Pitfalls of the Palantir

An ancient, wheezing evil stirred on the rocky fastness of the Withered Heath. The hunting had been poor for the past few years, driving Lithul, the cold drake, out of the safety of his lair and into the wild. But now the south wind had brought rumour to him of something more important than game; revenge. He had caught scent of the thieves who had stolen one of his very few treasures so many years ago. That, in Lithul's dim mind, had been the beginning of his long fall. He would catch those felons and make them pay for what they had done to him, even if he had to track the entire length of Wilderland.

He eased his whistling body down the last slope of the Grey Mountains. Of course, it might take him awhile to catch up with them, but revenge was a dish best served cold.