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| - It flittered about impatiently as the ages passed, in this place without time. In this almost nothingness where myths go when dead but not forgotten. And Erebus would not soon forget Acheron, the flame lord, the beast of destruction, the Red Dragon. The earth had trembled when he walked. Centuries old Fir trees had been uprooted when he took flight. When he and his adversaries clashed, it was a sight like no other before or since. But at the Compact, the power that sustained him was withdrawn. He was as fearsome as ever but his wounds did not heal so fast. When he brought forth his fire, now he got a taste of the pain he inflicted. And one fateful battle, he was not quite fast enough, and he fell, never to rise again. He could not rest here as most of the others did, content in the majesty of myth. It was not his nature. His nature was that of fire. Fire, the ravenous devourer. Fire, the nimble dancer brought aloft on the winds. And fire, patient when defeated, but ever eager to spring to life again with the faintest fuel. And at last he detected it. The essence of his mistress Bhall. Not the goddess herself, but some people close to her--and Acheron's--fiery nature. They reproduced quickly, grew fast, fought with a roar, and died with rage. Chaotic, but strictly following the laws that governed them. Violent, but leaving a void that encouraged new growth. Nimble, but leaving a lasting mark. They didn't know they called to him, that they gave him strength, but they did. Their rage opened a portal that he alone could take and returned substance to his long decayed flesh and bones. Three-Tooth dumped his bag on the ground in Ahepetr. Three human skulls, an iron knife, and a handful of shiny trinkets tumbled out. Half-Nose reached for a diamond ring, and Three-Tooth jumped him. The two orcs tumbled around the ground as the nearby goblins cheered them on, sneaking Three-Tooth's spoils when they could. They were interrupted by an earth shaking roar. All turned to face him. Resplendent in primal glory, Acheron stood. His leathery skin had the luster of rubies, all the more so when his breath illuminated the dusk with a billowing cloud of fire. Every tooth, fang, and claw shone, sharp and perfect, as if he had not fought countless battles. His leathery wings embraced the humble village. His face wore a fearsome snarl ... or possibly, though it seemed so out of place on this beast, a smile. As one the orcs and goblins gathered their war spoils and carried them before the mighty dragon, laying them at his feet. In time, the pile would grow to a mountain as the legend was reborn.
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