The day the dragon died was dark indeed. The sun rose, blood red in color. All of its beauty was gone. Replacing it was sorrow and devilry. The clouds were died navy, the color of mourning. Lightning flashed in horizontal strokes that looked like knife slashes. People cowered inside their houses. If they had gone out they would not have seen the black caravan slinking across the horizon. Power-hungry men had been experimenting in the depths of a cave. Testing on a dragon scale they looked for eternal life-to live as long as the immortal beasts. What they were doing was against the few laws of the land, laid down by a council of dragons and men. The first part was harmless. On that day they left that innocence behind them. Approaching the dragonmount they draw swords tipped with a baby's blood- the only poison strong enough to kill a dragon. With greed and malice in their heart they climbed the jagged rocks. They came upon a sleeping dragon and brutally struck, swift and quick. It called in rage and the men were attacked by hoards of drakes. Yet for all the dragons' might it was too late. A dragon had been slain. Defilement so foul in the lizard eyes could not be perceived of. Nature had not claimed its creation, a sword had. War broke out. Fields lay strewn with the cadavers of men and dragons alike. It seemed the men were fighting a loosing battle. The airborne monsters could easily overtake a whole army. Humans quaked in terror. Would these sunless days ever take their leave? The answer came on the Day of Wing. Dragons took off into the dawn never too return. Nobody knew where they went. Nobody cared. The battle was over, and they had won. But the war was still existing.