Rhaega, the last of the Dragonborn. In the Red Wastes, there is only one forest: the forest of stone dragons, a three mile expanse filled with stone statues of draconic men, women, and children. The Dragonborn ruled the area that is now the Red Wastes in the 12th Age until The Plague of Stone turned the tribes into unmoving statues. Four months ago, one of the statues woke from its slumber to find a halfling sorceress standing before it with a look of impatience on her face. ‘The Great Wolf sent me to find you,’ the sorceress said, ‘but she didn’t tell me you’d take this long. The world needs you.’
Rhaega clutched her heartshell in one hand and her great axe in the other as she looked the halfling up and down. Rhaega’s wingtips stretched taller than a man is high; this did not take long. ‘I know no Great Wolf,’ she spat. ‘I thirst for the blood of the Wizard of Horizon who cursed my people. What does your Great Wolf say to that?’
The sorceress paused; her eyes glazed over as she muttered nonsense to herself while flashing lights danced around her. After a moment she appeared to listen, smiled, and looked to Rhaega. ‘The path to the Archmage lies through the quest of the Great Wolf.’
Rhaega spat, flexed her wings, and glared at the sorceress.
‘Um, she’s fine with it if you are?’
Lo, Rhaega was pleased.