Menthol

Drake of Breathing Roots
Sovereign of Breathing Roots
Honored of the Drake/Sovereign


Guardian of the Protectorate
Magus of the Protectorate
Plaid of the Protectorate


Wyrm of Preeminent/First Order
Wyrm of Ancestral Order
Wyrm of Scholarly Order
Wyrm of Middling/Second Order
Wyrm of Foundling Order
Wyrm of Austere Order
Wyrm of Bonded/Third Order








A small chirp sounded and a shadow fell heavily from the heavy shroud of night landing desperately upon the heaving visage the victor, the lord of breath, the great wyrm. The flying shadow clung to him viciously, chirping frantically into his mane. She was his mate, given to him by the lord before, and was the first to honor him. He could refuse her now, as was his right, but the roar which slowly rumbled from deep within him was one of triumph and acceptance. Acceptance of his mate, acceptance of his right, and trumpeting his triumph into the world. *He* was the Drake of Breathing Roots, and all wyrms within its grasp were his.

The battle had felled trees, torn them asunder by their roots, and ripped into the heart of the swamp like a borer. The silt would swirl with tendrils of acrid redness for days, if not weeks to come. The trees would never again grow here, on this a battlefield of impurity, and all beings of the earth would know it. The lord before had fought with the abandon of one who has all to lose, but his usurper had defeated him with the vigor of one who has all to gain.

The body of the fallen twitched for the final time, and it was truly done. The drake and his queen turned and together they left for a sanctuary known only to them, and from the shadows emerged the wyrms of the Breathing Roots to claim their right, the lord before was theirs now, and his rule had not been one of ease nor of gentleness. Their collective revenge, given only in death, would be the same. He was denied a final flight into the heavens, into the arms of his Flamecaller, and was consumed by even the lowest of those who had once belonged beneath his talons. The songs of the swamp inhabitants slowly came back into life, as he was erased from the world, bones and all.

Before the first light of dawn, the world of the mangrove sanctuary had been restored, its heart beating to a new, stronger, pulsating rhythm. The frogs sang late into the morning, the buzz of insects hummed louder, and to many the world was alight with the rays of a new sun. Great land wyrms stayed above the comfort of their hollows to bask in its warmth, and even the lovers of shadow and darkness roosted beneath tendrils of light which shone through even the densest of leaf cover. An era had come to an end, and one had begun anew.

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Far south of the decrepit ruin of the great sundial, if one were to take wing and fly west, feeling the morning’s first rays warming ones’ back, one would come to a river lit with midday sun. One should rest, for the journey is often the true destination, and the river is cool and crisp. The Lightweaver blesses all who take refreshment here, or so say the old ways. Taking care after one’s respite to avoid the crumbling embankment, lest one wishes for a bath, take flight once more and circle seeking the outlines of crumbling limestone, flying close, it will be the Hewn City one has found.

Fly high and seek the brightest hue of cream, stone bleached near white by the Lightweaver, for there lies a ruin. This ruin lies lower than the surrounding plain, and is the landmark which tells of a hidden water forest, which lies undisturbed beyond. Trees here are greater at the root than at the branches, and the region is ripe with life of flora and fauna. Estuaries feed the land from both sea and river, making it rich and ripe, a bountiful mother of lands. Great clouds of water birds will squawk and flee at the sight of you, but do not be surprised if others yawn and rest, as many who dwell here are quite used to the presence of dragon kind.

If you tread in, beware your footing for it can be treacherous. Bogland and marsh border the richness of the mangrove forest, and keep out many who would wish ill upon the oasis within. Floating mats of decaying wetness float atop unseen sources, making each step an unsteady calculation. Beware the sleeping bogsneak most of all, for they have ferocious temperaments! One should carefully for puffs of steam which rise above the ground, for it is likely a bogsneak sleeps warmly below!

Once one arrives, one must know that one is now a guest of the dragons of Breathing Roots. It was that the mangrove born drake, Pieris, outwitted the flame touched drake, Olivius, to claim the lair of Breathing Roots. One must quickly seek the one of maize and heather, for he and the great mangrove drake are as clutch mates, one favors the others guidance. Move quickly, for if found by the others of this place, one may not be as safe as the tranquil waters have deceived. Welcome to Breathing Roots, traveler.

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