Elegy for the First World

Bahamut and Tiamat in constellation form.

Breathe, dragons; sing of the First World,

forged out of chaos and painted with beauty.

Sing of Bahamut, the Platinum,

molding the shape of the mountains and rivers;

Sing too of Chromatic Tiamat,

painting all over the infinite canvas.

Partnered, they woke in the darkness;

partnered, they labored in acts of creation.

Breathe, dragons; sing then of Sardior,

ruby-red jewel they made in their likeness;

Sardior, first-born of dragonkind,

labored alongside Bahamut and Tiamat,

Shaping the dragons they crafted:

dragons metallic and dragons chromatic.

Breathe, dragons—draw in the life-gift

breathed into you at the dawn of creation.

Breathe, dragons; sing of The Old Ones,

war-bringer gods with their mortal adherents;

Teeming, they came to the First World,

seeking a home for their legions of followers.

Mighty in magic and numbers,

conquering deities seized their victory.

Fallen was noble Bahamut,

Sardior hid in the heart of creation.

Breathe, dragons; sing now of Tiamat,

raging in battle with no hope of victory.

She would not flee or surrender,

fighting as death reached its cold claws toward her.

War-bringers seized her and bound her,

snatched her from death, entombed her in torment—

Sealed in the darkness forever,

captive to gods laying claim to creation.

Breathe, dragons; sing of the conquest,

seeding the world with their legions of followers,

Each to their own habitation,

abberations and monstrosities, horrors from on Far,

lurking in shadows and dreams,

feeding on madness and chaos,

sundering the World and creation,

perverting and twisting it to their desires.

Breathe, dragons; sing of Bahamut,

who rallied his children, metallic and shining,

and brought forth his fury,

shaking the world and boiling the seas,

blackening the sky and assailing the land,

scattering the foes, routing their lords,

laying waste to the prison

holding tight The Dragon Queen.

Breathe, dragons; sing of her freedom—

Tiamat loosed from her prison of torment!

Tell how she, too, rallied her children,

dragons chromatic, a spectrum of mayhem.

Sing of her fury, her vengeance,

lightning and venom, ice, fire, and corrosion,

Five-headed, monstrous, and mighty,

rampaging on a campaign of destruction.

Breathe, dragons; sing of the First World,

scattered in infinite seedling realities.

Sing of Bahamut and Tiamat,

watching its sundering, mourning their labor.

Sing too of Sardior, her body a prison,

her children casting watchful eyes to the Far.

Breathe, dragons: you are inheritors,

ruling the wreck of the First World’s destruction.