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Words of the Dragon

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She was not always evil, say the legends. She was not always as she is now. Other places, other times, other myths in the weaving. Made before the Twin Rivers joined with the Ma’at and swept outwards, rippling a greater truth across all the many worlds and planes. And not wholly forgotten, even now. Set apart, and treasured, and harboring a hidden power. (It was before the waking of the baern…) The red dragon battles against the white, and each is equal in its power. Strange to the sight, they are, wingless and many-clawed, and each bearing a king’s crown. (Before the discord of the Serpents…) And a hunting bird watches, wise-eyed and patient, freed from the Abyss and holding secrets beyond its years. And it sees to the heart of the matter, and names the victor in the tongue of men. (Before belief itself became an endless, senseless battlefield…) Dharma in the sunset, islands in the mist. A blade imprisoned, within living rock. Another lies in waiting, beneath stillest water. (Ages before, and yet so young – within the written recollection of man. Time twists upon itself, and memory…) And the name Pendragon is whispered, echoing in eternity. Something that was lost may yet still be reborn…

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