with one another. The crown garunteed the best solution, but he knew that it wouldn't shy away from deciet and murder. He began to sweat as two halves of himself warred incessantly. He gripped the crown tightly in both hands, his whole body tensing. 
	Then, he released it.
	Slowly he let the crown go to float back to its place for the last time. The nobleman's muscles slowly relaxed, even as his shoulders slumped. Without the Crown of Insight, his chances were slim, especially since he wouldn't remember all the details of the plans shown. Even if he could, he couldn't bring himself to murder and lie, not even for the throne. His path was set, and it followed a trail of glowing runes back toward the entrance. With the same bittersweet resolve which had removed his hands from the crown, Lord Thumb marched away. The runes would dim behind him as he left, and he could hear the grinding of stone on stone telling him the vault had shut once more, cutting off his access to the crown and the throne it promised.

#2) On the Origin of Kobolds

	This anecdote comes to me from one of the fabled Greenweavers of Tynderis. Considering the city's ancient connection to the fabled dragonlords, it doesn't surprise me that ancient magic lingers there. I possit there may be some connection between the Greenweavers of Tynderis and the monarchs of Holy Chresten. Consider the evidence, both wield identical powers of growth, speech-translation, and healing. The descendents of both groups bear the color of luminescent gold in their eyes, though most Greenweavers have one eye with a normal color and the other with gold. Furthermore, there is never more than one heir to the throne of Holy Chresten at any given time. 
Perhaps, I will understand this tale better after my arrival in that enchanted realm
	Nevertheless, this tale is not from a firsthand source. Honestly, this isn't even a record of the facts I found when researching this before setting out on my journey. Pulled from a a trader who traveled over a decade to the failed colony where this story takes place, and the personal journals of the Greenweaver who precipitated this event which I covetously accessed from the Lore Vault at my home town of Wisdom's Seat. This account is a fictionalized rendition of what likely occurred since the true account is lost to us. Ruin Oaks now lays empty with no trace as to contradict what this account and other reports posit. It does however question how a mere dragon could accomplish such a feat...

	Greenweaver Gathrim surveyed his wearied fellows. His bones ached incessantly beneath his grass-colored robes. Unlike him, the others didn't have powers to ease their aches. Though, his powers faded with every passing day. Despite the weariness which permeated the tiimberfelled feasting hall, all wore smiles. They'd accomplished the harvest. Young and old, man and woman, all had worked to gather the ripe golden ears of wheat which they'd barely managed to plant in the late and short spring. Cheers followed the quiet start to their celebration as the current village chief opened their last cask of ale. 
	"I think this occasion calls for it," the man, dressed in plain brown tunic and trousers, called out above the hoots and other cheers raised by the small gathering of only 50 people, "besides, our efforts from this year yielded just enough to ferment another cask!" The news elicited more cheers, but the Greenweaver frowned. He'd heard this lie for the last two years. Perhaps everyone else ignored it, but Gathrim could see the physique of their indomitable chieftain. He always remained a few pounds away from being gaunt. He'd set part of his own rations aside every year to ferment a bit of ale in a private room at the back of their feasting hall where the chieftain had his personal quarters.
 	I'll eat more when the supplies come, the man had answered the last time Gathrim had confronted him about it. Supplies hadn't arrived in three years. They'd come to explore the north. Free of the Lesser Dominion's oversight, the colony had no slaves nor felt any pressure to keep them. They shared a cultural identity which resembled the north far more than the south, but a few generations back, their reigning lord had peacefully left the great city of Tynderis to the High Steward of the Dominion. They'd been a vassal since then. Slaves had been sold since then.
	"Will you bless this meal Greenweaver?" the chief asked, breaking Gathrim's musings. The old man stroked his unkempt beard and smiled.
	"I must wait for our guest to arrive," he answered candidly. This earned confused or stunned looks from the gathering. Before the question could be asked, Gathrim confessed, "I have found a dragon." This grabbed the attention of the whole village, small as it was. "She calls herself Waterwood and has agreed to personally aid me in blessing the meal and the soil."
	"A dragon has spoken with you?" the chief asked, almost starry-eyed, "Just like the dragon-lords of old?" Gathrim shook his head and received confusion once more over the awe which had been growing. 
	"She is a dragon unbound by humanity," Gathrim said as a note of gravity entered into his tone, "we unknowingly trespassed her territory when we settled in this bay. Our scarcity is her wrath as she has made bounty avoid us through her connection with the land." A dour silence had settled as he informed his beloved, fellow villagers of their ignorant transgression. He let the weight of it linger. The Greenweaver needed the people with open hearts towards the dragon for what was to come. Another minute of fearful silence passed, then the chief broke it before Gathrim could continue.
	"What changed?" he asked with a new deference in his voice which hadn't been there previously.
	"I learned," he began as he made his way toward an area where all could see him better, "my blood's connection to those bonded long ago succored her pity. She inflicted scarcity upon this part of her territory that we might grow restless and leave. We did not. In time, she came to respect our perseverance. She summoned me then and informed me of her willingness to permit us to live within her territory, making a formal acceptance at our celebration. Promised blessings in the future include more bountiful hunting and fishing, better crops, and even protection from the harshest of weathers." 
	"I didn't know that dragons could do so much on their own!" the chief exclaimed. Then, he spread his arms in a new sense of hope and revelry, "We will celebrate unlike the years past, truly celebrate. All will eat their fill for winter provisions will be resupplied by winter fishing. Besides, we will all need our strength for such a task." Greenweaver Gathrim smiled. He knew the chief would eat well this day with his future concerns about the people partially assuaged. Gathrim would see to it that they were. With their hearts open and welcoming of the dragon, the Greenweaver merely needed to wait. The coming of the dragon assured the protection of the village, regardless of the change it demanded.
	
	So, the party passed with greater levity than it would've. The ale had run out soon enough. Despite this, the smiles continued. Though they numbered only fifty-some persons, the ruckus they raised counted twice for each person. They sang and danced and enjoyed what the druid knew to be their last days upon the earth as first-folk, as original humans. 
	When the sun had begun to set, Gathrim found himself alone just outside their feasting hall. The large wattle and daub structure, outlined by sturdy timbers, rose above the few houses that remained inhabited. In a village built for six times their number, the barely filled structure stood as a lingering beacon. 
	"Greenweaver," a contented voice called from behind him, "What takes you from the celebration?" Gathrim turned towards his chieftain. Having lost himself in the revelry, the Greenweaver's sudden soberness brought on a sudden panic as a terrible thought wormed its way into the chief's mind, "The dragon's still coming right?"
	"Yes," Gathrim comforted, though his smile was bittersweet, "Look she comes now that we may enjoy the feast!" The pair of men gazed far into the distance. A line of trees sank behind the village which had been built on a hill. The receding light of the sun lit the oceanic forest which stretched beyond the observable horizon. Only after a minute of vain staring did the chief view that which the Greenweaver could sense. With an ever waning kinship to Terra, goddess of the earth, the old man could sense the approach of her greatest children. 
	Waterwood was quite the sight to behold. Her scales shone like warm grassy hills beneath the setting sun and gradually shifted to the crystal blue of waters beneath a clear sky at her extremities. She left the old man breathless. He found himself muttering an earnest thanks to Great Providence which blesses all. Her arrival meant the salvation of his village and tears threatened to fall. He finally brought himself back to the present. He turned to the chief, who stood overcome by a sense of the dragoness' grandeur, "Go ready the village for her arrival. I will greet her alone."
	Without another word, the usually assertive man nodded meekly. Gathrim understood this. Dragons had originally warred with man in ancient days on more than one occasion. Despite this, peace had settled, and now with the archaic wars forgotten by all but a few (his village among them), one of those great children of Terra approached their dwellings. With this heavy joy in heart, he made his way to the outskirts of the village. 
	The short walk passed with a surreal quality. The old Greenweaver had expected to return his mortal form to Terra here in her sanctum, the great north. With myriad dragons ruling a forest unbroken except by mountains, Terra's influence here remained potent. The deep strength and unblemished beauty of the land had eased his old soul. Now in the presence of the land's embodiment, his joints felt no ache and his mind felt more lucid than it had in decades. He felt like fifty years old once more, half his current age.
	"Greetings," Greenweaver Gathrim said with his head bowed, "thank you for coming fair Waterwood." The verdant dragoness had landed a few moments before, signs of which lingered in the tall grasses which remained flattened by the past beats of her grand wings.
	"Greetings," the dragoness trickled into his mind like a burbling stream, "child of Beloved Providence. My essence sings with your joy. Terra favors compassion, so I honor you sacrifice. Your people will be my beloved treasures." Gathrim felt himself shudder as chills wracked his body. It brought no discomfort. To the contrary, a sense of wonder filled him and left him feeling like a child. He turned to beckon her into the village, but when she didn't follow, he turned to find her laying in the tall grass. He'd felt the thudding of the ground when she'd laid down, but what struck was the odd position of one of her forelegs. He cocked his head in confusion. Then, an image flashed in his mind, and he took a step back, "My essence would thrum like the chorus of the midnight winds over my western hills if you honored  me with this pleasure."
	"Thank you, kind daughter of Terra," was all Gathrim could muster as he drew close to the dragon. She had considerately angled her foreleg like a few steps, so he could lift himself up and behind her neck, just above the wings. He felt like one of the venerated dragonlords of old. Blessed by the dragons and gods alike, those select few governed the mortal races. He truly felt like he could do anything when he adjusted to the weightlessness of flight after a minute or so aloft. He could see the endless western sea from the heights. The sun continued its inevitable descent into the far distant blue, but at this height, its ember light still embraced the heavens.
	"Look below you," she craned her head toward the lit feasting hall a league below them. With the evening breeze whipping around his thinned but long hair, Gathrim could see the glow from the hall illuminate the gathered villages below. His heart ached at the sight of them. Their trust in him would soon be broken, but he wouldn't see another one lost to the rigors of the north. The burbling song of the dragoness' voice echoed once more in the aged magic-user's mind, "I will take care of them."
	With those words soothing his heart, Greenweaver Gathrim let out a relieved breath and leaned forward on the great neck of his benefactor. They made lazy circles as they descended into the evening twilight to land in the village center with its denizens making a wide berth for them to land. Waterwood lay down and crooked her right foreleg for the Greenweaver to dismount. Gathrim felt his strength ebbing as he tried to dismount the dragoness. With a wave, he beckoned the chief forward to help him.
	The chief came forward with uncharacteristic timidity. This permitted the struggling Greenweaver to slip a little. With an abashed look, the chief swallowed his remaining nervousness and quickly rushed to steady his stumbling elder. Waterwood craned her head around to gaze at the pair. Her forked tongue slithered out tasting the air, gathering a sense of the nervous village leader before her. 
	"Chief Dern," Gathrim said, "this is Lady of Grass and Rivers, Waterwood." Moved by awe or disbelief, Chief Dern raised his hand to touch the dragoness' snout. He paused a few hand-lengths from her snout. Her flaring nostrils blew out warm breath. over their faces. Only Gathrim's faded connection to Terra permitted him to sense Waterwoods amusement. The old Greenweaver smiled when she closed the distance between her snout and his palm. "She bids you warm greetings, Dern."
	"Welcome," the chief finally answered after a minute of disbelieving silence, "kind dragonness. We humbly apologize for transgressing your territory. Your grace towards use has been received with the utmost gratitude." Gathrim smiled. With his initial temerity settled, the bold leader Gathrim knew the chief to be shown through once more. Waterwood's voice trickled again into his aged mind, feeling again like a cool drink of water to a parched throat. 
	"She accepts your apology," Gathrim informed his friend, "and she doesn't wish to keep us from our feast any longer. It is time for the blessing." This elicited an earnest cheer from the awe crowd. Rather than eating in the feasting hall like originally planned, Dern ordered the benches and tables moved outside. Encircling the dragon, they readied their feast. With a quickened blessing from Gathrim, the belated feast began. 
	As the feast went on, the Greenweaver stayed by the dragon's side. She asked him about each of the villagers who were to live as a permanent addition to her territory, nay, her treasures. Gathrim spent his time answering her myriad questions, facilitating communication between her and the dazzled villagers, and eating his rather spartan portions. He wouldn't need them much anyway. The Greenweaver hadn't been this happy in decades and couldn't think of a better way to spend the final twilight of his life. 
	At the feast's end, Gathrim had the villagers gather into a cluster before Waterwood and him after the feast. Children yawned as they clung to their parents, the lateness reaching them. All looked ready for rest, and Gathrim knew it would come soon enough. He stood beside the dragoness and raised his hand which held a faint golden glow. He felt his diminished magic pulsing stronger than it should've as he addressed the crowd.
	"At the end of this third year," Gathrim began, "Waterwood aids me in bestowing my final blessing upon you." This announcement elicited concerned mutters from a few of the adults. Chief Dern pointedly glared at him at the sudden announcement. However, Gathrim knew the chieftain wouldn't dare interrupt him when he acted in position as a Greenweaver. Waterwood's eyes began to glow as her connection with the land melded with Gathrim's. Suddenly, all could hear the fluid voice of the dragoness. Unlike the normal burble it seemed to carry with it the sound of a river picking up speed before a rapid. 
	"Since ancient days, the first-folk have left dragons alone in peace. They dwell in the south while dragons rule the north. You have transgressed this ancient agreement." Some of the villagers looked around, suddenly nervous. While Gathrim had informed them of all of this earlier, to hear it again directly from the dragon left many uneasy. This unease only grew as the dragon continued in her monologue.  Though, the transgression is forgiven, the mandate must be upheld. So, to live on in my territory, you will all be counted as precious treasures of mine. Stronger and more suited for the north, you will live beneath my rule. You shall know no want or fear any longer. The simple cost---you will exchange your form for one more suitable to my domain. You will bear a frame after my own glorious form, and you will no longer be of the First-Folk. Your tribe will now be named Kobolds.
	Without any further delay, Greenweaver Gathrim let his innate magic meld with Waterwood's for what came next. He knew not entirely how the dragoness could utilize such magic, but he had already agreed to aid in the wordless spell. All he knew is his power to heal had magnified tenfold. He closed his eyes to avert his gaze. The shouts of the people he'd counseled and led for three long years filled his ears. He didn't know if the spell caused pain or terror or both. Regardless, he felt his heart crack inside the armor of resolve he'd built for himself over the preceding weeks. 
	From the start of the spell to its end, the area had been bathed in a light which turned the night into day. Gathrim felt himself drain away as he expended what strength remained in him, physical and magical. When the light finally faded, the elder found himself on his back, gasping for breath. He forced his head to crane back and see. Silence had settled over the village center. Now, a tribe of diminutive, humanoid reptiles lay draped across one another. Even the children had changed, still clinging to their parents. 
	Whether pain or terror or some other factor had done it, the once weary crowd finally rested. Though Gathrim loathed the shock they would receive upon waking. Though his limbs audibly grinded and groaned, the old man forced himself to roll over. That was as far as his strength could take him. It was then that Waterwood used the tip of her snout to help raise the trembling elder. 
	"You've done it," Waterwood burbled with somber joy, "They wouldn't have survived such a radical change without you." Gathrim gave the dragoness a weak smile. His eyes turned from the peacefully slumbering crowd to his obviously failing limbs. A glow, eerie compared to the usual golden hue, began in his extremities. His magic was fading with his flaggering lifeforce. It pooled into a small pearlescent stone which grew in size as the glow traveled to his core. Soon enough, only a small glowing stone of a translucent gold color remained in his shaking hands. He laid it on the ground beside the dragon's snout. 
	Without further ceremony, Gathrim collapsed. The edges of his vision began to blacken and soon everything appeared distant. He could only mutter a near inaudible 'thank you' before his vision and voice both completely faded into dark stillness. 

	Now the only conscious being in the village, the dragoness Waterwood surveyed her newest treasures. With the ancient magics appeased, the dragon could make good on her promise to the now departed elder. She remembered her earlier surprise to find one of his blood. She'd heard rumors of such kindred spirits among the first-folk. The glowing stone in her right forepaw whispered the memories of her short-lived friend. It testified to the lingering dreams of lasting harmony. 
	It struck a bittersweet note within her that they seemed to perish for the dream. She only knew of one land where it still held sway, a bridge between the north and south. The dragoness quietly swore within herself to honor her short-lived friend and care for those he treasured. He reverie broke when a groaning came from the kobold which Waterwood identified as the fomer chieftain named Dern began to stir.

3#) Dragons, Storms, and Thunder or Legend of the Great King-of-the-Sky

	I came across this anecdote through the inebriated assistance of a wandering taleweaver. He swears it speaks of ancient days, but I cannot find any reference to it. Having not had the chance to verify it with the Lore Vault in Wissena, I record it just to be safe. Further motivation comes from a common thread I've gleaned in my travels--dragons! Few legends remain in the younger realms of the age before the Eternal Dominion. They lack the privilege of Lady Wissena's jealously guarded records. Regardless, it shows that truer history lingers despite the attempts of some to rewrite it or erase it all together. Thus, while the tale may prove to be entirely fictitious, it rings with the granular truth of other ancient myths...

	The gash came from the Great King-of-the-Sky. The great grey had fallen as a lead blanket over all the land. For almost a score, the land languished in darkness. Plants withered, and livestock perished. Famine gripped the waning tribes of humanity who pleaded with their gods of stone and wood for deliverance and pardon. Further dismay came as they strove with one another for the scraps of their crumbling societies. 
	Then it happened. The grey bled red. Orange and crimson light bulged and writhed in the sky lighting up the normally dour cloud cover.Then, he appeared! With scales like ruby, he wrent apart the clouds as if he could grasp it with his hands. Yet, the great grey resisted, eluding his grasp wherever he reached. So, he beat his mighty wings. He also writhed and let loose gouts of flame. The fire crackled the air, and his wings widened the gash his initial descent had caused. Then, for the first time in almost a quarter century, beams of radiant sunlight reached the long followed fields. 
	Then, the Great King-of-the-Sky roared with bellow so might its very vibration widened it a slight more. However, the greatest of dragons had no intention of roaring away the great grey. Soon, a host of dragons, terrible and mighty, like shining gems in appearance, descended in a line that bridged the opposite horizons. They burned away the grey and created a cloudless storm which put the once indomitable and dour canopy to flight. The sight that followed burned itself like dragonfire into the eyes of all mortals. The great grey lingered, but like a thick veil torn asunder, it lay interposed by a broad strip of blue. So great was the cheer and praise that day that every voice of man and woman, elder and child, (yea, even the babes) felt hoarse for the first sunlit weeks in years.
	As the mortal tribes celebrated, the Great King-of-the-Sky and his kin continued their dauntless work and drove back the clouds beyond the horizons. For weeks after one could follow the four winds for scores of leagues, and the blue sky would carry the bright blessings of the sun down to them.
	Not since that terrible and wonderful day has man beheld a dragon, let alone the Great King-of-the-Sky. Only a handful of veritable sightings have occured, and only one of the great Kin blessed the grateful earth with its bones, held now by the rulers of the Sunlit Lands. Yet, each occurred to comfort the unified tribes of humanity. For on occasion, grey skies return. However, they bring the wondrous rains and tarry not long. For the roar of dragons and flashes of great fire compels them to move onward and never again blot out the great blue or harm the endless green.