The Nentir Vale is Doomed

Dragons and Shellfish

It's fun to play with food.

This one wriggled more than most. The problem, Shadowmire mused to himself, was that the metal shell was thick and his subject was spirited. Ofeen Nole, that was what it had called itself- though you’d think it’s name was Pelor as much as it kept screaming that particular invocation. Another dragon might consider the screams that humans make upon death to be grating or even sickening, but Shadowmire felt quite the opposite. He was elated.

Shadowmire had heard that some of the lower races experienced a similar reaction to the death wail of a crustacean as it was being dropped into boiling water. He shuddered with delight at the thought of using such a method when he next had the opportunity, if only to see if they’d make the same whining sound.

This one called Ofeen Nole had only itself to blame. Chak and his entire war band lay dead and dismembered in the marshes. They bore the mark of the Blackmarsh, Shadowmire’s favored tribe, and they had been slain in defense of a… what was this primitive structure? A little hovel propped up on sticks, as if it were somehow defying the very marsh it was built upon? His marsh? The little stick-house annoyed Shadowmire, and in a single breath it was no more.

He spoke to the limp little thing: “The ship bearing your little gaggle of saviors bore east out of the marsh. They’ve left you. That is quite unfortunate, both for your sake and for the sake of all those peasants that pushed their little pieces of driftwood to the other settlements. I shall truly enjoy picking the limbs from each and every one of you I find. It’s quite a sensation you are feeling, isn’t it? To be unable to clap your little paws for the lack of arms to do so? Ah, but it is an occasion to applaud yourself! It is because of your impudence that I’ve decided to purge all of your… ilk… from my domain, and I have some truly wonderful things in store for your little insect colonies.”

There it was- the look of fear and hopelessness that Shadowmire so loved to see in his subjects faces. Perhaps the one called Ofeen Nole would serve as a testament to Shadowmire’s abilities in the persuasive arts- perhaps it would swear fealty in a hopeless effort to spare itself. He examined his specimen more closely. Then the creature spat at him, its demeanor suddenly changed to that of anger and defiance. A pity.

With a disappointed sigh, Shadowmire ripped her in half.



Dragons and Shellfish

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