No Flying Dragons

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There was a time when dragons invaded the sky. They hunted the helpless – the slow of step, the meek of heart, the faithful who bowed their heads in prayer. Their wings blackened the sun; their breath filled the air with ash. The land cried out, but men could not stop them.

A benevolent god rose in wrath. He smote the dragons from the sky and buried them deep in the swamps, pressing them into the mud and water, smothering them until their wings rotted away.

But dragons are not easily ended.

Though trapped, they endured, coiled in the dark, waiting. They cannot leave the mires, but they stir the waters and prey on anything they spot. Not just the innocent now, not just the easiest of prey – but anyone and anything with meat on its bones.