A strange tale starts to circulate, spoken in hushed tones and only to those near and trusted. It seems to
originate from Highpass Fort. A beast of horn and scale has been spotted once
again, in the skies above the Mountain of Storms. Its path of destruction clear to see, having lain low a group of adventurers. But what was it doing, whom was it after?
"A boy," the words are barely breathed, and a furtive glance as to who else might be listening. A human child speaking only the tongue of the elves. The beast, believed to be some minion of those who bear the tattoo of the green dragon, sent to retrieve him.
While most of the group courageously engaged the beast in mortal combat, a few, perhaps more shrewd than the rest, stole the boy away, out of harm's reach.
"What was so special about the lad?"
The question is met with a slow indraw of breath. "A dragonling," comes the whispered response.
There follows a moment of silence as implications are considered. "So, what happened to them?"
In tones a little more relaxed, "In the end, the boy was safely delivered."
"To whom?"
A meaningful glance is exchanged.
"Fisterion."
