The Drake of the Bitter Winds

The Frozen Wastes was a secluded continent, far North of the mainland. Most inhabitants of Irithal didn't even know the continent existed, as the dragon Aqu'us had forbid the travel in her waters. Sub-zero temperatures were normal here, and the people lived off the agonizingly slow and less than fruitful harvest season.

The inhabitants didn't seem to mind, as they had adapted to the low intake of food over the years. And they had something watching over them, something that has, in the past, fought to protect the people of the Frozen Wastes. His name, was Xalmyst.

Xalmyst was a drake. The lesser form of a dragon, one could say. As an expert in Frost magic, Xalmyst roamed the Northern Wastes and preyed on the lesser creatures there: the few cattle, sheep and other livestock. To one man, he was the guardian of the Wastes, and to another he was the Terror.

He was the Drake of the Bitter Winds.

His humanoid form was normal enough, contrasting heavily from his building-sized, silver scaled form. He had dark brown hair, dropping to shoulder length. A lean, agile body helped him use his Mythril cutlass to great effect, using a more quick and mobile combat style. The two forms almost directly contrasted each other. A lot of the townsfolk didn't even know Xalmyst was a drake, and any who had, and had a problem with it weren't around anymore.

He went about his day, going to the market in Mage's Landing to pick up small quantities of food, training in the grounds near the barracks, then going to his cave, westward, past a thicket of frozen over woods; and began to store his food, as he hummed a tune he'd heard from the mainland quite a few years ago. The soft melody quietly echoed through his living quarters. A few blissful moments passed before he felt a sharp spike of energy coming from the town. His mind betrayed him as it sent pain and agony throughout his body not a moment later. Xalmyst collapsed, groping for a ledge to lean on, until he gave in and surrendered to the call of the ground. Darkness met him soon after. The ground seemed to shake beneath him as his mind gave in to the magic that spurned around him. Then, all at once, the feeling vanished.
"Wha- what the hell?" Xalmyst stood and waited in silence for a moment, and recuperated. "Gods, that was chaos... It couldn't've been anything else."
___________________________

The town, in the matter of mere hours, had been cleared of all life.

He checked around. The townspeople seemed to have just dropped what they were doing, then vanished. No signs of struggle, or any other beasts' marks.

Then the Archemage, Vyrondil, approached the town.

Xalmyst had heard rumors of the Kearthean mage: silver hair, a physique of a man who's seen more War than any other, and enough expertise in Fire magic to engulf the entirety of the Wastes in a hellfire that would rival that of the Fire Dragon, Ignus, himself.

Or at least, that's how the rumors went.

"What happened here? Who are you?" Vyrondil asked, catching the drake off guard.

After taking an instant to recover from the shock of another's voice, he turned to face the mage. "I was hoping you would tell me, Kearthean."

Vyrondil hesitated for just a moment before speaking. "I noticed Chaos magic lingering here. A remarkable amount at that. And I wonder why you are the only one on the continent with me..."

"If I knew, I would tell you. I was only recently informed of the townspeople going missing."

"Cut the act, drake. You will tell me how you went about this."

"I intended to find out what happened! Something is horribly amiss, I'm on your si-"

Vyrondil had heard enough, and charged at him, with sword in one hand and flames in another.

Steel slashed right through his skin, but Xalmyst was scarcely able to sidestep the fires. The scorched ground provided stable footing for Vyrondil as he slashed at him again.

Xalmyst backed off of Vyrondil's flurry and shifted. He then swiped at Vyrondil, and cut cleanly through the mage's armor.
       Xalmyst took a breath, and blasted Vyrondil. A beautiful stream of energy that seemed to pulse with life- deadly to the touch; met Vyrondil's remaining shielding, and shattered it.

Seeing that he would lose a conventional fight with a drake, Vyrondil quickly extended his arm, and flames followed suit, engulfing the drake. Vyrondil seized the opportunity and fled to the woods, with intention of charging a spell that could successfully pierce the drake's scales.

Xalmyst, after recovering from more fire than he had ever seen in his life, flew into the sky, scanning the area for Vyrondil. He was looking for anything; an aura, a glow, but the mage was nowhere to be found.

"Listen to reason!" Xalmyst cried, "I am not your enemy!"

Then he saw Vyrondil. Immediately, he landed to make a shelter for his attack. It took every ounce of his strength. He made a frozen shield insulating a nearby ravine. Afterward, he was forced into his humanoid form to recuperate. He waited, breathlessly, for the oncoming attack.

Vyrondil released an attack that had decimated all but the very ground he stood on. The path of its destruction was matched by no weapon or spell before now.

The shield was nearly obliterated. The flames wreaked havoc and destruction that lived up to every rumor about the Archemage that had been here so many years ago.

Vyrondil approached the drake's hiding place and, before long, put a blade up to his neck.

He let out a heavy sigh, and spoke. "I was investigating Rifts of Chaos that were being opened in the area. There was a terrible displacement of energy here. The origin was you, dear drake."

Vyrondil looked sympathetic, almost as if he regretted what he had to do here.

Xalmyst made no comment, it agonized him enough just thinking of it. On any other day, he would have ignored the pain and fought Vyrondil to his last breath. In any other condition he would have lept to his feet and drove a sword through Vyrondil's heart. But not today. Today he conceded, forfeited his life to the fate that Vyrondil had planned. He was at the mercy of the Archemage. He accepted the possibility of his death. And the last thing he heard, before he lay to the cold abyss of death, was Vyrondil muttering two simple words.

"I'm sorry."