For a thousand years, we dragons have held back the night, and the things that lurk in the darkness beyond.

In days of old, when humans were creatures of habit and superstition, our ceremonial forests blazed in slow, lingering burns.

We are careful custodians, masters of firebreak and blaze maintenance, as we dangle on the thermals above in languid arcs.

Over the centuries, your people gained greater numbers, a better handle on logistics and battle.

You sent out foolhardy young knights to challenge our destruction, and when news of their demise filtered home we expected our affairs to be left in peace. These lands had burned for centuries under our stewardship, the ashen soils ripe for new growth; who were you to demand an explanation?

And then your armies marched, and war fell upon us.

Now we are few, and the flames we once tended gutter and dim.

So I come to you to explain why the fires must continue. Why the forests must continue to burn. And to make you promise to take upon the mantle of the dragons.

If ever the surface of the world grows dark and a single flame does not rage, our old foe will rise from the depths of the earth.

Then all will be lost, and we will not be here to save you.