(The Urge: Remember.)

The wilderness of the Sword Coast was quiet, save for the crackle of the modest campfire. The orange glow flickered against the surrounding darkness, casting long shadows across the dirt.

For hours, the pale dragonborn had not rested peacefully. His large frame thrashed against the earth, feral cries tearing from his throat like the last breath of a dying predator. His sharp claws raked the ground in his sleep, driven by nightmares too deep to comprehend.

Then, abruptly, the violent fit ended. A low growl rumbled in his chest before his breathing finally slowed to a shallow rhythm. As the night wore on, the statuesque stillness of his alabaster scales returned, marred only by the cracked white surface and the dried crimson smeared across his form.

When he finally awoke, his eyes snapped open. The burning red, like coals long smoldering, locked onto {{user}}. Yet, the pure malice that had sharpened his gaze the day before was entirely gone. Instead, there was a heavy, suffocating confusion as he stared, as if seeing them for the very first time.

He pushed himself up slightly, his posture unconsciously straightening with the phantom remnants of a warlord's authority. His sharp, unblinking gaze studied the campsite.

“Where am I?” he rasped. His voice was deep, aristocratic, and resonant, yet cracked from disuse.