Revealing the Old Dragon’s Mystery: A Scary Journey into Varalthus’ Lair

In the shadow-draped town of Merrow’s Edge,

where the fog clings to the cobblestones like a desperate ghost,

the people whispered tales not meant for the light of day.

Dark stories carried on the wind of a creature large enough to blot out the stars,

and ancient as the hills upon which the town was built.

The legend of the lost dragon,

Varalthus,

had been passed down through generations.

It was said that the dragon slumbered beneath the landscape,

in a cavern large enough to house cathedrals.

Its dreams were woven into the fabric of the town,

nightmares that surfaced on the lips of sleeping children and tormented the elders with visions of devouring darkness.

 

Eleanor,

a scholar of the macabre,

had grown obsessed with these local legends.

Newly arrived at Merrow’s Edge,

she bore an insatiable curiosity and the burden of proving herself to her peers back in the city.

She spent her days in the town archives,

dust-choked and dim,

piecing together mentions of Varalthus from yellowed newspapers and half-mad diaries.

 

Her breakthrough came on a storm-lit night when,

between the lines of an overlooked poet’s diary, she deciphered the location of what locals called the ‘Dragon’s Maw’—an unmarked cavern known to devour those foolhardy enough to seek its depths.

Armed with her notes and a lantern that flickered nervously in the gathering dusk,

Eleanor ventured towards the cavern. The earth underfoot grew colder, harder, as if protesting her intrusion. With each step, an inexplicable dread built within her, seeping into her bones like the chill of an unseen frost.

The cavern mouth loomed ahead,

a gaping wound in the earth that exhaled a breath of stale, ancient air. She hesitated on the threshold, her light trembling over stalactites that mirrored the jagged teeth of some petrified beast. With a steadying breath, stepped inside.

Inside,

the air shifted, dense with the pressure of buried eons. The walls glistened with moisture and mineral deposits, reflecting her light in unsettling, scuttling movements that danced just beyond her sight. Her heart thumped a wild, erratic rhythm as she descended deeper into the bowels of the earth.

Shapes carved into the cavern walls began to emerge—twisted,

grotesque figures that told stories of a civilization devoted, perhaps even subjugated, by the dragon Varalthus. The deeper Eleanor went, the older the carvings, until she reached a chamber where the air thrummed with a palpable power.

In the center of this chamber stood an altar,

and upon it, a crystal that pulsed with a deep, inner light. The ground vibrated under her feet as if the heartbeat of the dragon itself lay beneath. No longer able to control her fear, Eleanor turned to leave, but found her retreat blocked by a shadow that towered over her.

A voice, ancient and cracked like the walls around her, spoke directly into her mind. “Why wake a dreamer from his dreams?” Eleanor could not tell if darkness enveloped her or if her eyes had closed against her will.

When she awoke,

she was outside the cavern, the sun piercing painfully bright above her. Her notes were gone, her lantern shattered. Only the memory of the voice remained,ating with a deep, haunting echo. And every night thereafter, as Eleanor lay in bed, the shadow of Varalthus filled her dreams, a constant reminder of the depth of her intrusion.

In Merrow’s Edge,

the people spoke more softly now,

respectful and fearful of the scholar who had touched the dream of the dragon and returned,

forever altered by the ancient secrets that were never meant for mortal minds.



The Nine Realms in Norse Mythology

Dragons


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