A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Seventeenth Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC

The first answer comes unbidden, no you will not trust one of the kindred who enslaved your ancestors rule over men. And yet do not your own dreams carry those ancient vices? The voice of reason, of kingship whispers. Was the torment of undeath not enough penance for age-old sins? You almost bid him wait a while that you might render full judgement once he walks again in flesh, but such a vague promise would hardly be the best shield against Tiamat's temptations. Balancing present and future against each other you find, as is almost a habit, a third path to walk.

"Little love would you gain from those you call mayflies, and for one who has lived through a sliver of eternity, it would be taxing to keep abreast of their affairs," you reply, weaving truth and flattery together. "Months and years you gave me freely, a blink for one such as you, and now, as the world changes ever faster, you would claim dominion over something that grows ever more alien with each passing moment. No. I think your might, talents, and perspective is more suited to those who can comprehend and appreciate them."

A thoughtful rumble like weathered stones scraping against each other emerges from the dead dragon's maw: "You speak wisely, cousin. There is more merit than I thought to the strange manner of your hatching, it seems. Perhaps that is why the mortals love you so..."

Nodding at the compliment, odd as it may be, you speak on: "All these treasures you see before you are taken from the lair of but one Efreeti, little more than the one who sweeps the threshold of the City of Brass. They have have grown fat and rich off of their dominion over the Eternal Furnace. Now, though, their slaves are in open rebellion, and these riches are laid bare for those with the strength and temerity to claim them."

"Tell me of these fire-kin, these once-slaves, that I may judge for myself," the ancient dragon replies, the ghost lights of his eyes flaring,

And so you do, sharing all you know of the salamander corsair princedoms, their strengths and weaknesses, their history and culture, and when his thirst for knowledge is finally sated you conclude: "Above all else I lack the time to tie them closer to me. You could aid them in my name. And if you show them the wisdom of bending knee before me, who else then you would be better to rule them in my name?"

For along moment Amrelath looks so still in his contemplation it almost seems as though death had finally caught up with him. Finally he gives a nod deep enough one might almost count it a shallow bow. "So it shall be, cousin. Once I have shed these cursed bones you will have your five years of service and then I shall take wing for the Furnace."


Nineteenth Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC

The task before you is no small thing. Amrelath's long years of unlife stretch out like a vast chasm no single spell can bridge. In dreams older even than he your sister sought the answer, and then with masterful care Lya had woven them together into chant and gesture, will and flame.

In the heart of the Shadow Tower, under the unseeing gazes of vanquished foes and veiled from all but the gods themselves, you etch five circles of runes into the black stone.

The outermost is gold for life is a treasure to be won back from the void, then true-silver for purity purpose encasing in turn a dreamstone coil carved in the seeming of a great serpent devouring its tail blessed by the herald of Yss that almost seems to move with a purpose of its own, the flickering light of tall candles lit from a phoenix' wing. Fourth is dragonglass, for like a wyrm's heart it holds close the memory of flame waiting to be kindled. And last of all a smooth line of adamantine to anchor an unbowed will.


"It is done," you say, rising warily to your feet, the weight of wishcraft hanging heavily upon your soul. A small voice in the back of our mind notes that you have never been more vulnerable in the dead dragon's company. Though you wear scales and wings rise from your back you still choose to show a measure of your mortal heritage, to prove before whatever powers may be watching that this shall not be a dominion of dragons, though you hope it will be one they too can dwell within.

Amrelath's gaze does not waver from the egg at the heart of the circle. "Soon..." With swiftness that belies his considerable bulk he slithers through the chamber and coils at the heart to the ritual circle, enveloping the egg that had been set there until not a glimmer of it can be seen. Yet it is still there, a slow steady pulse, life and power bereft of reason even as Amrelath is rich in the bitter wisdom of years endured in the dark, each calling out to be more than it is.

And so you set one curse against another with relic and ritual, with words at times booming like a roar across the battlegrounds of yore and once whispered as a hiss in the secret places of the earth. One full day sunrise to sunset measured to the instant you weave the fire within you through the paths that Lya laid and call on dreams long fallen silent, and all the while Amrelath waits and watches, mind slipping ever closer to death. At times it seems almost as though other watchers join him, spirits from the depths of the dream called forth by the power of the ritual, the ones you call upon when you would seek prophecy mayhap... or older still.

"You will lose and all you have ever cherished shall be cast down to dust," a hateful five-fold voice whispers in your mind.

Even in the midst of your task you smile, for She would not give away her presence so if Amrelath had not already rejected her offers: "Is this all you can muster? A hollow threat echoing one more defeat?"

Her presence departs in a cold fury for any word she might speak now would only make your taunting all the truer. It is with a voice filled with relief and hope that you speak the final incantation, but five words in the tongue of wyrms: "Arise, Amrelath, From Ashes Reborn. "

The accursed soul anchor in your hand does not crumble but instead bursts into white-hot flame from within, licking against your scales as bleached bones fall away from the pile that made up his body. Red as new-shed blood Amrelath frees himself from the shell of his curse. With every heartbeat he grows as though from the passing of a year until at last he is large enough to match your wyrm form in sheer girth. Only his horns, white as as bone bleached by the ages, give any hint of his history. A roar of joy laden with fire shakes the chamber and sweeps the vaulted ceiling, making you doubly glad for the tower's ancient making.

"It is done, and greater is the truth of life than all the faded memories and dreams conjured in the dark!" he proclaims after collecting himself. "I will follow where you lead."

Gained Dracolich Bones

Gained Adult Red Dragon Vassal (Amrelath the Ash-Risen)

In the hours that follow you ask more of his history and skills than you had ever dared to while death's specter hung upon him, though it does not take long for the newly-restored wyrm to grow restless, seeking the sky.

Where do you send Amrelath?

[] Directly to the Plane of Fire

[] You have another task for him first, the five years are far from over
-[] Write in

What of the dragon's skills and abilities?

[] He is as ordinary as a dragon can be said to be (standard Monster manual Adult Red)

[] He possesses some skills and particularities all of his own
-[] Write in character sheet

OOC: The books will be in the next update since they would not fit in this one thematically speaking.