"Children, be quiet," the old elf croaked out. "I've got something I want to share with you all.

"

He checked his pipe and once satisfied with the contents, he poured ash into the fire. His free
hand held the hot iron which he stoked the fire with. His shimmering eyes focused on the
flames. As with most nights that were cold and dark, Athern felt it was a good time to warm both
his grandchildren's minds and their bodies. After the flames were crackling with the fresh logs,
he looked at the children with his deep golds eyes.

"I overheard Atol playing pretend as a dragon..."

Atol, a young redheaded elf scooted back.

"Atol, it's alright. I'm not mad. When I was your age, I wanted to be a dragon, flying high above
the skies, breathing fire and lightning. My grandfather, Ulral, told me the story I'll tell you all right
now. I want you all safe, and I figured you wanted to know more about dragons. Am I not
wrong?"

His four grandchildren scooted closer. Although Athern was old and grey, he still had the spark
of a three-hundred year old plains elf in his eyes. He leaned into his worn bone chair. He was
collecting his thoughts as his smirk grew wider and wider.

He returned to the present, noticing his grandchildren growing a little bored.

"'Never trust a dragon', grandfather Ulral always told me. He would know, since he told me what
his father knew... Almost a thousand years ago in the Asgro mountains, there was a mighty city
kingdom from which the mountains drew the name from."
Athern held the glowing hot poker, pointing out the window. At this time of night, the full moon
was illuminating the dark, craggily slopes of Mount Asgro, and its sister peaks, Aser and Oron.
"There lived a clan of humans up there, and once the mountains were claimed from the Ogres,
they dedicated it to there main three gods. A god of hunting, a goddess of honor, and a goddess
of night, if you want to be specific." He paused a moment, taking a deep breath before he
continued.

"There was a dragon, who lived in the forest. In fact, it was this very forest, my grandfather
would say, usually after enjoying some Dwarfish stout. The dragon that lived here, was a wise
yet lonely Forest Wyrm named Gilgoroth. He was as green as leaves in spring, and his eyes
were bright like the shining stars. He was however, lonely. Most dragons took to treasure for
companionship, as gold and silver never talks ill of you. Anyways...Gilgoroth could never find
something to sate his drive. He had a horde of gold and jewels, yet it wasn't enough. Unlike
most other dragons, it made him sick, sick of being like a miser. One day, his drive was so
great, he went to one of the ancient rulers of the forest, one of the Weavers."

The old elf leaned back. "The Weavers are old gods, and they enjoy the affairs of mortal races.
When GIlgoroth found her, he pleaded with her to find his goal, what drove him."

Zara, the youngest of the two girls, spoke up. "Grandfather, where did he find her?"

Athern sighed, scratching his head. "I don't know myself, but...that's not very important. The
dragon was told that he should go to Asgro's fortress city. He made it there, but soon realized
his form is extremely conspicuous, so he stole the shape of a man. He wasn't handsome, perse,
but he was sufficient in his magickal disguise. He determined that he should apply his skills, so
he became magick tutor. After several years of magickal studies and training, he drew the eye
of the Queen, Esgar. Esgar was a startling beautiful human, comparable to ladies of court in
Elvish kingdoms. Her eyes were cold blue, and her pale hair brought to mind the image of
untrodden snow."