Meeting his fate at the hands of seven great heroes, the wicked drake now stands in Death's hall. Met with the Grim Reaper itself.
Defeated and its pride broken, the drake doesn’t beg or grovel, it simply awaits judgement. It waits for the God of the afterlife to send it on its way, to either the heights of bliss and peace or where it knew it would be sent. The depths of agony and torture, the halls of Tartarus, the father of monsters.
Grim looked up from its oaken desk and down at the creature that would have otherwise, if grown wiser and older, matched the reaper itself in power. Its faceless guise, hidden by a black hood and whirling shadows, it briefly stared at the drake.
“You are unfit for the sky yet also too fit for the abyss,” Grim spoke, its voice a cracking whisper.
“Your time came too soon, the actions you have taken will lead your world to ruin…Be reborn, pitiful serpent. Yet remember what you have done, see what your actions have made that realm into. Let me show you, how your greed and gluttony have warped such a wonderful place and time.”
Grim raised its black-feathered pen towards the beast “Be reborn, as the weak pitiful creature you should have been born as. Take this both as a punishment and…a learning experience. For failure, can be the best teacher.”
The drake took a step back, hoping to escape this cruel fate. Yet none escaped Death, less so its embodiment. Screaming shadows engulfed his form, ripping away at his body and shape. Fangs of darkness sinking deep into his draconic flesh, warping it, changing him into something else…
Opening his eyes, the wicked drake felt none of its power, none of its magic and none of its might. As it stood at the edge of a cliff, looking down upon a ruined valley of rot and miasma. It glanced down at itself, seeing none of its sturdy scales or sharp claws.
The drake had been reborn...
As a Human.