Amrelath dreamed, but they were not his dreams. He saw the slumber of tyrants long fallen, he saw his kindred out of deep time, coiled around the roots of the mountains that men would one day name the Fourteen Fires. He saw the Rage that slipped into their dreams as it had done into those of every other flight, a madness, an infection of the Void to purge the dragons from the world before the Great Enemy had even marched, but they were rage and hatred, and among all the kindreds of dragons knew it was not of them and cast IT out. So did they scheme, long in the boiling dark beneath in the bowels of the earth and the Foe thought them dead, until the Lord of Shadows marched from the east upon the Plain of Battle.
There did they rise, from the most ancient Great Wyrm to the youngest Wyrmling born but minutes before, a storm of fire and ruin so great even the soul-riven knew fear, a flame so bright even the Void itself burned by long-wrought ritual and draconic rage. So died the armies of Shadow and from that day onward the plains were known only by another name... the Ashlands.
Amrelath knew IT, and knew it feared him.