The Lake of Death

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The dragon burst from the lake in a tremendous spray of water, midnight black and brilliant blue scales gleaming like perfect gems in the light of two full moons. It took to the sky and spread its wings, hanging above the steamiest land in Ansalon. The great beast seemed the sum of every dragon on Krynn, of every creature that lived in the primordial swamp. Elegant in form, it was at the same time breathtakingly beautiful and awe-inspiringly terrifying. Demonic and divine, repulsive and majestic—it was all of those things at once.

The creature dipped its head, drew its wings in close and dived. It became a stroke of glistening blue-black that arced down like lightning then rose at the very last instant to unfurl its wings before crashing. Beating them almost imperceptibly to keep itself a breath above the water, it glided forward. Dangling front talons, it brushed across the surface of the lake, heading toward the marshy shore. It settled, half on the bank and half in the shallows, stretching its neck into a row of young cypress trees that grew beyond the lake’s edge, its nostrils quivering, jaws opening, tongue snaking out to seek prey.

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