Dragons & Lace
Shadowmental
All the witches and warlocks are pardoned sacreligiously wonder where give stories of the Dragon Age, what summoner wroth, which dragon makes without fire, to these the wonderment of Obsidian Dragons.
It is the accursed Forest Dragon of obsidian family that blends into the world without anyone seeing it, commanded by the Sith Priests, for in the tail and scales are bark and wood, to cleverly displace homes and parliaments alike, with the creaking of wood for its scales, with the crumbling of bark for its rattling tail.
Fire ends the Forest Draig, if one usually keeps no trees inside a home.
It was an elder who would tax the foresters, thereof the trees were sold and milled to great purchase, barracks for the dark times as they unleashed the dragon of a Leshiy from beneath gone forest, it was their city claimed for the taking when the trees would grow again.
Oil bleeds deep into the earth, for it is past and present the fires of industry and temples, the Tar Dragon speaks for shadows it shapes with its black wings as shapeable as Obsidian silk, forever conquest is a sole hope of the torches of battles, for they become commanded by the dwarves whose mines open between where the oil has made abjective lakes, ink wells for the magic of the Obsidian Order, written on the pages are the actions of Oil Dragons before occurence.
I am a king to share my wealth, I am trapped in the midnight oil.
Far into the West, there is a clan of cave dragon masters, The Black River tribe of ten thousand who obey the saving plans, the scenery of the Dragon Mines, where structure and sculptures are of dragon resemblance. For here the dragons are made of godly magic that has combined dragons and mages.
Unable to breathe fire we tamed it, but given flames to bathe in ash.
You're siezed and captured, taking you to the Judgement, in chains you watch a witch walk with a living dragon, murmuring and grumbling fire. The judge takes the fire and sings to it, urging it to dance. The flames of revenge seek no prisoners, you must escape the Shadowmental with your life.
Your soul thrown into the Cauldron of Rebirth, you are summoned in the Draighold, inside a great war pressing toward a high city by a vast army, you remember a poem from long ago.
Death is Surrender.
War falls upon you with a thousand dragons,
Victory as trumpets appease the riders of Summerholm,
With our masks to stop the smoke filled skies,
Late is the eye of creation thru destruction,
Riders as light as cork with kitestrings,
Sweeping the skies for the blind scourge of Vampires,
Combing the lands for the hungering Werewolves,
We have not summoned your Underworld,
You have requested us as your terminus.
High Priestess of Caffrey, SPQR.
Shadowmental cannot continue, resumen non sequitur.