Blood of Malakar

The Dragon's Hoard Ignis was a profound disappointment to his ancestors, and he knew it perfectly well. While the other dragons of the realm spent their centuries terrorizing coastal villages, hoarding glittering gold, and roasting the occasional foolish prince, Ignis collected paper. His cavern, nestled perilously high in the Crag of Despair, didn’t smell of sulfur and charred bone. It smelled of vanilla, settling dust, and ancient leather bindings. Ignis was a hoarder of books, maps, and lost manuscripts. The rhythmic clank-clank-clank of plate armor echoing up the mountain path interrupted his reading of a delicate Elvish history. Ignis sighed, a plume of blue smoke escaping his scaled nostrils, and carefully placed a silk bookmark between the fragile pages. Sir Galahalt burst into the cavern, broadsword drawn and gleaming with a righteous, silvery enchantment. "Foul wyrm!" the knight bellowed, his voice echoing fiercely off the stalactites. "I have come to claim your hoard and rid the realm of your—" "Shh," Ignis hissed. Sir Galahalt froze, his sword suspended mid-swing. "What?" "Lower your voice, please. The acoustics in here are terrible for shouting, and you are dangerously close to knocking over a first-edition collection of dwarven poetry," Ignis rumbled softly, adjusting…

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