02/10/2026: Cyric the Ancient White Dragon

The rest of the night passes without incident, though the cold seeps through even the warmth radiating from Crystal’s portable forge. The chill settles into bones and bedrolls alike, making sleep fitful and shallow.

In the grey morning, after the group packs up their gear with stiff fingers, the weather begins to change. Dark clouds roll overhead, and the wind picks up—not gradually, but all at once, like a door slamming open. Leaning into the brutally cold wind, several of the party feel the bite of true frost on their exposed skin. Nike’s cheeks burn with it. Crystal’s scales ache where the wind finds purchase between them.

As they move through a wide stretch of mountain path, the sound of leathery wings echoes through the clouds above—a slow, rhythmic whump-whump that seems to make the very air vibrate.

“That’s a dragon!” Nike mouths silently, her eyes wide with recognition and terror.

Crystal’s hand shoots up in a sharp signal: hide. There are plenty of boulders here, deep shadows pooling beneath rock formations, clefts in the cliff face perfect for pressing bodies into. All scatter at once, boots crunching in snow, breath held tight.

But Ratrick loses his footing on a patch of ice. His legs fly out from under him and he can’t stop the involuntary howl that tears from his throat as he crashes down, pain shooting through his shoulder and hip.

The flapping sound, which had been growing fainter, returns. Louder now. Closer.

Soon, an enormous, ancient white dragon settles onto the snow with a ground-shaking thud. Its front feet alone are longer than Ratrick’s supine body, each claw like a scythe carved from ice-blue bone. The ratling stares upward in absolute horror, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps that fog the air.

Crystal stands slowly, forcing herself not to shudder despite the trembling in her knees. She calls out, her voice carrying across the snow, “Oh, great dragon. We have brought an offering to you!”

The huge, turquoise eyes—brilliant and ancient and utterly inhuman—find the sorcerer, who stands with arms extended in supplication.

“Offering?” The dragon’s voice rumbles like an avalanche beginning. “You call this mouthful an offering, cousin?” He gestures with one massive claw toward the dazed Ratrick sprawled in the snow.

“No, no!” Crystal’s words come faster now. “I have 1,500 platinum that you can add to your hoard, oh…what are you called, your excellence? I am called Crystal.”

The dragon’s expression shifts—not quite a smile, but something close. He extends one claw delicately to accept the sack containing the coins, weighing it thoughtfully. “I am Cythric Halfclaw. And I am hungry.” He pokes Ratrick with one of his sickle-shaped claws, dragging the rogue back toward him with casual, terrifying ease. A drop of saliva falls into the snow near the ratling’s head, melting a small crater in the ice.

“Cythric, your highness,” squeaks Ratrick, his voice cracking with fear, “instead of a poor tasting specimen like myself—all fur and gristle, really—would you accept a story…the tale of Bosun Bill…as payment instead?”

The dragon’s eyes narrow to slits, ancient and calculating. He rumbles deep in his chest, “Bosun Bill? Who is this and why should I care?”

The rogue rushes on, words tumbling over each other in desperation, “Only one who is important to the history of dragons, your excellence! A figure of legend, really, whose deeds—”

“Go on,” Cythric says, settling his massive bulk more comfortably into the snow.

Ratrick proceeds to spin an elaborate tale about Bosun Bill, a legendary slayer of dragons who terrorized dragonkind across the realm—

“WHAT?” Cythric bellows, and the sound reverberates off the mountainside. Snow shakes loose from nearby rocks.

“—Until he met five dragons in battle,” Ratrick continues quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves. “Then he was killed and eaten by them, as is only right and proper! A cautionary tale about the folly of challenging dragonkind!”

Ratrick holds up the ancient shield he’s been carrying, its surface scarred and dented. “I have the original shield carried by Bosun Bill himself. Would you accept this trophy—this piece of history—in exchange for my life, great Cythric?”

Zilk rolls his eyes from his hiding place, knowing full well that Ratrick is spinning pure fiction. But the dragon considers the shield, his great head tilting thoughtfully. After a long, tense moment, Cythric plucks the shield delicately between two claws, examines it briefly, and then crunches down on it, metal screaming between his teeth. He swallows with obvious satisfaction.

“Very well, little storyteller,” the dragon says, licking his chops. “But know this—the Amber Temple ahead is full of evil things that will eat storytellers whole, without even pausing to hear their tales. Consider yourself warned.”

With that, he launches himself into the air, the downdraft from his wings nearly knocking them all flat.

The group stands in stunned silence for a moment before deciding to press on. They reach the rope bridge—an ancient, ice-encrusted thing spanning a deep chasm where wind howls up from unknowable depths below. They decide to cross starting with the lighter members…

…then Biblo, nearly 7 feet tall and 300 pounds, trots across without incident, his booted feet somehow finding purchase on every plank. Nike follows more carefully, testing each step before committing her weight.

Crystal starts across, moving methodically—but midway, her foot punches through a cracked, rotten plank with a splintering crack. She manages to catch herself on the ropes, avoiding a fall into the chasm, but her leg remains stuck fast in the broken wood, wedged at an awkward angle.

Nike immediately steps back out onto the bridge to help, but slips on a patch of ice coating the rope. Her feet fly out from under her and suddenly she’s falling, the world spinning—

Crystal’s hand shoots out and catches Nike’s wrist in an iron grip. But the weight pulls Crystal off-balance, and now Nike hangs upside down over the chasm, the wind whipping her hair wildly. The blood rushes to her head and her vision begins to tunnel.

“I’ve got you,” Crystal gasps, her leg still trapped, arm trembling with the effort of holding on. “I’ve got you!” Nike gasps, “Just—don’t let go—”

Zilk strides out onto the bridge without hesitation, his weight making the whole structure groan and sway. But his hands are steady as he works to free Crystal’s leg while helping pull Nike back up to safety. After several tense minutes where every rope creak sounds like a breaking cable, they finally make it safely across, collapsing on the far side with shaking limbs.

Shifty gathers up his cats into his backpack and uses a Dimension Door spell, bringing Ilya with him to the other side of the crevasse in a blink of magical displacement.

Ratrick follows last, carefully avoiding the hole Crystal made, and soon they’re all across and continuing forward.

The extreme cold continues to savage them. Even through layers of clothing, the wind finds ways to steal warmth. Several members take injuries that they desperately hope are not frostbite. Their movements becoming sluggish, fingers and toes going numb.

They finally arrive at the Amber Temple itself—a massive structure of ice-coated stone. Tall statues are set between columns across its face, and they are too swathed in ice to determine who they represent. Following a set of footprints in the snow, they discover a small cave in the stone on one side of the temple. Here they follow the tracks leading inside the entrance.

They investigate silently, peering into what looks like a natural shelter, perhaps used by animals. At the back of the cave, through a narrow gap in the stone, something unexpected is revealed. Crystal spots group of people huddled inside, their faces turning toward the newcomers with expressions of alarm.

 A large wolf rolls to its feet and trots to the opening that the sorcerer is peering through. It begins growling, hackles rising, and an older woman calls out from within, her voice cautious but not hostile, “Would you also like to shelter from the storm? There’s room enough, if you mean no harm.”

They introduce themselves. The group is a hunting party led by a weathered woman named Helwa, who sought shelter after getting surprised by a sudden snowstorm. There are three other scouts, two children bundled in furs, and the hunting wolf—a grey beast with amber eyes that watches the party warily.

“We know nothing about the temple,” Helwa explains, gesturing vaguely toward the interior. “Only that it’s evil and dangerous. We’ve avoided it our whole lives, but when the storm hit…” She shrugs. “Better evil walls than freezing to death.”

The room beyond is small and roughly square, with a door on the north wall and another on the east wall. The hunting party has thrown down their bedrolls and packs near a small fire they’ve built. The smell of roasting elk meat fills the space, making stomachs growl despite the tension. The children peer at Ilya with shy curiosity—he’s about their age, and after a moment, one of them offers him a timid smile.

After some initial tension and mutual suspicion, both groups agree to share the space for the night. They pass around strips of roasted elk. The warmth of the fire and the company begins to thaw the worst of the cold from their bones.

Then one of the locked doors begins to shake violently.

Everyone freezes. The wolf’s growl becomes a continuous rumble.

Behind the door, they hear snuffling and growling—wet, hungry sounds—likely drawn by the smell of roasting meat.

Zilk moves immediately toward the shaking door, pulling out his thieves’ tools. But his fingers are still half-numb from the cold, and as he works the lock, the tools break off in the mechanism with a metallic snap, jamming it completely.

Ilya shrieks, pointing with a trembling finger. Long, emaciated fingers tipped with filthy, broken nails are being slipped beneath the door, scrabbling and clawing at the stone floor.

Crystal steps forward, her hands already moving in the pattern for a spell. Light blooms between her fingers as she casts Hypnotic Pattern. The colorful, swirling lights seep under the door.

From behind the locked door, the creature—whatever it is—begins mewling, a pitiful, almost childlike sound. But it doesn’t pull back. Instead, it stuffs its hands further beneath the door, reaching, grasping blindly.

Zilk, perhaps foolishly, grabs the creature’s fingers, trying to hold them still.

The clawed hands close instantly, slicing and crushing Zilk’s hand with savage strength. He grunts in pain but doesn’t let go, blood dripping onto the stone floor as the creature’s nails dig deeper into his flesh.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​