Faerwald

He had been likened to a certain Norse god more times than he could even estimate. Yes, he was a bit mischievous. The 'mischief in him' often led him to do... certain things to other dragons, that might have been viewed as 'mean' or 'callous' by those who did not understand Yaad's character.

Meanness? Him? Oh, never. Never, never- not meanness. Did he have something of a vengeful streak? ...Perhaps. Perhaps. Was he ever bitter? Resentful? Antagonistic? Well, of course. Hah! Wasn't everyone?

Yaad coiled about the shadows at the base of the stones that rested at the bottom of a deep, shaded ravine. There was no shame in hiding. Self-preservation was a very wise and most worthy venture. Having cut off the tuft of a specific mage's tail, he wasn't fool enough to face an old tundra who was both angry and in possession of some magical capacity - a magical capacity which Yaad may or may not have demeaned at some point in time. So he would simply sit in the nice shade, the darkest of the shade, amongst a clutter of boulders and large, friendly rocks. Sitting and waiting usually did the trick. Let the storm pass. There was no use in allowing oneself to be batted about for someone else's amusement.

What right had they to overreact like this anyway?

Yaad snorted as he nestled into the loose dirt of the ravine, somehow finding it genuinely pleasant.