Re-uploaded from Noirman33

Arathor sat upon a boulder on the bank of a stream, taking in the sounds of the forest around him. After the intense training he put his men through that day, all he desired was some peace and tranquillity. It had been a clear, hot summer day, the heat made near-unbearable by the armour Arathor wore. He had taken off his chest plate and had laid it down on the grass next to him, allowing his muscular, grey-scaled torso to breathe. His sword, Chainbreaker, its blade plunged into the earth, stood to Arathor’s right. And atop the pommel of his weapon sat his helmet; the gem in the forehead glimmering in the fading sunlight.

The King gazed off into the forest, thinking of the long journey back home to Wyrmguard Castle. His army had three days of travel ahead of them, a distance easily traversed if everyone flew at top speed. But Arathor knew only a quarter of his contingent, and himself, were endurance flyers. And, on top of that, a smaller percentage of his soldiers were kobolds that had no wings at all. Arathor sighed, and then smiled. If the next few days remained clear, he and his army would be treated to the spectacular views Central Wyrmguard had to offer.

From the letter he received from Celestie that morning, the castle had been bombarded by endless rain. For a moment, Arathor was glad to be where he was. But being parted from his wife and Queen made him long for her company. Since being transformed and accepted into Draconic Royalty, Celestie had taken to her duties as if she were born to them. She was a meek, shy and troubled kobold maid when Arathor first met her. Now, she had blossomed into a kind, confident and stunningly beautiful dragoness, her scales as red hot as her passion for him. Passion only he knew and everyone else could only imagine. When Arathor returned home, he was going to hold her tight and never let go.

The sound of rattling came up behind him. Arathor turned to see one of his generals trudging up the hill towards him. Noticing his King’s gaze, the dragon stopped and bowed. “Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said, stiffly.

“Its fine, Telfar,” Arathor smiled, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re not interrupting anything. What is it you want to say?”

“Thank you, sir. The men have brought a barrel of ale and were wondering if your majesty would care to join them. Of course you don’t have to. I told them you might be too busy so I said—“

“—I’d love to. We could all use the time to unwind.”

“Very good, sir,” nodded Telfar. “I’ll tell them the good news.” With a nod, the dragon headed back towards the camp. A bonfire had been lit and Arathor’s men sat around it, talking loudly and laughing at each other’s bawdy comments.

Collecting his things, the King joined them.


Art by  Vainilla_Latte