CrawWorm

Dry ice slowly evaporates from the pinnacle of Death Mountain and makes contact with the midnight purple sky. The thick haze suffocates the dim luminance of the moon as the blood-lust dragon unfurls its massive teal wings and rises into the heavens. Six miles above a vast expanse of land within the enclave of Doom Valley, the dragon soars looking for a meal. Her venom-encrusted eyes pierce the cloud line with infrared sight that sees more than just the simple life below. She can sense the warm blood of the grazing buffalo. With prey in sight, the ancient dragon releases a hideous screech and dive-bombs toward the weather-worn plains below. The wind licks her violet-flecked scales and fuels her rumbling furnace. In the last second, her cruel sharp talons retract from the ends of her wings and make impact with the skull of a lone calf at the rear of the herd. They dig deep into the flesh and bone, instantly killing the calf. The dragon scoops up her prey and then flies back to her desolate cave two-thirds of the way up Death Mountain. There she will dine alone as she has done for the last 3000 years. Rolling thunder reverberates off the sheer walls of the mountain causing echos to travel across the valley like a runaway freight train. The dragon's first mouthful is off the rump. She tears through sinew and bone as if they were butter. Her thoughts are dark and brooding. She barely masticates her meal, devouring whole chunks of buffalo into her gaping mouth. When she finishes, the satiated dragon climbs upon her mound of treasure, curls herself into a ball and falls into a deep sleep. She dreams of an age long long ago when she was a member of a brood of dragons that ruled over Doom Valley and beyond. A solitary tear trickles out of her massive eye. She really is just a melancholy dragon destined to die alone. Perhaps somewhere along it was a deserved punnishment for a lifetime of hunting and hoarding. Her thoughts cave in on her dreams and she becomes locked in a darkness not even light can escape from.