An Elder Dragon who has resided upon the unnamed Isle since the days of Tharador’s First Era, though such contrivances have little bearing within the grand scale of a dragon’s life. Millennia of wear crease his scales and tatter his wings, yet in that time he has come to sire an extensive brood of descendant Dragonkin, the Darkscales. They have worshipped Sovram as their ancestor since they could talk, and upon the isle they built a basic, though content life together. For thousands of years, this was the status and they were content, until the Silverscales arrived on their shores.
They claimed to be fleeing certain death from their homeland across the sea, having been sent off course by a storm, arriving on their isle. Though Sovram was cautious among these new folk and the young Silver hatchling they held among them, his people were eager to meet these new dragonkin. With a profound mastery of technology and masonry, they were able to teach Sovram’s people of stoneworking, building gargantuan fortresses and townships across the Isle, Dragonmaw Keep the most revered of these. This keep, built upon the highest peak of the Isle, was an offering to Sovram and his descendants, one that was given with the request that the Darkscales see them as kin, and allow them to live in harmony on the isle.
Sovram, graciously accepted, admiring the new home constructed for him, which became the seat of him and his council, and that of Azmordion, the young Silver Dragon that had been brought with the Silverscales, and was seen as their leader. For centuries, Sovram tutored the young dragon in the ways of their kind, teaching him flight, manoeuvres, fighting and the ways to wield his powerful breath. Sovram saw the young dragon as a son, and grew fond of him, even though the politics of their followers would often strain the relationship they were building. Often the Silverscales expressed their malcontent in feeling like secondaries to the Darkscales upon the Isle, and it seemed no matter what they were given, their discontent did not quieten.
Ultimately, centuries of good blood spoiled, as leaders from each clan grew more irate with one another, less understanding of each other’s plights, and more driven by a desire to ensure the best future for their own people, rather than a future which might benefit the Isle as a whole. This culminated in the Night of Betrayal. Sovram awoke to feel his wings burning hot like a searing blade had cut through them, they were shredded and surrounding him were dozens of Silverscales trying to end his life. With a single swipe of his tail, many were killed, and he tried to flea upon his wings, but bloody and shredded they could not carry him off the ground any longer. In fury he stormed through the keep, slaying any Silverscale before him whilst his own kin battled on in defense of their master. Calling for Azmordion to bring his people to heel, Sovram’s heart was broken when instead his adopted son turned on him, striking him from above over and over. There was nothing the Black Dragon could do to protect himself, save for fleeing down the mountain, vying revenge against Azmordion and all the Silverscales who wronged him and slew his kin.
Now for decades he has festered in the swamps below the mountain, a boggy wetland filled with stagnant mires and the smell of rot. Those who were left in Dragonmaw Keep perished, and Sovram thus had few of his advisors left to aid him. Grief washed over him, grief for his slain kin, grief for his clipped wings, and grief for the betrayal he felt from the dragon he saw as his son. Stewing in the wetland for decades has seen the grief slowly turn to anger, and after several incursions by the Silverscales in the land, it has become clear to Sovram that they are aiming to find him, and finish him off. Now he plots to exact his vengeance upon them, attacking Dragonmaw when the time is right, slaying Azmordion the Betrayer and taking back his throne upon Dragonmaw. Even if he perishes, it would be better at the peak of his kingdom than wallow in pity amongst the willow trees and marshes. He need now only bide his time, and strike when the moment presents itself.
An Elder Dragon who has resided upon the unnamed Isle since the days of Tharador’s First Era, though such contrivances have little bearing within the grand scale of a dragon’s life. Millennia of wear crease his scales and tatter his wings, yet in that time he has come to sire an extensive brood of descendant Dragonkin, the Darkscales. They have worshipped Sovram as their ancestor since they could talk, and upon the isle they built a basic, though content life together. For thousands of years, this was the status and they were content, until the Silverscales arrived on their shores.
They claimed to be fleeing certain death from their homeland across the sea, having been sent off course by a storm, arriving on their isle. Though Sovram was cautious among these new folk and the young Silver hatchling they held among them, his people were eager to meet these new dragonkin. With a profound mastery of technology and masonry, they were able to teach Sovram’s people of stoneworking, building gargantuan fortresses and townships across the Isle, Dragonmaw Keep the most revered of these. This keep, built upon the highest peak of the Isle, was an offering to Sovram and his descendants, one that was given with the request that the Darkscales see them as kin, and allow them to live in harmony on the isle.
Sovram, graciously accepted, admiring the new home constructed for him, which became the seat of him and his council, and that of Azmordion, the young Silver Dragon that had been brought with the Silverscales, and was seen as their leader. For centuries, Sovram tutored the young dragon in the ways of their kind, teaching him flight, manoeuvres, fighting and the ways to wield his powerful breath. Sovram saw the young dragon as a son, and grew fond of him, even though the politics of their followers would often strain the relationship they were building. Often the Silverscales expressed their malcontent in feeling like secondaries to the Darkscales upon the Isle, and it seemed no matter what they were given, their discontent did not quieten.
Ultimately, centuries of good blood spoiled, as leaders from each clan grew more irate with one another, less understanding of each other’s plights, and more driven by a desire to ensure the best future for their own people, rather than a future which might benefit the Isle as a whole. This culminated in the Night of Betrayal. Sovram awoke to feel his wings burning hot like a searing blade had cut through them, they were shredded and surrounding him were dozens of Silverscales trying to end his life. With a single swipe of his tail, many were killed, and he tried to flea upon his wings, but bloody and shredded they could not carry him off the ground any longer. In fury he stormed through the keep, slaying any Silverscale before him whilst his own kin battled on in defense of their master. Calling for Azmordion to bring his people to heel, Sovram’s heart was broken when instead his adopted son turned on him, striking him from above over and over. There was nothing the Black Dragon could do to protect himself, save for fleeing down the mountain, vying revenge against Azmordion and all the Silverscales who wronged him and slew his kin.
Now for decades he has festered in the swamps below the mountain, a boggy wetland filled with stagnant mires and the smell of rot. Those who were left in Dragonmaw Keep perished, and Sovram thus had few of his advisors left to aid him. Grief washed over him, grief for his slain kin, grief for his clipped wings, and grief for the betrayal he felt from the dragon he saw as his son. Stewing in the wetland for decades has seen the grief slowly turn to anger, and after several incursions by the Silverscales in the land, it has become clear to Sovram that they are aiming to find him, and finish him off. Now he plots to exact his vengeance upon them, attacking Dragonmaw when the time is right, slaying Azmordion the Betrayer and taking back his throne upon Dragonmaw. Even if he perishes, it would be better at the peak of his kingdom than wallow in pity amongst the willow trees and marshes. He need now only bide his time, and strike when the moment presents itself.
