Fate of Thorik

Draq nested on the headless neck of the Mountain King statue for the night. A small cave had been created when the head had fallen off, and steam was continually rising out of it. It was a warm spot to sleep for the night with a perfect view to see any intruders arriving.

  He looked down to his right to see the campfire light outside the main entrance of the city. Memories of past crusades with friends tempted him to go down, but he no longer was one to socialize, nor did he like being inside. He felt confined and helpless when he entered buildings or tunnels. He had comparatively little way of defending himself against those who would threaten him or his friends. He needed space to fly, to glide, to swoop, to strike.

  The red-tipped silver dragon missed the days of battles and returning home after the victories. It had been a long time since he and Ambrosius had a victory to celebrate. It had also been a long time since he had been home with his family and he didn’t see that changing any time soon.

  Coiling up near the steam vent, Draq rested his head over the edge of the statue’s neck so he could view the valley at all times. After the long road Ambrosius and he had traveled, the dragon no longer could look out and see such a valley as beautiful. Instead, all he saw were hiding places that others could be using before they attacked. The world was now a large continuous battlefield.