[WP] The dragon was crying.

...

How much fear can one being embrace before it turns into madness?

There is a true question for whatever immortals left among the land, as few can stand the test of time with their lives and sanity indefinite. The Elves might wave fear away by duty, so long as their hidden clans persist. The Energies of the world might not fear at all, for in their blissful ignorance of wind, stone, fire or ocean: There is no thought to the questions of "Why?"

It is only the Dragons which fear embraces to fullness and terror, for as they live alone and away from the people of the world and the others of their kin, it sinks within their hearts. Uncertain and unending, they watch like stones filled with unholy flame, never ceasing in body or mind- less a sword be driven through their hearts.

How painful it is, to be a Dragon in such times...

Far beneath the Deep Wood's illusions, hidden away further under countless seasons of fallen leaves, moss and stone: The dragon watched the world through eyes of sight, as it questioned the growing dread that rose beneath its scales.

Like ice inside its veins, the world was chilled by fear. For all the darkness upon the West, it seemed that there would soon be much worse things on the unseen horizon of the new day. Yet still the Dragon still did not stir. Terror held it frozen so much as the chains of duty, if not more.

Long ago, when its scales were not tarnished by lost memories of mortals weak to the passing of days and years. Back when men and Elves were one people, and the bones of those distant memories were more than dust and unmarked graves beneath the soil; when blood and muscle still warmed their souls with a beautiful urgency and he was not yet soured by the state of his own immortality.

He had watched as their children came, and their descendants rose further, witnessing the lines diverge and connect among kingdoms and ashes. He watched the faith, the magics, the technology of a future yet uncharted, endlessly spreading out with the seasons. The Dragon was watched with a smile as these mortals outdid the achievements of those who came before them. How proud he was of those accomplishments.

Then, there was the troubled times. As the world grew colder, and the people with it. The Elves split their tribes, left their places beside mankind for more secret refuge among the far western lands. Men, without the living history of the ages to guide them, fell about themselves with uncertainty- writing fragile to flames and weather, memory fickle and lost by death and forgotten teachings.

Wars came to the world for the first of many ruined ages. People fragmented, turning on instinct to fear the unknown, to hate. For all that was gained, twice was lost.

The Dragon left them just as the Elves, and watched as the Dragon's own kin did the same lest they perished among the sweeping sands of time. Humanity's violence spread like cancer through the land, but still the Dragon watched on. Suffering and horror, sickened minds and violence, but where there was death, there was also hope.

Hope of a new beginning, that a single Phoenix rising from the depths of their despair. That one day the darkness might leave this world, and the cycle of light return. The Dragon let the Forest of magics grow, illusions spreading deep into the roots and soil, and waited; watching.

Centuries came and went. Kingdoms rose and fell. Banners and lives were burned beneath harsh cries and bitter tongues, but from it all his eyes could see the glow of potential. One day...

And like the rising sun, the one man came with change. Reborn in glory, voice speaking speaking magics beyond all others.

His name was Merlin.

Blue of the ocean his cloak, grey of the storms upon his hair, golden wood of sun in his staff: One man reached out touch the world and its people.

Through all the violence, he brought peace. Through all the hatred, he brought calm. Through all the tears, he brought hope. One by one, the leaders of men bowed, and one by one they rose again- sending their wisest to learn, their most talented to grow: For even the great and mighty did acknowledge that Sage of Blue.

If there was ever a hope to the world, the Dragon knew it was held within Merlin of the Blue Cloak, Caster of Virtue, and Voice of the Kin.

But mortals are fragile things, even among their greatest; and hope is fleeting- even among the most devoted of its followers. In the Shadow of Merlin rose the embodiment of that passing world, and the Dark Lord came to be.

Gillian, Mage of Death and Drinker of Souls. The Dark Lord of the West. A mortal soul of stolen time, pillaging a life that could not end- but housing a mortal soul all the same. Unlike the Dragons and their kin, his fear did not hold such a terror to stillness but instead pressed it to action as madness might follow.

If not in mind than in actions, The Dragon knew that Gillian was mad- though he could only watch as the magics of that far western tower of black rose and twisted between the Spheres of Chaos, wringing the world's fabric like cloth: Pressing that which should never be tampered with together under force. Stretching and ripping the foundations of everything and nothing alike.

The Dragon could watch and wait no longer. Should the Mage of those Blackened Spires West discover his presence, his life would be ended, but even as The Dragon watched through all-seeing eyes, the world was forever changed. Convergence of the Chaos, of the Magics, of the powers that fueled it in the dark and covered skies by one deranged mortal soul: This very plane of existence might be ruined by such recklessness.

Ever so carefully, scales emerged from the forest's floor: Rising from beneath the hallowed ground of his Deep Woods, freeing as the Dragon's body lifted from the long hidden confines of a self-indulgent prison. Saplings and Giants fell away from massive wings, unfurling with thick scales of diamond and emerald, as white eyes glowed in the fading sun- watching still a far-off place.

A place where evil did away with the world's few boundaries, to twist and corrupt it all beneath one mortal's indifference. A place where even the mighty Drake of legends would be struck down and slain by less than a passing thought and spell cast from pale finger-tips.

So much wrong and tainted in the world, and yet the Dragon nothing within his powers that could even pray to righten them. Abominations and cursed things would seep into the world loved so dearly, slowly gnawing on its bones until the boredom of the Dark Lord was sated with the stale draught of ruin.

The Dragon's tears fell freely.