On one of the hundreds of uncharted islands, nearly invisible at the edge of the Archipelago of the Dragons, there stood an ancient ruin of a city. Tiny, by the standards of the Alliance Heartlands; only a few hundred buildings lining the roads that twisted back and forth up the rocky slope. At the top, perched upon the sheer cliffs where the sea had dragged half the land into the depths, there stood the burned and ruined remains of a royal's castle.

There was little life left on the island. Trees grew twisted and small, only surviving where the rock gave way to soil deep enough for roots to take hold. Grey seabirds humankind had never seen cried at the cliffs, but the city lay quiet. The animals which skulked within were as silent as the grave.

And speaking of graves...

Near the peak of the island, the town abruptly turned into a cemetery, one which spread on either side of the castle to the very edges of the cliffs. History told of a plague, one which had ravaged the island and left every dragonman-and-woman upon it dead. It was only years later when travelers from another island came and found the skeletons, the last remaining stricken who had not even had the strength left to bury one another. After half the explorers died soon after of what must have been that self-same illness, one no dragonfolk could cure, the island was barred and left to decay.

And yet, it was not empty.

A figure stood upon the castle wall, her black robes fluttering about her in the harsh ocean breeze.

“I love this island for its history, my dear. It is a place of defeat, of failure. Where dragonkind lost to death.”

Proud antlers formed a natural crown upon her head, and her dark dragonic skin gleamed like polished gemstones. She stood alone, save for the wind.

“It is bathed in tragedy, drunk on blood. There are tales here darker even then what we always suspected, aren't there?”

The wind laughed for her.

“Darker, deeper, blacker with blood,” he said, his breath hissing too fast through his bared teeth. “Years and years I have waited, watched; they had a thousand terrible tales. Tales for you.”

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The dragonwoman smiled, her bright teal eyes hard and cold with wicked anticipation. “Tales for me... tales to inspire. Tell me another, my dear. One of the tales you crafted for me.”

~~

Years before the plague came which killed them all, the dragon Royal of the island was ruled by twins. Their father had named neither his heir, dying in his delusions and denouncing all his family as traitors and spies. The twins, sister and brother, ruled side by side for a time, but they could not take the titles of the Royal that might have been expected. Brother and Sister could not be King and Queen.

So it was that there a divide began to grow in the land. A faction arose eager to see the sister on the throne, and a faction like it determined to have the brother sit in the place of his father. They were quiet at first, merely keeping their opinions as the princelords and ladies debated, but then the people began to discuss amongst themselves. Discussion became argument, and arguments turned into fights.

Seeing that the entire Royal would soon be riled to a state of civil war, the sister and brother took themselves aside. They had their nobles lock them within a room, with the stipulation that they were only to be allowed out again once both sister and brother agreed on who should be named ruler of the Royal.

The nobles went to the people and spread the word; the heirs of the last King were deciding amongst themselves who would step aside, and who would sit upon the throne. The people, hearing this, were calmed for a moment, but the wind of the island was thick with strife, and contention. It stirred in their hearts and riled their passions, and though the nobles commanded peaceable conduct, there was no order against the use of the voice.

Those who supported the sister stood upon one side of the castle, all along the edge of the cliff, and called to her within. “The Royal speaks! We would have you be our Queen!” they called. “Do not give up the throne, our Queen!”

Those who supported the brother stood upon the other side of the castle, all along the edge of the cliff, and called to him within. “You are our King!” “'Tis a King the Royal needs, not a Queen!”

And the twins, who had entered that closed off room with the best of intentions, to talk and listen with open minds for the sake of the people, had not thought to lock the windows. The sound of the crowds, and the wind of strife, flitted through the chamber of discussion, and pride was stirred in both hearts. Their discussions became argument, and their arguments became fighting.

The nobles obeyed the command of the twins, but after three days one young Prince stole the key and unlocked the chamber, sensing death. He saw within they who would have been King and Queen, each dead by the other's hand, and over them loomed a shadowy figure. The specter of death, the Windward Scythe, in whose hand rested the reaping blade of air that could stir any heart towards madness.

The Prince locked the chamber once more, went down to the other nobles, and conquered the Royal for his own.