Tarraheim of Egt
Tarrheim reverently strolled through the Halls of Knowledge, taking in the marble floors and gilded doorways. The air smelled old, not of dust and mold, but of oils and spices now scarce within the realm. He moved as one in a trance, counting doorways, breathing deeply, his eyes tracing the swirls in the marble and the contours of the architecture. The statue of the dragon, they’d said, resided through the fifth door on the right.
Before he'd stepped across the threshold, he could feel the air change. His breath caught in his throat. The statue occupied the heart of the room, and it pulsed with an energy that caused his skin to tingle. His eyes had not time to take in the fullness of the statue’s magnificence before a dark haze encroached upon the edges of his vision. Fighting for focus he marveled at the way the light through the high windows played upon the intricate carving, giving the illusion of motion, of life.
The statue seemed to grow as his knees buckled. Through gasps for breath, he broke the silence, “Son of the Spring, Bringer of Peace, Silver Dragon, speak to me, tell me what you would have me do.”
Before an answer could come, the darkness consumed his vision, and the energy stole his bodily control.