Somebody will have to remind me of the author. I used to copy the emails to steal ideas for my own campaign but I didn't always copy everything:
The Prophet marveled at how much had changed in the nest – no, a city, that was their term for it – of humans since he had last observed it. He new of some of his ilk that preferred to change form into one of the mammals, to walk through their crude paved causeways and gardens of twisting, growing things. The Prophet scoffed at this. He preferred to enter the city as one of his breed should.
Like a conquering god.
He had chosen to arrive under cover of darkness; not to camouflage himself, but because the mammals, since they were hiding in caves and peering fearfully into the shadows of the wild, had feared the first one to night. Looking down, the Prophet smiled; it was still there. The memory of the superstitious peasants was undimmed, despite the absence of eight hundred seasons of the great Flamyltox. They need remembered the words of one of his kind. Now, he would give them another proclamation.
The enormous black dragon alighted on Dragon Roost Rock, in the center of Niole Dra. The creature's titanic weight did not budge the rock one bit; Flamyltox had nested here, and his mass was even greater than the Prophet's own. Wings of inky darkness furled around him, cloak-like.
The dragon recognized the King instantly. Not by the gaudy piece of metal on his head, but because he was the only one to break the line of fearful guardsmen and had the courage to ignore the fear his presence caused and approach. The Prophet scowled at the man. He knew of this one – strong of heart and arm – and he was not to be underestimated. His hair was graying, but his hands betrayed that
this was no simpering fop-king.
The Prophet let out a low rumble and slowly lowered his great head to the level of the King, looking eye-to-eye. The creature's head looked like a scorched, horned skull. It took a tentative sniff in the air and recoiled somewhat. It regarded the King with new hatred, and scowled. "You bear Nightbane, mammal," he snarled, regarding the blade at the King's hip with rage. "Do you mean to test yourself
against me?"
"No," said the King. He spoke carefully and evenly. No trace of a tremor was heard in his voice. Yes, the dragon mused, this was a formidable human indeed. "This weapon was gifted to my family by the hero that used it, years ago, to slay one of your ilk in the swamps of Steffenmoor to the south."
The dragon growled. He desired to snatch this arrogant warm-blooded wretch and swallow him with a single gulp, but the human's reputation, his poise, the blade at his hip, and the orders of the dragon's master all served to keep the dragon in check. "I am Aulicus. I am the Prophet. I bring a gift for you, King Kimbertos Skotti, House of Lizhal, Lord of the Lion Throne."
"A gift?"
The beast released a hiss. "A prophecy. To foretell of that which will come."
"Then speak," said the King. The old man's eyes blazed; he was unafraid. "Speak, and begone from my city."
"WRETCH!" the Prophet bellowed. Drippings of acid dribbled excitedly down the beast's maw, bubbling the cobblestones where they fell. Its voice dropped to a throaty rumble. "Listen well, King of Keoland. The prophecy is thus:"
"From one, you will hear tell of three."
"Find these three, and you will find three."
"Within that three, beware of one."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Why tell me this?"
The dragon unfurled its great wings, slowly rising. "You may find," he said, alighting his massive bulk into the air with an impossibly powerful stroke of his wings, "that although you have many allies that are secretly enemies, some of your enemies may ultimately become allies."
The King watched the great beast disappear to the southwest. He watched it go, and touched the crown on his head. It seemed to grow just a little bit heavier.
