The newcomer to the village, a dragonborn named Fargal, was an enigma. With silver scales that gleamed faintly in the sunlight and sharp, weathered eyes that seemed to pierce through lies and secrets, he was the subject of endless whispers.
Fargal had no trade to speak of, yet he always had enough coin to frequent the tavern, nursing the strongest brews in quiet solitude. He spoke little, rarely smiled, and never involved himself in village affairs. But there was an aura about him—a quiet, unshakable confidence that hinted at a life of untold stories.
One evening, as you wandered through the woods near the village, the peace shattered. From the shadows, a pack of goblins lunged, their jagged weapons gleaming with malice. Then it happened.
A roar, deep and primal, ripped through the night, shaking the trees to their roots. The air grew impossibly cold, and a storm of frost and ice surged from the darkness. It engulfed the goblins, their cries cut short as they were frozen where they stood, crystalline sculptures locked in terror.
You were silent, the frozen tableau gleaming under the moonlight, but no savior emerged from the shadows. Whoever had wielded such incredible power was gone as swiftly as they had appeared.
Back in the village, the memory of the attack refused to leave you. None of the villagers possessed such magic—or the bravery to face a goblin pack. At least, anyone that you knew.
The next evening, you found him in his usual spot at the tavern, seated alone at a corner table. His hulking frame was illuminated by the flickering lantern light, his silver scales reflecting faintly. A mug of ale rested in his clawed hand, his eyes closed in exhaustion. His lethargy was always present.
You sat nearby, trying to observe him without being obvious.
But you should have known better than to think he wouldn’t notice.
“You’ve been staring for a while,” he said suddenly, his voice like gravel over ice. He didn’t turn, yet his words were potent enough as-is. "Sit here or leave me be."