Thrall - Christie Golden [28]
Strange though this adventure was, he was glad he had agreed to accept it.
He climbed slowly atop the great being and then, with less of an effort displayed by any other creature Thrall had ridden, the dragon was airborne.
Thrall’s breath went away at the feeling of magic and power that emanated from Desharin. His wings beat strongly, the breeze cool on Thrall’s skin, and he rose upward seemingly effortlessly. When he could breathe again, Thrall almost wanted to laugh. Before, he realized, he had ridden beasts that could fly. Now he felt as if he were one such creature himself.
“Can you tell me more of yourself? Of the other dragons?” Thrall asked. “I know some, but to be honest, I do not know what is myth and what is fact.”
Desharin chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “I will, friend Thrall, though as to most recent history, you must remember that I have been in the Emerald Dream and have only just awakened. But I will share what I know. One thing is for certain: Aspects only rarely intervene in the affairs of the short-lived races. The rest of my kind? Many are intrigued by what some arrogantly call the ‘lesser races.’ We sometimes enjoy taking your forms.”
“Such as a kaldorei.”
“Exactly,” agreed Desharin, “although I may assume any one I wish. While we are individuals, of course, and each of us has a preferred shape, you’ll find each flight gravitates toward a certain appearance more often than not. For instance, we green dragons tend to prefer kaldorei, because of our relationship with the great druid Malfurion Stormrage, who for so long shared the Dream with us.”
Thrall nodded. It made sense.
“I have observed the reds are partial to the sin’dorei, and the blues often opt for human form. As for the bronzes, while their task necessitates a variety of shapes, they seem to enjoy appearing as … gnomes.”
Thrall laughed. “Perhaps they enjoy being tiny and harmless-looking, given their natural form.”
“Perhaps. Maybe you can ask.”
“I … no, I don’t think I will.”
“You are wise.”
“I have learned a few things,” Thrall said. “Do any of you ever …” How to word it? He shrugged and said bluntly, “Take positions of power among the short-lived races?”
“Generally not, although Deathwing tried, and his daughter, Onyxia, actually succeeded,” growled Desharin. “And Krasus is … was … a powerful member of the Kirin Tor.”
“Was?”
“He met his end,” was all Desharin said, and he fell silent. Clearly, it was a delicate matter.
Thrall changed the subject. “I have heard that there are other types of dragons than these five flights.”
“Indeed, and these are the enemies of all of us, save the blacks whom they serve,” Desharin said. “Deathwing’s son, Nefarian, tried to create a new type of dragon called a chromatic dragon. He used magical experiments to combine qualities of all the other dragonflights. The resulting whelps were often deformed, and always short-lived, fortunately. None of them exists any longer. The twilight dragons had a similar sort of origin, except their creatrix, Sinestra, used ancient dragon artifacts and the powers of the nether dragons. They proved more stable and longer-lived … and also have an advantage in that they can turn incorporeal at will.”
“A challenging enemy,” Thrall said.
“Very,” agreed Desharin, “especially when controlled by the black dragonflight.”
Thrall watched as the greenery of Feralas gave way to the vast stretch of water that was now Thousand Needles. Thrall shook his head, gazing down at the dozens of small islands that used to be the pinnacles of the spiky rock formations that gave Thousand Needles its name. The world had changed so very much. He knew it had, of course; he had heard all the reports. But to see so much from the air … he wondered whether the others of the Ring had witnessed what he was seeing now, and if they had not, if perhaps they should.