The First Dragon

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Before, the Valley was filled with all kinds of creatures. The little people reside in the North Mountains. Dwarves and gnomes carved their homes deep in the tomes of the rocks. They lived off the scarce growth from the mountain’s side and anything they could trade with the goods they mined from the depths of their home. Nestled on the western floor of the Valley lived the humans. SImple creatures, really. They spend most of their days tending to the crops or eating what they harvested — often eating more than their endless appetites can handle. Still, they thrived. Trading crops for metals from the mountains. Rejoicing at the end of a sunny day with ale and a feast.

The magic of the Valley settled where the eastern winds meet the sea. Tall creatures with the ability to fondle nature in the most elegant ways. The Elven winds carried seeds to the human's crops several leagues across the Valley. Their silky waters help fish return home when the seasons change. And their gentle hearts mend the most tender wounds. The elves spoke softly but their word was always the last. Even the humans cannot argue when an elf has had their say. And as stubborn as the mountain folk are, they, too, listen.

But beyond all the magic and peace of the Valley, resting in the shadowy south where the darkness eats the light is where the creatures of the night dwell. Foul beasts with fangs that can tear through the hardest metals. Drool the seeped uncontrollably from their snouts. Eyes as dark as an abyss. They are known as the Moraydon. A Moraydon’s greatest pleasure lay in the darkest desires of the heart where blood runs freely and death is the greatest gift. These creatures are notorious for their experiments with dark magic. Many of the successful ones have given birth to new disasters.

As their numbers grew, so did the Moraydon’s need for land. The darkness led them across the land. Pushing against the light and into the Valley. Not long after the invasion was discovered, did the others declare war. Armies rose to protect their land from the Moraydon. The Elves erected thick forests to separate themselves making it difficult for the enemy to advance. The dwarves relied on the mountain’s walls to protect them. The humans, however, were at the mercy of the Moraydon.

Their lands were taken first, forcing the humans into exile wherever refuge would welcome them. But the darkness spread and the destruction the Moraydon waged increased. Fear festered in the refugees as their numbers grew slimmer and the nights longer. And in the embers of twilight, all was nearly lost. If it weren’t for the courage of one small human, all may have been.

When the Moraydon army pressed upon the last refugee in the east, Daeodon took it upon himself to protect what was left of the Valley. Daeodon took the Elves' most precious source of magic, smuggling the Elder Orb in his palm and away from the survivors. On the tallest point of the wall, he placed the orb in the longest branch he could find and waited for the sun. Without any magic to his name and against all odds, Daeodon wielded the last of the magic from the Elder Orb. As the sun rose and the rays beamed through the orb, Daeodon banished the darkness from the land.

The light weakened the Moraydon. Their armies scattered back into the shadows. When all was clear and the light reigned again, the last of the survivors took the Elder Orb to the south. They ransacked the land, destroying all experiments and setting flame to any potential life that could grow from the remains.

In the wake of their destruction, the survivors stumbled upon the last of the Moraydon’s experiments. A golden field of blossoms bloomed brilliantly against the fires around it. The desperate need to feel safe from the reach of the Moraydon overpowered the survivors' desire to harvest the beautiful flowers. For nothing good could ever be born from the shadow. They let the field burn and left to the sound of gold sparks bursting and with the shy relief that the war was finally over.

Or so they thought.

Unbeknownst to the survivors, they added the final ingredient to the Moraydon’s experiment. And though the fires burned the flowers and their petals withered, they did not die. They melted. From the embers of the fiery blossoms, the first dragons were born.

This is where our story begins.

This is the story of the first dragons.