The White Dragon & its Hunt

There is a dragon whose scales are the color of fresh snow and whose flame is cold as the day the Earth will die. Like all of its kind, it is a hunter before anything else. What greater thrill than warm blood lapped up after a struggle? What greater realization that one is alive then right before they die and steal that very same life for themselves? But, unlike its brothers and sisters, unlike its mother, unlike all it will sire, this dragon has a gift: the gift of true Intelligence.

True, it is, that most dragons are incapable of abstract thought. That is a cruel curse latent to their biology. They horde and horde because they are driven too, cannot stop, but though they may horde gold or philosophy or poems or magic, they know not the true value of these things. It is greed that keeps them at what they do. A dragon's riddles are but manifestations of this greed; a confused dialect meant to throw away the clever and to protect what is theirs. That is not to say that dragons are stupid. A dragon knows well how to manipulate, for that is a method of hunting; but, it goes no further than that.

This dragon, whose name I do not know, is different. Value, abstractness--these things are clear to it. Emotions are understood. Empathy, sympathy, antipathy all--yes, the dragon understands the world around it. And this has made its hunts truly devastating.

At the age of 400, the dragon mastered how to use its body. It put value in this, for by mastering its body, by refraining from hording and other dragon behaviors, by thinking in the long-term, it could ensure a never-ending life of success. So, it mastered the art of flying, of swimming, of digging, of walking on ice, of Breathing, of balance. It is adroit in all things physical. One might ask, how can monster so large be so adept? 400 years is a long time. Even the clumsiest of fools, given time and training and willpower, can become an acrobat without compare given so many centuries.

At the age of 700, the dragon had learned many of arcane magic's deepest secrets. It learned how to manipulate the weave, how to bring the arcana latent in its flesh out, how to grant Wishes and weave Fabrications. It is adept in the arts of Divination, Abjuration, and Illusion. Consider it a 9th-level Wizard, if you will. But the dragon did not stop with arcana.

At the age of 750, the dragon understood well the spirits of the world. It gathered forth an enclave of druids and, in true druidic fashion, studied with them the secrets of the oak and root, the rose and thorn, predator and prey, sun and moon. And, in true druidic fashion, the dragon consumed each druid above it, and with them their power, until it became an archdruid in true--just as many dragons with scales green are. Only those dragons are manipulators, not truly Intelligent, and thus can grow no further. But our hunter of white scales could, and so he sought greater heights.

At the age of 800, the dragon found religion. It communed with the gods, with angels, and with celestials of all kind. Then it communed with the Hells and the Abyss, with its great ancestress Tiamat. From these journeys the dragon the truth of divine magic and pledged himself to the Wild Hunt--that divine gathering of elvish deities that frolicked throughout the universe. They granted the dragon many miracles in exchange for its service. Oh how well they put that cold flame to use. How many heretics have been burn-frozen; how many empires created, toppled, created again.

Finally, at the age of 1,001, the dragon mastered art. It gathered poets and playwrights, jali and griots, bards and minstrels, comedians and tragedians, Muses and all else. From this art, it learned the truth of the Weave, how a simple guitar string well-plucked can create magic as deep and potent as any found in its many spellbooks. And with the mastery of art came the mastery of the self. The dragon fully understood its role and purpose as a dragon. It understood the Great Story that all things are apart of. The dragon became the Dragon, or the White Dragon, or the Silver Dragon, or whatever else you wish to call it.

And for all these years, the dragon cultivated that biological need to hunt. Yes, it indulged sometimes. When it was a servant for the Wild Hunt oh how it practiced. When it was a druid oh how it studied. And this need became a taste, and that taste became a style, and that style became a niche, and that niche became what we know of today.

This dragon cannot be slain easily. You see, it has created a hunting field perfect in all ways for what it wants. Let me tell you of it.

In the north, there is a tower. The tower is made of snow and compacted together by human engineering. Above that tower is great aurora, forever burning in the sky, that the dragon maintains. For 30 miles in every direction is pure snow. The tundra is unbroken. There are holes in it for one to hide, and underground dungeons that the dragon has curated over time. The valkyries are friends with this dragon, you see; they bring the greatest warriors of all the lands--giants and men and elves and other dragons too and more beyond--and they war in these dungeons. Those who survive these killing fields emerge powerful. Adroit. They are given riches too. With magical sword in hand, or great spell at their lip, they stand, covered in silk blood-warm underneath the aurora.

From the top of the tower, death spreads its wings. You have a choice: go to the tower, or go to the trees, 30 miles away.

If you choose the tower, at its base, a door. It is made of cold iron and wrought with images of predator chasing prey. Should you enter, a maze lies on the other end. The walls are ice, the ground diamond, and snowfall endless from skies black as a moonless night. As you move forward, your reflections all around you, the dragon moves with you. It tracks you through this confusing maze, of which not even it can master. It hunts you here, the fear building for the both of you--what happens if you stumble upon it? If you stab it? If you rip its wings off? It knows what happens if it finds you--but this would not be a true hunt if you could not hunt it either. But in the end, the dragon wins. With so many great magics, with such great skill, with so much Intelligence, it happens upon you as the hidden hunter does the doe and then you are gone.

Do not believe the trees a safer fate. It is not until just before you reach them that the dragon roars. It is a shadow in the aurora. It descends into the forest. Know this as no true place. Every tree is a treant, every treant is old, ready to die. They move and shuffle. There are no landmarks that last longer than an hour or so. The wind is enchanted too. For every hour that passes, how one's bloodlust boils. You gain the benefits of a Barbarian's rage but are disadvantaged on anything requiring heavy thought. The shadows are alive too. Elves dance here, singing, blading, dancing, and the visions they weave, the terrors they inspire--yes, yes, the maddening, the insanity. And then, just as in the tower, you find the dragon, or the dragon finds you.

The valkyries are slated. They gather up their new dead host and prepare them for a war in the distant futures. The dragon returns to the tower. There, underneath the aurora, its hoard is built: the bones of the dead warrior gods and all their tools, the love of valkyries, and heroic legends wrought in cold iron. The need to hoard is slated. The need to hunt is slated. The dragon heals, and waits, and the dungeons are restocked, and heroes emerge, and hunts occur, and the dragon blissfully lives on growing and growing and growing evermore.

One day will this hunt end. The dragon has plans should it survive this event. But until then, know well that this is every hero's true test.