The blasted earth of the battlefield clung to Trampus’ claws as he fled, the fine grains of lifeless earth scouring his gleaming white talons like sandpaper.
As it frequently did, the whole of the great continent of Tsunami had risen in conflict, and a vast armada of enemies roamed the plain. Armies of fighters and clerics plied their services, while gangs of thieves stalked their victims. Furious mages shattered the heavens with their sorcery, casually annihilating foes with blasts of elemental force. Hordes of the undead crept from tombs and mausoleums, starved for the warmth of the living. Trolls, hydras, and vile monsters of every stripe crawled from their muck-ridden, subterranean lairs, eager to rend flesh from bone.
And above it all soared flight after flight of dragons–Trampus’ brethren, the Lords of the Sky.
Trampus longed to take wing and join his brothers in combat, but he could not, because somewhere, the Pyromancer lurked. If Trampus took to the air, the brilliant shine of his snowy scales would draw the Pyromancer like a moth to a candle, and his cruel flames would burn Trampus to a charred stump.
And so Trampus ran, earthbound and filthy, like a wretched coward.