Black scales glinting dully under eastern rains, young Valdin stood among dozens of clutchmates within the outer barracks of Noemis, another common-born dragonborn destined for unremarkable service. Third hatching from a diminished bloodline, he bore no aristocratic markings, no ancestral claims to glory—merely acid breath typical of his kind and hands that grew calloused from endless glaive drills upon muddy practice grounds.
We measure worth through service, not hatching-marks. The common scale may shine brighter than noble gleam when polished by dedication. — Drill-Master Zarkix
During the
Endraosai incursions along the Blackspike frontier, Valdin served within the Ashen Claw battalion—an assignment that offered little recognition yet abundant danger. While noble-born commanders directed troop movements from distant comfort, he patrolled mist-shrouded passes where zealots of
Thanon laid ambush. The deaths of two clutchmates taught him vigilance; the maiming of a third instilled tactical patience that commanders misinterpreted as hesitation. For three winters he mapped ravines, noted patrol patterns, and identified weaknesses that saved lives through preemption rather than confrontation.
Upon the Night of Broken Horns, when minotaur allies fell to
Endraosai trickery, Valdin organized the retreat that preserved half their forces. The act earned him notice among the Conquest Temple, whose clerics recognized aptitude for domination rather than protection. Black scales accepted divine channeling with uncomfortable ease, prayers manifesting not as shields or healing but as waves of supernatural dread that locked enemies in place. Throughout four campaigns along the western border, he progressed from common soldier to honored warrior, his once-dull scales now bearing subtle acid-etched patterns marking measured achievement.
Black scales hide in shadow deep,
While golden nobles claim the light.
Yet darkness holds the watching eye,
That marks the prey for coming night.
—Soldier's Chant of Eastern Armies
The Conqueror's Vanguard approached without ceremony, offering neither accolades nor promises—merely assignment scrolls bearing imperial seals. Maps of territories beyond eastern holdings accompanied dossiers on foreign powers, each marked with resource assessments and defensive evaluations. His training in conquest magic served new purpose: while gaudy high-blood paladins drew attention through heroic posturing, Valdin moved unnoticed through border towns, listening, observing, reporting. His acid breath and glaive techniques proved rarely necessary; his true value lay in methodical assessments of terrain, political fractures, and magical resources that might serve imperial ambitions.
Now standing upon Vo-Len's salt-crusted docks, Valdin watches the
Rustleech approach through toxic mist. Within his pack rest maps of
Grizburg's known quarters; upon his memory lie etched reports of artifacts lost beneath goblin streets. The dark whispers of teleportation networks twist around accounts of
Dead Gods and awakening powers. These secrets call with promise of strategic advantage beyond conventional warfare—knowledge worth gambling life among strangers whose purposes remain unclear yet temporarily aligned with his own. As
Kurgan and Tinmaw approach through swirling vapor, he adjusts his stance—not warrior, not conqueror, not spy—merely another blade seeking wealth and glory in dangerous lands. The role fits poorly upon trained shoulders, yet serves adequately for passage northward, toward ancient depths where fallen deities once walked and where empire might claim power beyond borders and armies.
The eastern knight brings necessary steel to our expedition. Whether his masters hunger for knowledge or conquest matters little—the depths beneath Grizburg conceal dangers requiring every blade available. Let him survey what he wishes; survival precedes suspicion.
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