Storms, according to some circles of superstition, often accompanied terrible events. Particularly violent ones especially, such as the thunderstorm that raged over the erratically crashing waves of Nyella. Even the most salty and wizened sailors could not divine what legend of the deep the foaming and booming heralded….though, the tale was known to one soul, upon the shores in Vilpamolan.
Story stood upon the docks, indigo gaze cast contemplatively out over the troubled waters. Ship hands and merchants shouted and scrambled about in the torrential rain, getting their shipments under cover and retreating to the cabins, or took to the city streets to get to the tavern. It was only early evening on this Summer's eve, but the sky had already gone ominously black - darker than what mere cloud cover could provide. Though the wind howled, and the downpour was constant, the lone, dark man at the pier seemed unbothered by it all. He did not even attempt to pull his overcoat more tightly about his frame. At his sides, a whip, and an oddly hefty-looking, though elegant saber or rapier-like blade in a scabbard shifted in the wind.
The man that faced the storm knew the cause of it all.
Nature was restless. Blasphemous things were said to rise from the depths on this particular day. One such thing was tied to the vigilant dragon - a cathedral from another era…so long-forgotten now, that it may well be from another world. Heretical magic from the void was taught to mortal men there. Blood was spilled. It was a place of odd reverence where men became beasts far worse than the ones that lorded over them, the umbral dragons. Monarchs of the time accepted the strange creatures' dark gifts, and soon passed it off to their entire courts. It was no surprise that Story's kind was wiped from the annals of history. They were exterminated, like the plague they were.
He had helped humanity do it, too.
Remnants of the vampiric blood existed today, to be sure; the dragons were not the only source of the affliction. They were just the first to bend the natural laws to will its existence. Story was also certain others like him still lived somewhere out there. There were those of his kin that were much more passive in their ambitions, or, like him, did not agree with the total dominion that the eldest among them, Malchiah, had wanted.
Story had been the ruin of his race, and he had bound his brother many ages ago. These bindings seemed to have come undone recently, and he felt his brother's call now, somewhere midst the sea.
Malchiah had acquired some sort of terrible power, as ancient as he and Story were, though wholly different in nature.
The dragon did not know what to expect from the estranged tyrant. He doubted Mal wanted to throw himself at his feet with open arms. It wasn't in his nature…their nature. Dragons, not just their kind, but all species had a curious perception of time in comparison to humanity. Everything remained remarkably fresh in the memory - hence a dragon's penchant to hold grudges.
Shimmering, colorful lights formed at Story's back, gradually taking the form of ethereal wings. They lifted him up over the docks, and into the dark clouds above to allow him to change shape safely. The dragon's ebony scaled flesh was even darker than it was when he took the shape of a man. Story could scarcely be seen, aside from the soft luminescence of his vast wings in the clouds, and the terrifying outline that was shown whenever lightning would flash. He descended somewhat when he was well away from the docks, only hoping none had witnessed his ascent and subsequent transformation.
This was the perfect night for such a strange confrontation on an island of myth. Only the foolish would dare sail in conditions like these.
Story circled about the endless crashing waves, heading gradually northeast until he could spot a structure above the water.
