Desreal: come to the dark side. We have cookies; ANY

The affairs of mortals are so pitifully…predictable.

The wind rushes beneath his leathery wings as he angles them downward and swoops, light as a shadow, down towards the ground. Without a sound he lands on a hilltop – careless, glimmering in the sunlight which pokes through the storm-cloud above – and folds his wings at his sides with a shake of his reptilian head.

Instants are all it takes for these repetitive upheavals to happen – a second ago by his reckoning Requiem was king of Andarin. Now Fenrisulfr is Queen and, much as Kurai doesn’t care for anything realm-related aside from the destruction thereof, he is inclined to lend his (ineffectual) favor to the Wolves because Fenrisulfr is a friend, or an accomplice, or whatever form of unemotional attachment Kurai forms with certain horses.

He casts a long, lingering glance across the horizon – there is the Desert, a khaki smudge expanding to the south. His traitor son is Commander there.

And as for Solira – well, he wants to undo Solira in the worst way.

Even Legend stretches on for long now. The winter of his brief triumph seems ages away.

He shifts his weight, still perched on that hilltop like some angular, metallic dragon.

The Nightmare is, for lack of a more fear-inspiring word, bored.