Stories From Grandfather

"I thought I was dead."

"Any other dragon would have gladly let you die."

"I have to do something about this, and you have to help me."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

Rograth glided toward a massive cliff, flapped his wings gently and rose slightly, enough that he could drop his massive claws and touch down gently on a ledge protruding from the face of the cliff. Anyone on the ground below could not see the ledge or the cliff.

"Lair sweet lair."

Nakillim started toward the entrance.

"Wait, Mage."

Nakillim knew what he would do. "Wait!" His plea was too late as Rograth spit a short burst of flame into the cave's mouth.

"No," Nakillim said and shook his head.

"Don't go soft on me, Mage. You know how those zyglots are. They lie in wait, and as soon as a dragon enters its lair, it faces a barrage of arrows and certain death."

They walked into the cave's mouth. Nakillim sighed in relief when he saw no remains of crisp-fried zyglots.

"How can they desecrate the bodies of my ancestors?"

"I don't understand it myself, Rograth. If I could choose between all of my magic powers and the gift of understanding, I would choose understanding."

"You know the rumors, don't you?"

"Thy mysterious wizard agitating the races?"

"Do you believe it?"

"Something is going on."

"You have to do something before these altercations break out into a civil war that destroys all life in this world."