Magic's End

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt 'The Elderflame'

'More of them. Always more of them.' Graighadeim thought to himself as he watched the ravine floor from his eyrie, high upon his God's holy mountain. Stretching out his shoulders and wings, he readied himself for a fight, should these fools seek it in addition to the treasures held in the sanctum. Now fully awake, Graighadeim threw himself from the edge, his wings tilted just enough to keep him from touching the cliff face, letting gravity pull him to his would-be foes.

As he flew down, he thanked himself for spreading a rumour centuries passed that his kind was nocturnal. He was halfway down to these intruders when the sun finally touched his scales, and even on this winter morning, he felt its heat as though he was still in his mother's nest, waiting to hatch. Graighadeim saw that one of the thieves had spotted his form against the mountainside, and he roared, hoping that she had sight enough to see his jaws. It seems she did if her fear was any measure. 'Strange, she is Alfar. They should know far better than to approach his mountain,' He thought to himself, 'no matter, she will flee, or she will die. They all will.'

Graighadeim flapped his great wings, and 50 feet of scaled leather slapped the air, nearly stopping his momentum as he landed in front of the thieves. "You of all the many thieves should know better, young one," he growled, his voice resounding throughout the ravine, "do you not serve the same Gods as I?" he demanded as this gathering of fools found their feet again.

"Great Dragon, forgive our trespass. We have need of your kind, or at least your blessing. May we know your name?" The Alfaress spoke clearly, despite her shaking voice, and in the language of the priests of old, before the schism.

Graighadeim was taken aback at hearing a language his kind thought the younger races had forgotten. Folding his wings against his back, he relaxed partially, suspecting a trap. "You may call me Garathor. What name should I give you?" he said, eyeing the 8 who had come carefully. They were armed and arrayed as though for battle, not for the thievery Graighadeim had initially supposed was their aim.

"Garathor," She said, bowing correctly, "I am called Shalana. We have come to the mountain, to beg your aid. The Lord of Dismay's children are gathered in a Great Horde and are laying waste as is their wont. Despite our peoples banding together, we are outmatched as their father has gifted them astonishing powers. Will you help us?"

Graighadeim studied her carefully but saw no falsehoods in her words. "What manner of powers do they wield?" he asked, his mind casting back to the earliest stories he learned as a mewling, fear creeping along his spine as he did. Fear of the Prophecy of Magic's End.

"The dead, do not stay dead in the Horde's presence. The brave are shaken, and many are routed before any clash of sword or axe occurs." A Deep-Dweller answered in the Shalana's stead; Graighadeim turned to regard him with a disdainful eye, and the Deep-Dweller bowed in apology for his uninvited explanation, spoken in base words.

"He speaks the truth?" Graighadeim asked Shalana, who affirmed her companion's words. "Follow." He said, lifting himself up to turn in the ravine, shaking the ground with his bulk, and lead them to the hidden doors of the Dragonspire Mountain and the council hidden deep within.