Need to start writing again and actually putting things on this old accout. What better way to start by putting a piece of my DnD campaign experience? What a ride it was...

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Vulvith felt like he was floating, this alien sensation that he never experienced in the life that was now taken from him. He had no use the alteration spell of Featherfall if he bore the wings of his slain adversary. They were his first step in reclaiming what was so unrightfully taken from him. A blue dragon in service to a pack of his Benefactor’s mortal cultists meant little to him, he was just a stepping stone to the Dragonborn. One by one, the last needed children of Tiamat was claimed.

Green...White...thinking about this now, Vulvith realized his own error of calculation. Perhaps he had to devour the colored scales of his own origins as well. Perhaps that would have made him stronger. The Sorcerer once cared for his comrades, but as he slipped from his daughter and student’s comforting back. Her silver scales stained in his spilled blood, her eyes gawked in horror of her father wounded in this slowed moment of time and motions. He thought it was all lost by the last needed dragon’s consumption, but as he stared at Silonviing and her armoured form. The mutated Dragonborn knew he still had the phantom twinge of love for her as a guardian should. Then there was other side of this.

Once, he found an antagonistic fondness for the Monk that howled his anguish now. The knives forsaken to keep their steely penetration through spell-woven robes and draconic scales, that were nothing more than bleak imitations of his true hide. Now...Vulvith find an empty, void-like, contempt for the man. He has been betrayed. He knew he would be betrayed in some point and time, never when.

Here, now. Where they were marching to the threshold of their prey that they fought so hard to get to, coming down to this because of the temptation of a damned Tree of Wishes.

Oh how Vul could hear the delicious wails of the Wisps and Trees, it will sustain him. Their bleak lives for his, he hoped the cultists and Druids cried a millennium for the destroyed tree. A cruel smile curled on his lips and one last chuckle croaked from his dying throat, passing through the treeline. One branch broke his fall, but lost sensations of his body has saved him the first explosion of pain before it snapped and sent him further to the earth.

The knives plunged through ribs and sundered his heart and lungs. The last thing the Sorcerer saw was Silonviing diving for him in a silent wail. At first, Vulvith of the Ashmount was certain that she will be the one to carry on his legacy and avenge him...as he raised her to be...until a sinister sensation told him otherwise.

Oh, milady...what can a humbled soul do for your ravenous might in a hour of triumph?