Adventure of Tarran 1

The emerald dragon hangs over the chamber like a carved god made of light. The walls groan inward, and the cold draft through Tarran’s torn exit flings dust across her feet. The Cultist drops to their knees, trembling in worship.

A new shape cuts through the glow, a hooded spearbearer stepping from behind a rib arch. He plants his bone spear and bares his teeth at Tarran, eyes fixed on the pulse in her throat.

Tarran’s massive jaws swing toward the speaker, and the chamber shudders as the dragon-light drains hotter, thinner, tugging at the essence inside her. The Cultist flinches low and does not look up.

The apparition’s hollow gaze turns, not toward the Warden, but toward Tarran’s glowing throat, as if measuring what can still be claimed.

Tarran lunges straight through Vorren’s spear guard. Her jaws close on his hood and throat together, and the bone shaft jerks uselessly against her chest.

Vorren’s body buckles with a choking gasp. The spear slips from his grip and clatters over the broken stone as emerald light flickers across his face.

Tarran tears upward, and Vorren’s head vanishes into her mouth in one brutal bite.

The dragon essence in her throat flares hard, bright enough to wash the rib arches in green. The apparition shudders above her, its outline fraying at the edges.

The Cultist jerks upright from their kneel, staring at the empty space where Vorren stood, salt and blood on their breath.

The dragon-light splits like torn silk, and the chamber walls groan louder as the apparition starts to break apart around Tarran’s glow.

Dust rains from the collapsing ceiling. The last remaining shape of the dragon hangs over Tarran, thinning into shards of light as the room waits to see whether it can still take the essence back.

Tarran gulps, and the last bright shape of the dragon goes with it. The shards rush inward, vanishing into her throat as if the light has finally found a hungry grave.

The emerald glow swells once inside her, then settles low and deep. It no longer hangs over the chamber, it lives in her belly now.

Above, the broken apparition leaves only drifting sparks and a widening absence. The walls keep pulsing, but the pulse looks weaker, thinner, starved.

Dust pours from the ceiling in heavier sheets. Vorren’s dropped spear lies forgotten near the rubble, and the chamber tilts toward collapse.

The room answers with a deep crack from above, and fresh stones rain down between them.