Dawn shone across the wilderlands of Arathkin, painting the adventuring band known as the Obsidian Brotherhood in golds and reds. At the lead stood valiant Varathis, their leader. “The cave is ahead,” he declared, pointing at the jagged edge of the Crystalline Mountains. 

 

Once inside the deep, dark, earth, the caves of Gothmarog, once home to a mighty band of dwarves, now taken over by a terrible dragon. They were prepared for anything. 

 

Or so they thought. 

 

“Um! Excuse me!” echoed a powerful voice from the shadows of the cave. The Obsidian Brotherhood readied their weapons. “Yes! You there. The ones with the pointy things. Could I possibly steal a moment of your time. I’d be ever so grateful.” 

 

Varathis looked at his best and oldest friend, the Noble Neala. She shrugged back. “You may have audience with us!” he decided. 

 

“Oh, lovely,” came the voice as the terrible wyrm in question appeared before them. 

 

It was … small. Actually. No larger than a horse, and even that was being generous, with a set of broken spectacles over his scaly nose. “A dragon!” Neala cried

 

“Drake more actually. One in need of assistance.” 

 

“Hold!” Varathis commanded. “What assistance would you ask of us, vile beast.” 

 

“Okay, hurtful name calling. That’s fine. Look. It’s so embarrassing I’m blushing just thinking about it, but I … um. I need help to …” he looked down, almost childlike. “I am lost.”  

 

“Lost!?” Bellowed Balarius the Black. “A dragon lost in his own cave!” 

 

“Yes, indeed. I went to make some tea and then … well I took a left turn. I was sure it was a left turn, but … you lot seem sensible enough, if rather hurtful with your words. I just want to get back to my library. I was reading an ever so enthralling book and … will you help me?” 

 

Valiant Varathis looked upon the pitiful beast, and was moved. “Aye, drake who is lost. It would be the honor of the Obsidian Brotherhood to return you to your library.”