The eternal struggle of not gushing about the world I built and the story I plan to pursue while also sharing just enough with the players to keep them engaged and asking for more.

Icy blue turned purple as a furious shade of crimson overtook his vision. The ground quaked and the walls shook; icicles fell from the ceiling and glasses shattered. Sourceless whispers echoed darkly within the confines of his throbbing skull. Thieves! Burglars! his mind roared with anger and confusion. The world is yours and they took it from you! the voices whispered, tantalizing hate dripping with malicious pity. Rage against them! Freeze the plane solid! Take back what is yours! 

Asmund had been filled only with rage. No hunger, no thirst, no weariness: only all-consuming anger. The foolish bard had been launched from Frostwing Meadery as the dragon raised a massive, glacial wall about his establishment. Buildings had collapsed about his icy fortress, and none had dared come close to Frostwing Meadery since. Much time had passed, though the dragon could not tell. He writhed in ecstatic wrath, the interior of his meadery well destroyed. Days, weeks, months: Asmund could not tell. The voice within only spoke of Jarguund and Ravnica, how his artifacts, his people, his worlds, had been stolen. A dark thread of magic had woven a tapestry of despair, of envy; it spoke of his daughter’s death, his failings as a father and a leader, and how he could take it all back.

Of course he listened. Asmund was relatively young for a dragon, and his emotions still were strong, unhoned bludgeons beating at his hearts. Reason had been overcome over the course of many months, and Asmund had taken the other’s quiet counsel. The imagined betrayal of Ivaria, the willing release of the original Astral Cornucopia to Theren, the warnings from the Boros, all added to the other’s whispers, sowing the seeds of doubt and anger. Asmund’s fears, envy, maliciousness, all blend together under the unending whispers. 

The wish for them to stop. The hope the other had brought to him, of rule, of wealth and power. Conflicting thoughts and worries crisscrossed his mind, until that damned bard appeared. The tapestry of the other’s story became apparent, and the apparent work became reality. Thieves! Burglars! What more will you let them take? 

Inside the meadery, Asmund rolled as his violet eyes rolled back. Tables crushed, wood sent flying, glasses crushed. The dragon had not been himself for a long while, but any of his friends would see how fall the Baron had fallen. Asmund was a shadow of his former self: gray-scaled, gaunt, covered in rime, mindlessly bellowing. Frozen pools of blood covered the meadery; in his rage, he had planeswalked across the multiverse, killing randomly, without thought or vision of what he was doing. Carcasses of man and beast littered the floor, uneaten, rent and crushed beneath the raging dragon.

Howling wind. Blistering sand. The scent of death. The calm blue sky belied the darkness that seemed to hover over the city. Great horns sat on the distant horizon. The shuffling dead and their insect overlords passed through Naktamun, uncaring. The city had fallen months ago, and Asmund had always hated the sight of it. 

Putting his head down and gritting his teeth, the dragon pushed toward the city’s edge, the protective shield around the city no longer standing. The zombies paid him no heed; he was no enemy of theirs, and their singular purpose did not allow them such frivolities as thought. Asmund very much disliked the so-called deities of this world, and avoided them as he wove his way between buildings of sandstone and oddly beautiful monuments to the other, fallen, deities.  Mummies worked as if Bolas’s purge had not occurred. Asmund harrumphed, exuding a sphere of cold; he had always hated this heat.

He had known the route to the God Pharaoh's Throne well, though fallen buildings and obelisks made the crossing slightly more difficult; hugging his wings to his side, he shivered at the thought of attempting to fly through the sand blasted air. The dragon’s feet worked well enough. Gingerly he stepped around squads of blue undead, their drill and precision a leftover from life; some magic he would consider learning, in the future. Asmund felt other life, now far into the desert, and another powerful being. Survivors, most likely, led by one of their gods. A secret to keep, though he knew it would be a struggle to keep.

Minutes passed as Asmund surveilled the damage the Hours had wrought. Though certainly not a casual stroll, he had not the time the last time he had come through; the insects and zombies were still raging, and his partner had been quite busy at the time. Now, however, Asmund came upon the great horned Elder, casually speaking with a man, the metal on his arm an annoying glint in the midday sun. 

“Ah, Asmund, my old friend,” the Elder’s voice was calm, charming, very much like a mesmerizing serpent. “Come closer, so we may speak.” Asmund had little choice but to oblige. He climbed the steps to the metal throne, eyeing the other planeswalker. Tezzeret, if he recalled properly, bowed his head and quickly depart, the purples of the Blind Eternities taking him. 

“It is good to see you, Bolas,” Asmund replied, his voice formal, measured. He dipped his head in acknowledgment as he sat before the throne. It was certainly a bold move, pretending they were equals. “I see you have accomplished much here,” Asmund continued, “though to what end, I am sure you will enlighten me.” Arching an eye crest, he swept a wing out to encompass the city. The hot air immediately bit into the soft membranes of his wing, causing the younger dragon to quickly bring it back to his body. 

Nicol Bolas’s laugh echoed hollowly over the sands, “Indeed, Asmund, indeed. The fruits of my labors are nearly complete. I have so little time to execute my plan.” His voice turned morose, the horns on the horizon perfectly framing his own head and horns, “So little time, and there are far too many meddlers. If only I could stop all of them; if they were gathered all in one place, perhaps my plans could accelerate, and we would have far less to worry about.” Asmund kept his face clear of emotion as the Elder continued, “I have a favor to ask of you, old friend.”

Asmund sighed, puffing out his chest and doing his best to appear haughty, “My friend, the last time you asked me a favor you had me destroy a caravan. Gwafa Hazid was my greatest supplier on Bant, and he has since withdrawn any support for my own operations on Alara. What reason have I to aid you this time?” Gathering what mana he could from the sky around him, Asmund pressed his icy aura even further outward.

Nicol Bolas waved a dismissive claw, “Oh, please, young Asmund, your bravado was interesting two hundred years ago.” Asmund quickly deflate. “You only need not do anything,” the Elder eventually replied, his toothy smile doing nothing to hide his scheming tone. Asmund tilt his head inquisitively as Bolas explained, “I have business on Ravnica. Do not interfere upon my arrival. Your reward will be the power you have lost and more.” Bolas leaned forward, pushing effortlessly through Asmund’s aura, his sinister intentions dripping like poison from his tongue, “Your world will also be yours to command, and untouched by my claw.”

A few tense moments passed, and Nicol Bolas withdrew, reclining on his throne. A distant thunder rumbled over the sands; the Elder’s visage became more jovial, “You shall also receive the best goods from every world, without any charge, and the finest vineyards and hives will be yours. What say you?” The Elder dragon’s eyes narrowed as he studied Asmund’s face. 

Though Asmund put on the face of an equal, he knew he was outmatched. He quickly acquiesced. “Very well,” the ice dragon replied, extending a claw, “I shall not interfere with you or your plans on Ravnica. On top of your promises, I only ask one thing.” Nicol Bolas leaned forward, curious. He rolled a claw, gesturing for Asmund to get on with it. The Baron nodded, “I request you leave my meadery there alone. I have grown quite fond of the 9th District.” 

The two stared for a minute. Perhaps two. Then the Elder planeswalker laughed; an uproarious sound, echoing hollowly through the ruins of Naktamun. Eerily, thousands of voices joined, a haunting mix of moans and contemptuous laughter. Bolas held his chest armor with a claw, grinning wide, “You have my promise then, my friend.” The other dragon stood, prompting Asmund to stand as well; they grasped claws firmly. He put a claw on Asmund’s shoulder, “You shall rule there, too.”

Asmund’s head whipped around; Nicol Bolas was certainly offering a great many things. His mood was too good. Internally, the ice dragon sighed. There was little he could do, especially considering he was practically at Bolas’s beck and call. Though, thankfully, the Elder dragon did appear whenever Asmund had summoned him, so he supposed it was not a terrible arrangement. 

“Now then,” Bolas continued, “I have many fruits and ingredients here that the local populace will no longer be using. As an offer of goodwill, they are yours. I expect to drink the fruit of your labors when I finally find you on Ravnica.” The Elder stroked his chin, “Now, my friend, I have much work to attend to. If you’ll excuse me, it is always excellent doing business with you.” 

Asmund sat quietly by the small hearth. The flames danced in his violet eyes as he stared down at the tiny blaze. Thoughts swam through the murky waters of his mind. Plans clashed, fit together, drifted into the dark recesses of his mind.

Bolas was on the move. Theren was dead. Ivaria had scorned his training. Asmund muttered in the empty meadery, his rumbling voice eerily echoing through the icy room. A great heap of artifacts sat by his side: a completed inter-planar teleportation device meant for Zia laying unused, a dragon sized crown made of mithril inlaid with sapphires, rubies, and onyx, an enchanted and engraved silver ring, and an ominous black horn.

Lost in thought, the dragon placed the crown upon his head. It was light, resting comfortably around his horns. Though he could not see, he knew he looked majestic and regal; a fitting image for a baron.

Asmund pushed Zia's gift to the side with a foreclaw, using his now empty right wingclaw to slide the ring on. A sudden surge of energy pulsed through him, and his thoughts grew darker. He harrumphed, pushing out his chest; Asmund's icy breath covered the wall above the hearth, forming a perfect mirror he could lose himself in.

The horn. Asmund lifted it curiously, it's terrible presence threatening to make him shake. A deep, black magic emanate from the horn. It was an ancient dragon's horn, curled menacingly, filled with blood. It whispered to him, promises of wealth and power echoing in the thickening fog of the dragon's mind. He resisted the temptation, placing it back on the floor, using a quick spell to send it back to Jarguund. Perhaps some other time.

Asmund flexed his wings and packaged Zia's gift. It was about time he brought it to her. He had been sealed away in his castle for too long. The cobwebs of his mind were threatening to become more. The dragon lifted himself and headed toward the exit.

The pre-dawn chill gripped the assorted soldiers. They smartly marched west, the mountains to their back. Dwarves, humans, and kobolds marched in the light of the failing moon. Their footsteps thundered over the grassy plains, untouched by snow. Ten thousand Rovriddare berserkers and swordsmen marched toward battle, unfazed and undaunted. Five thousand Rovriddare cavalry, the dwarves and humans riding war horses, the kobolds riding cold-hardy deinonychus, rode to each side of the column. Underhall dwarves, fifteen thousand strong marched at the head of the column, pikemen out front with archers in the center. 

Asmund flew overhead, weaving spells and uttering incantations on the wing. He channeled white mana to protect his forces and keep them cohesive on the field. Blue to hide them from the enemy. Red to fill them with rage and battle prowess. This would be a day long remembered.

A kobold scout rode in from the west, his riding leather covered in dust, shouting to the head of the column, “Cavalry spotted! To the northwest! They seek to envelope us! They are two or three thousand strong, pushing eastward!” Asmund flew lower, landing beside the kobold. Its tired mount pant in the cool morning air. Lord Underhall stood, a massive warhammer gripped in his gauntleted hands, looking to the white dragon.

“Lord Underhall, I shall send five hundred of my fastest cavalry to meet them,” Asmund turned to the kobold. Noting its rank, the dragon commanded, “Captain, take five hundred of your best riders. I want them drawn away from the village, and to the west.” The kobold, listening, nodded while reloading his musket.

“Yes, Lord Baron!” The green skinned kobold, dressed in a mismatch of clashing colors and fabrics beneath his leather armor, kicked his mount and raced off to the north, pulling roughly five hundred dinosaurs and their kobold riders to face the enemy. Other horsemen filled the gap the now forward group left behind while Asmund took to the skies, flexing his wings. Spying the oncoming foe, the dragon let out a war cry; clearly, his illusions were not as great as he had hoped.

He felt the savages’ shamans unleash a massive magical blast. Hastily, the dragon let forth a blast of blue mana, suspending the enemy’s spell in time. “Get ready to counter,” cried Asmund; below, a group of three hundred mages and shamans began chanting and preparing spells. The Ajikan spell was massive, the collective effort of their people culminating in a great blast of arcane energy, its heat searing the edges of Asmund’s mind. 

After a few moments, the sound of musket blasts heralded the cavalry engagement to the north; diverting his attention from the enemy spell, the combat was slowly moving eastward as lead and arrows were exchanged. Luckily the deinonychi were faster than the plainsmens’ horses and could pull the enemy back toward their disgusting hovels. As Asmund relished the heat of battle, his spell wore off and the full weight of the Ajikans’ spell slammed into his force. Wizards cried out as their minds seared away, the collective counter spell not quite great enough to stop casualties. Asmund snarled in disgust as he counted twenty of his men dead.

With just under three miles to go now, the two armies marched onward. His mages began casting an offensive spell; Asmund felt the earth being drained of its mana as massive clouds began to form above and in front of his force. Good, a blizzard was necessary here. In the slowly lightening sky, Asmund added his own magic to that of the mages below. Soon, a massive storm developed, hail stones the size of heads slamming down over the enemy village.

One mile to go now, and the enemy foot soldiers began exiting the village and pushing east toward the oncoming force. A second cavalry force, the size of the first enemy force, began to swing around to the south, bound up against the river, just as planned. With a laugh, Asmund watched as Lord Underhall’s dwarves broke off from the Rovriddaren unit. 

As planned, the enemy cavalry force began to charge. As planned, long, straight lines of horses swept over the open fields, trampling the grasses. As planned, Lord Underhall’s force planted itself squarely in the way of the oncoming doom.

Asmund roared triumphantly as, as planned, the ground burst upward in front of the Ajikan cavalry. Men and horses flew into the air as magma erupted from the earth, coating thousands in liquid fire. Horrified screams rose from the village and from the enemy. The dwarves marched forward again, magic encasing them as they pierced through the wall of fire. Screams were silenced one by one as the Ajikan southern cavalry was destroyed. Underhall mages began guiding the lava toward the river. Massive blasts of steam rose to obscure the rising sun, just cracking over the mountaintops to the east.

Turning his attention back to the north, he sent a quick spell to his human cavalry commander, Take to the north, and join the other force. I want that cavalry destroyed. Watching, half of the dragon’s remaining cavalry wheeled away from the column, pushing northward and westward. As the cavalry column broke, so did the main column. Asmund’s forces began to envelop the village in the early morning light. Their shamans were no longer putting up a fight, but their villagers seemed to be hastily digging in.

Asmund lazily wheeled above, watching as the dwarves also began to encircle the village from the south, meeting his cavalry and keeping the enemy at bay. After a few moments, the village was encircled. A few brave souls died upon the axes and swords of the dragon’s forces. Most knelt, awaiting their execution. 

Asmund landed in the center of the village, crushing three Ajikans. With a roar, he tore through five others. Many people began to run. Other played dead. It would not matter. They would perish anyway.

“This,” roared Asmund, his thundering voice shaking the earth, “is what you reap when you hide the foes of Rovriddare! None of you shall live!” Shards of ice flew from the dragon, spearing dozens. His breath froze footmen and civilians alike.

“Not if there’s anything we can say about it!” Asmund angrily turned, gnashing his teeth. A group of five stood before him. Three humans, a tengu, and a half-elf. The traitors. The murderers.

The first barely wore any clothing, was extremely muscular, and carried a great broad sword, his brown hair flowing in the wind. The second was a paladin, wearing the silver of the dragon god, tall but not overly muscular, his chiseled face partially masked by his helm. The third was a wizard, clad only in light blue robes, his black beard clashing with his red hair. The tengu was fourth, a small violin clutched between feathered fingers. Finally, the half-elf stood with his bow drawn.

“Face me, scum! You will pay for what you have done!”Asmund roared, leaping toward them. The tengu began to play a melody, his friends shouting a battle cry. “Die, you filth, you wretched beings! Forces of Rovriddare, slaughter your foes!” With a thundering roar, Asmund’s forces pushed into the village, destroying all. 

The first to die was the barbarian, wildly swinging his word. Bitten in half, his entrails steaming in the cold morning air. Second was the bard, speared by a great shard of ice. Arrows pelt harmlessly off of Asmund’s hide and plate armor. Spells all but ricocheted back at the wizard. The paladin fought briefly as he felt his godly powers taken from him; his patron god, observing the battle, saw him fighting Asmund. The white dragon laughed, biting off the head of the defeated foe. The wizard died next, his head melting as Asmund’s magics tore open his mind. Finally, only the ranger stood. 

The half-elf’s arrows broke upon Asmund’s scales. His measly magics harmlessly dissipate into the chill air. Snow fell around the two combatants. With a roar, the dragon pinned his foe. The half-elf cried out in terror, drawing a knife, somehow managing to stab Asmund’s foot and drawing blood. With a disgusted grunt, Asmund pinned the man to the ground, a claw piercing his stomach. 

“For you,” the dragon hissed, “you will die slowly. You killed my daughter, scum, and you will face the slow, inevitable face of death.” The dragon bit down, tearing away the man’s left arm. The half-elf weakly sobbed, blood pouring to the ground. Asmund tore away his right arm. Then his left leg. Then his right. The dragon froze the stumps.

The half-elf was pale. Shivering. Asmund’s army fought around him, but he paid no heed. This man would feel incredible pain. He opened the man’s mind. Asmund sifted through all of his memories, watching in horror as the ranger poisoned his beloved Fyri in her sleep. In a blind rage, the dragon wiped the man’s mind and filled it with fear. Panicking, the ranger shouted and floundered under Asmund’s claws. Gasping for breath, in horrible pain, the half-elf pleaded for mercy. 

The throne room was quiet. A cold wind rustled the hanging tapestries and the cloaks of the men and women standing guard. Asmund sat upon his throne, a single front claw clicking on the gray stone. A dignitary stood nervously before the great dragon, wringing his hands behind his back. The fire light was dim this evening, throwing dark shadows across the keep’s walls.

“You want me,” snapped the dragon, angrily looking down from his dias, “to pay you for what exactly?”

The dignitary, an Imperial woman, looked up, “Rovirddare has been charging unfair tariffs for goods coming in and out of Enlevia. We only ask you repay Enlevia for the economy you’re damaging.” The woman looked up at him with green eyes, her tan skin hiding beneath heavy furs and a red Enlevian cloak. Her black hair was tied smartly back. Asmund, for his part, managed not to laugh in her face. 

“I owe Enlevia nothing, and nor are my taxes unfair.” The dragon shift slightly upon his shining white throne, the cerulean pillow beneath him easily the size of a small hut. “The Council of Apothecaries are only that: apothecaries. They know nothing of economics.” Asmund lowered his head, stretching his neck to get to eye level with the diplomat, “They are old doctors, nothing more. I charge what I do to ensure the safety of all within my realm.”

“My Lord Baron,” clamored the woman, losing her patience, “it cost me money to get into the country! I’m an official state courier! You charge three hundred gold pieces per cart for caravans to get through your nation! Surely Draconia has mentioned they’re merchants’ unwillingness to pay!”

Asmund’s visage was overcome with a predatory grin, his teeth casting nasty shadows, “Draconia has agreed to my price, as the materials which they transport are quite important. As is Enlevia’s. Unless, of course, the Council doesn’t want me to protect your merchants?” The dragon brought his head back, continuing to make a show of being overly comfortable. “I need not waste resources on them, then. Is that what you wish?”

The woman began to stutter in her outrage, “H-how dare you, Lord Baron! That i-is absolute r-robbery!” Arguing with a dragon was a dragon’s job. Or an angel’s, Asmund thought to himself, shaking his head in frustration. That was for another time. 

“The cost of protection stays, then,” Asmund decreed, standing. “You are free to stay on The White Mountain this evening, if you wish. It is too cold to go out, anyhow. You are dismissed.” The dignitary angrily bowed, her movements stiff and overly formal. She stomped out of the keep, escorted by two guards.

“I will not be disturbed this evening,” said the dragon to no one in particular. Two guards salute, placing their fists over their chests. Asmund waved them off and retreat to his person chambers. Down a myriad of winding hallways he went, each lit less and less by flame and more and more by white and blue crystals. They emanate magic, warning the dragon of any intruders.

After a few minutes, Asmund arrived at the center of the keep. His chambers were not sparse, by any means. The room itself was almost a half a mile square of gray stone. The roof was four stories above, the roof magically sealed whenever he was not flying in. At the far end of the room lay a massive, dragon-sized pillow, its ruby red and golden trim contrasting with the typical white, silver, or blue he usually went with. All around, sconces and crystals embedded in the wall illuminated the room. In the center stood a two story tall, awesomely massive pile of treasure. Gold bars, suits of armor, silver coins, adamantine weapons, mithril shirts, and much more were found there, collected over his long life span. 

Stacked neatly, however, covering almost every inch of the massive circular room were barrels. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of mead, wine, beer, and other liquors lined his lair. Every barrel lovingly placed, labeled, and dated, all from different worlds, different distilleries and breweries. Some of them Asmund had made himself, others he had bought or taken from every corner of ever plane. Dominarian wine, Lorwyn beer, Ravnican whiskey, Jarguund mead. 

Admiring his hoard, Asmund climbed his mountain of treasure and lazily slid down the other size, finally coming to rest on his massive bed. Curling up on the pillow, Asmund fought for sleep. It wouldn’t come.

The previous week’s events flood his mind. Caravans attacked. His daughter’s funeral. His revenge. His poorly executed evening plans with Ivaria. The myriad of planeswalkers who came to scold or challenge him.

Sad, really, he thought, picking his teeth with an ancient longsword, covered in diamonds, I really would have liked to eat one of them. He chuckled, tossing the sword, listening for it’s harsh clang against steel, stone, or gold. Preferably that Alek. He DARED challenge me? In my own home? Ha! Asmund rolled over angrily, clicking his tongue to dim the lights. Threatening to harm Jarguund. A very brave move. Foolish, but brave. He narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular, I would cleanse the multiverse of his bloodline, should anything happen to my plane. His blood boiled.

Not to mention the others! Malku, damn him, being entirely too warm and trying to force his listening ear on me. At least he apologized. Asmund rolled again, his tail knocking over an armor stand and a priceless suit of mithril plate. Zerriko, that blasted fool. He could take no for an answer, thankfully. And Lucian! Couldn’t even be bothered to show up himself. Asmund snorted. Stabbed. Poisoned! He should be able to walk it off. Weak. 

Finally, the dragon came to the root of his problem: Isolde. That damnable angel. He angrily spat a ball of ice toward the ceiling, where it smashed into the roof, showering him with ice shards. Both of them. They could never see eye to eye on such matters as that. Those people lost their innocence when they harbored murderers. The dragon stood, spun about, and lay down again, creating a snow ball above his head, sending it spinning before him. Yet she did not argue that with me. Ivaria was hurt by my actions and intent, though I did not mean to do so. 

I do not look down upon her, he thought, shaking his head, she is very strong. I just thought she was prepared. Asmund snarled, sending the snowball into the far corner of his lair, where it dissipated on the magical shield surrounding it. I suppose I should have left out creating Fyri’s Well. I’m certain it reminded her of Zendikar. He sighed. Those damned Eldrazi. He had fought many years ago against them, deciding to leave the plane to its fate when the beings had almost escaped. The destruction they had wrought was akin to my own. 

Maybe it was too much, Asmund’s mind raced, maybe it was unnecessary. He shook his head, No, it was not enough. Yet, my relationship with Ivaria rests on thin ice, and I am a heavy dragon. Neither of us can fly from this. Asmund sighed, laying his massive head on his front claws. Perhaps I should apologize, as Isolde suggested. Yet, I would not want to treat her as a child. Ivaria is strong, and an adult. Just naive. He snorted, flicking his tongue out, Yet, she is learning. Perhaps I will let her come to me. That sit well with his pride. 

I do not think either of those angels will change my heart. Asmund paused, rolling onto his back, casting a quick spell to iris the roof open. As he gazed at the familiar stars above, he thought, Yet, they already have changed my heart. I cherish them both deeply. I do not wish to push either away, and we cannot pretend that conversation never occurred. Angrily he curled a foreclaw into a fist and hit his armored chest. No, it happened. I will apologize, for her sake. I will not lose another daughter, not by my own claw.