Dragon war

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Thunder is his harbinger and lightning his spear. Wind is his steed and rain his cloak. The words of creation are in his ears and on his tongue. The secrets of the first of sixteen are his. In the darkest night of the Dragon Below, storm and dragon are reunited, and they break together upon the legions of the Blasphemer. The maelstrom swirls around him. He is the storm and the eye of the storm. His is the new dawn. In him the storm cannot die. His are the words the Blasphemer unspeaks, his the song the Blasphemer unsings.

It began as an itch, a minor annoyance that grew until it woke him in the night. Gaven sat by the door of his cell, scratching at his neck, his shoulder, his arm, until his skin was raw. By morning it was a raging fire on his flesh, and he began to feel the lines.

He hadn't understood them then, the twisting lines of his dragon-mark. Or had he? His mind was so lost in the Prophecy while he was in Dreadhold. Had he unknowingly mumbled the verses that wrote themselves on his skin?

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