Centuries past, the young Silver Dragon Azmordion was a hatchling, brought to the Isle by Silverscale refugees fleeing bloody, genocidal campaigns waged by the lords of Brol’lokai, a kingdom of Dragonkin upon the continent of Zandoriel. There the Silverscale were seen as an abominable creation of dragonkind, cursed with metallic skin for their misdeeds against the gods. It was a tale passed through lore over millennia, and one that haunted them wherever they stepped, forced from nation to nation as outcasts and miscreants. It was during a purge by the Azure Dragonkin of Brol’lokai that a contingent of refugees sailed to safety, far from the borders of their land. A storm at sea steered their ship far from the course they set, and eventually they arrived at the uncharted, unnamed Isle they now call Dragonmaw. It was not what they expected, and they found that it was already inhabited by tribes of black-scaled Dragonkin and their mighty ancestor, Sovram. Sovram saw the Silverscales not as invaders or pests to be driven away, but as civilized folk who might further uplift his followers.
So in time, the two worked together, and Sovram took the young Silver hatchling under his own wing, teaching Azmordion the ancient lore of their kind, how to hunt, kill, fight, rule. While his people were tutored by the Silverscales, he in turn tutored their hatchling leader. Thus for centuries the Silverscales and Darkscales lived in an uneasy harmony, whilst both thought themselves better than the other, they were unified by the kinship of their leaders. The Silverscales brought tools, knowledge and skilled crafts with them to their new Home, building roads, forts, villages. Upon the highest pinnacle of the isle, they constructed Dragonmaw Keep, a home for both Azmordion and Sovram, and their host of leaders from each faction of the isle.
Yet therein began the first cracks of division among the two clans, for the Silverscales began to feel more entitled to the land they had shaped in their image, where the Darkscales felt the land was still rightfully theirs, and the Silverscales were simply visitors they had graciously allowed to stay, rather than driving them from the isle when they first arrived. In council meetings in Dragonmaw, leaders from both clans would often clash in dire words, and this manifested in both Sovram and Azmordion as well. Azmordion now was a young adult, not yet fully grown, nor close to the size of the ancient Sovram, but enough to hold his own if a fight between them should erupt. It was one eve when leaders of the Silverscale spoke to their leader of their plot, to clip the wings of Sovram and cast him down from the mountain. Azmordion forbade their action, yet these leaders were hard-headed, believing the will of their master would be flexible when he saw the fruits of their labour. Thus in the dead of night as Sovram slumbered, they enacted their plan, using a great contraption they had engineered in secret for months, they shredded the wings of the ancient black dragon.
Howling in pain and rage, he awoke, and Dragonmaw Keep became a bloody battleground until dawn, when the machinations of the Silverscales had fully driven out and killed every last Darkscale from their keep. Sovram fled down the mountain, bloody and injured, his wings little more than tatters, leaving him defenseless against Azmordion’s attacks when the two came to blows. Guilt weighed heavy on the silver dragon thereafter, with him executing all those involved in plotting the coup, yet he knew that things now were changed, and the wounds between the two clans would never heal, much like the wings of Sovram. So from atop Dragonmaw Keep he has ruled for decades, doing his best to instil a new sense of justice and order in his people, one that would protect their legacy, yet the Darkscales plotted in the swamps they had now been driven into, and bad blood remained no matter what. With hundreds of deaths on both sides, the two have turned into bitter enemies, and Azmordion now realises that it is his people, or them, and there can be no reconciliation for the evils that have been inflicted by both sides. Now he can only prepare for war.
Please allow 14 days for production
Assembly required
Centuries past, the young Silver Dragon Azmordion was a hatchling, brought to the Isle by Silverscale refugees fleeing bloody, genocidal campaigns waged by the lords of Brol’lokai, a kingdom of Dragonkin upon the continent of Zandoriel. There the Silverscale were seen as an abominable creation of dragonkind, cursed with metallic skin for their misdeeds against the gods. It was a tale passed through lore over millennia, and one that haunted them wherever they stepped, forced from nation to nation as outcasts and miscreants. It was during a purge by the Azure Dragonkin of Brol’lokai that a contingent of refugees sailed to safety, far from the borders of their land. A storm at sea steered their ship far from the course they set, and eventually they arrived at the uncharted, unnamed Isle they now call Dragonmaw. It was not what they expected, and they found that it was already inhabited by tribes of black-scaled Dragonkin and their mighty ancestor, Sovram. Sovram saw the Silverscales not as invaders or pests to be driven away, but as civilized folk who might further uplift his followers.
So in time, the two worked together, and Sovram took the young Silver hatchling under his own wing, teaching Azmordion the ancient lore of their kind, how to hunt, kill, fight, rule. While his people were tutored by the Silverscales, he in turn tutored their hatchling leader. Thus for centuries the Silverscales and Darkscales lived in an uneasy harmony, whilst both thought themselves better than the other, they were unified by the kinship of their leaders. The Silverscales brought tools, knowledge and skilled crafts with them to their new Home, building roads, forts, villages. Upon the highest pinnacle of the isle, they constructed Dragonmaw Keep, a home for both Azmordion and Sovram, and their host of leaders from each faction of the isle.
Yet therein began the first cracks of division among the two clans, for the Silverscales began to feel more entitled to the land they had shaped in their image, where the Darkscales felt the land was still rightfully theirs, and the Silverscales were simply visitors they had graciously allowed to stay, rather than driving them from the isle when they first arrived. In council meetings in Dragonmaw, leaders from both clans would often clash in dire words, and this manifested in both Sovram and Azmordion as well. Azmordion now was a young adult, not yet fully grown, nor close to the size of the ancient Sovram, but enough to hold his own if a fight between them should erupt. It was one eve when leaders of the Silverscale spoke to their leader of their plot, to clip the wings of Sovram and cast him down from the mountain. Azmordion forbade their action, yet these leaders were hard-headed, believing the will of their master would be flexible when he saw the fruits of their labour. Thus in the dead of night as Sovram slumbered, they enacted their plan, using a great contraption they had engineered in secret for months, they shredded the wings of the ancient black dragon.
Howling in pain and rage, he awoke, and Dragonmaw Keep became a bloody battleground until dawn, when the machinations of the Silverscales had fully driven out and killed every last Darkscale from their keep. Sovram fled down the mountain, bloody and injured, his wings little more than tatters, leaving him defenseless against Azmordion’s attacks when the two came to blows. Guilt weighed heavy on the silver dragon thereafter, with him executing all those involved in plotting the coup, yet he knew that things now were changed, and the wounds between the two clans would never heal, much like the wings of Sovram. So from atop Dragonmaw Keep he has ruled for decades, doing his best to instil a new sense of justice and order in his people, one that would protect their legacy, yet the Darkscales plotted in the swamps they had now been driven into, and bad blood remained no matter what. With hundreds of deaths on both sides, the two have turned into bitter enemies, and Azmordion now realises that it is his people, or them, and there can be no reconciliation for the evils that have been inflicted by both sides. Now he can only prepare for war.
Please allow 14 days for production
Assembly required
