Belanos
High upon a mountainside the creature slept. Around it, the world was stirring. Birds were chittering and fluffing their feathers in preparation for the day's activities. Already a falconet circled high in a sky cloudless and the palest of blues. The beast below seemed oblivious to it all, lost in slumber. There seemed nothing to indicate it was even alive except the regular rustle of its scales against the rock as mighty lungs drew breath.
Yet alive it very much was and fully intended to remain for this beast had lived through many Ages already and although aged and wearied by life, was not yet ready to surrender its grip on this world. For the beast was Súraumo, once one of the mighty dragons of Morgoth, who fought in the War of Wrath.
Now as the dawning sun warmed his scales, the dragon's mind rose from the depths of sleep although still it did not stir. Quietly it lay unmoving, extending its senses around it in search of danger before finally sliding a scaled eyelid open and lifting its head. He was forced to turn his neck more than usual to survey the scene before it, for one eye was blinded, the eyelid drooping and the flesh above and below it rent with a jagged scar. Súraumo snorted in annoyance at the forced movement for always it reminded him of the humiliation of the encounter that led to that scar. Fighting a younger male dragon over the rights to a female had led to a bitter defeat for the old dragon. Never before had he lost to a youngling, but this made him face the reality of his advancing age. Now as he surveyed the valleys below him he still struggled to accept he had come so far from those days of glory in Morgoth's forces.
His muzzle curled into a silent snarl as he thought of those days. Young, proud and more than half wild, like many of his kind he was eager for battle, eager for glory. Too young to realise he had not yet reached his full strength. Too young to realise he and many others of his age were sent into that bloody battle far too early for any dragon to fight effectively, let alone survive. Yet Morgoth had been desperate for victory and had thrown everything he had into the battle regardless of the consequences- even unready younglings. Arrogant and lustful for glory the younglings had gone eagerly to do his bidding. In the end, few survived. Even the mightiest of them all, Ancalagon the Black was slain. What hope had mere younglings to succeed when the mightiest of them all fell?
Now as he thought on those days Súraumo subconsciously flexed his left forepaw, easing the ache in it that was his constant companion after all these years, for the paw was half gone, the rest savagely sliced from him in battle. The dragon lowered his head and licked at it tenderly with his rasping forked tongue in a habitual gesture of comfort. Even now, centuries later he still felt the loss the wound had inflicted. He had long learned to walk again, although always there was a limp and the ache, the constant ache.
The ache was a reminder to him of the selfish and thoughtless way he had been used. No thought was put into his safety or survival during that battle. What cared Morgoth for the lives or fate of his dragons? To him they were mere tools to meet his own ends. After the War Súraumo had escaped into the Northen Waste, there to heal and eke out an existence as best he could. The rare times he had encountered those who lived in towns or cities had been unpleasant. Always they sought to destroy him if he were seen. Always, when unseen he listened in on their words: they reeked of a lust for power, wealth and glory. There was nothing in them to trust. Nothing in them to draw him.
And so, as the Ages passed, Súraumo had remained hidden in the wild lands, fighting no battles other than those for his own needs and growing in strength and size as each Age passed. Now, his scales warmed and his blood stirring, he rose to his feet and the full glory of his size became apparent. Lazily he shook himself, his whole body shuddering from head to the very tip of his long muscled tail, his scales clattering together loudly. Alas his size was truly his only glory for Súraumo was not a beautiful dragon. His colour was the murky brown of swamp water, ideal for hiding in forests and swamplands but hardly pleasing to the eye. Nor had others of his kind thought him handsome, for he was too long of snout and narrow in the chest to appeal to the females of his kind. Any pleasures he'd had with them he'd had to take by force rather than by favour. Now with advancing age and the injuries he'd sustained over time even his ability to force another dragon had become depleted as the new scar above his eye bore witness.
Súraumo snorted again in annoyance before opening his jaws and indulging in a mighty yawn. The pleasure of the yawn was cut short however as the movement brought to life again the stabbing pain that was his constant companion. The yawn had revealed teeth broken and blackened, the result of a long life and some foolish choices of opponents. One huge canine had been ripped out 900 years ago as the other dragon had torn free from his bite. Yet another tooth lay crooked in its socket, exposed to the air even when the dragon's jaw was closed. Yet others were missing entirely but it was the blackened ones that caused the pain. Now Súraumo shook his head as though to shake himself free of the annoying pain. It was nothing great really, for one of his size and strength, but its constancy was wearing on his temper. He pawed at his mouth a little but it did not ease it.
With his mood black the dragon stretched his wings and took a mighty leap into the air to resume his journey, for Súraumo was making his way south along the spine of the Blue Mountains. Autumn had brought a chill to the airs of the wild northern lands, and the chill brought an ache to his old bones. So south he must go, seeking warmth and comfort, following the fat herds of migrating deer. Hunting too had become harder since his blinding, and now he needed to stay close to a plentiful food supply for his hunts succeeded less and less often. This time Súraumo did not suppress his snarl at the thought of how much he was failing of late. The snarl became a full-throated roar of rage and frustration as his mood became blacker still.
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Yet alive it very much was and fully intended to remain for this beast had lived through many Ages already and although aged and wearied by life, was not yet ready to surrender its grip on this world. For the beast was Súraumo, once one of the mighty dragons of Morgoth, who fought in the War of Wrath.
Now as the dawning sun warmed his scales, the dragon's mind rose from the depths of sleep although still it did not stir. Quietly it lay unmoving, extending its senses around it in search of danger before finally sliding a scaled eyelid open and lifting its head. He was forced to turn his neck more than usual to survey the scene before it, for one eye was blinded, the eyelid drooping and the flesh above and below it rent with a jagged scar. Súraumo snorted in annoyance at the forced movement for always it reminded him of the humiliation of the encounter that led to that scar. Fighting a younger male dragon over the rights to a female had led to a bitter defeat for the old dragon. Never before had he lost to a youngling, but this made him face the reality of his advancing age. Now as he surveyed the valleys below him he still struggled to accept he had come so far from those days of glory in Morgoth's forces.
His muzzle curled into a silent snarl as he thought of those days. Young, proud and more than half wild, like many of his kind he was eager for battle, eager for glory. Too young to realise he had not yet reached his full strength. Too young to realise he and many others of his age were sent into that bloody battle far too early for any dragon to fight effectively, let alone survive. Yet Morgoth had been desperate for victory and had thrown everything he had into the battle regardless of the consequences- even unready younglings. Arrogant and lustful for glory the younglings had gone eagerly to do his bidding. In the end, few survived. Even the mightiest of them all, Ancalagon the Black was slain. What hope had mere younglings to succeed when the mightiest of them all fell?
Now as he thought on those days Súraumo subconsciously flexed his left forepaw, easing the ache in it that was his constant companion after all these years, for the paw was half gone, the rest savagely sliced from him in battle. The dragon lowered his head and licked at it tenderly with his rasping forked tongue in a habitual gesture of comfort. Even now, centuries later he still felt the loss the wound had inflicted. He had long learned to walk again, although always there was a limp and the ache, the constant ache.
The ache was a reminder to him of the selfish and thoughtless way he had been used. No thought was put into his safety or survival during that battle. What cared Morgoth for the lives or fate of his dragons? To him they were mere tools to meet his own ends. After the War Súraumo had escaped into the Northen Waste, there to heal and eke out an existence as best he could. The rare times he had encountered those who lived in towns or cities had been unpleasant. Always they sought to destroy him if he were seen. Always, when unseen he listened in on their words: they reeked of a lust for power, wealth and glory. There was nothing in them to trust. Nothing in them to draw him.
And so, as the Ages passed, Súraumo had remained hidden in the wild lands, fighting no battles other than those for his own needs and growing in strength and size as each Age passed. Now, his scales warmed and his blood stirring, he rose to his feet and the full glory of his size became apparent. Lazily he shook himself, his whole body shuddering from head to the very tip of his long muscled tail, his scales clattering together loudly. Alas his size was truly his only glory for Súraumo was not a beautiful dragon. His colour was the murky brown of swamp water, ideal for hiding in forests and swamplands but hardly pleasing to the eye. Nor had others of his kind thought him handsome, for he was too long of snout and narrow in the chest to appeal to the females of his kind. Any pleasures he'd had with them he'd had to take by force rather than by favour. Now with advancing age and the injuries he'd sustained over time even his ability to force another dragon had become depleted as the new scar above his eye bore witness.
Súraumo snorted again in annoyance before opening his jaws and indulging in a mighty yawn. The pleasure of the yawn was cut short however as the movement brought to life again the stabbing pain that was his constant companion. The yawn had revealed teeth broken and blackened, the result of a long life and some foolish choices of opponents. One huge canine had been ripped out 900 years ago as the other dragon had torn free from his bite. Yet another tooth lay crooked in its socket, exposed to the air even when the dragon's jaw was closed. Yet others were missing entirely but it was the blackened ones that caused the pain. Now Súraumo shook his head as though to shake himself free of the annoying pain. It was nothing great really, for one of his size and strength, but its constancy was wearing on his temper. He pawed at his mouth a little but it did not ease it.
With his mood black the dragon stretched his wings and took a mighty leap into the air to resume his journey, for Súraumo was making his way south along the spine of the Blue Mountains. Autumn had brought a chill to the airs of the wild northern lands, and the chill brought an ache to his old bones. So south he must go, seeking warmth and comfort, following the fat herds of migrating deer. Hunting too had become harder since his blinding, and now he needed to stay close to a plentiful food supply for his hunts succeeded less and less often. This time Súraumo did not suppress his snarl at the thought of how much he was failing of late. The snarl became a full-throated roar of rage and frustration as his mood became blacker still.
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