And what of Tristan Thalavar, the renegade heir to one of Westgate's foremost noble houses? As one might imagine, the prodigal Sorcerer's final days in Impiltur were shrouded in a sense of enigma, and disquietude. As the storms closed in on The Easting Reach, Tristan's presence within the ramshackle community of Thelnam seemed to climax, and then, like the storm, vanish, leaving behind a sense of awe, and calm. The thoughts, desires, and movements of the young man suddenly ceased to exist in the context of Impiltur. Thereafter they would survive as echoes; unanswered mysteries, and fuel for speculation in the months to come.
After the storm had passed, Thelnam locals went down onto the Sound, where Tristan had boldly gone whilst the storm was still in its infancy. They did not find him there. Across The Easting Reach from Thesk, utterings began to reach Impiltur of a young man that had washed up on their shores on the brink of death. He indoctrinated an entire community, it is said, into assisting with his recovery. In the months ahead, many theories were passed about in hushed whispers as to the story of the man from the sea, but when he at last opted to leave the townsfolk behind him and travel again, still none could claim to have truly known him. They saw a man of perfect dimension, whose very aura was so great as to seem material around him; but he was also distant and detached, weighed heavily upon by some unspoken burden that he had carried with him from his past. Here before them they saw a man who would consciously beshrew close companionship, with no trust to give, and a heart untouchable – cool and inviolable as the marble from which his body had been carved. To confuse Theskans further, although he showed little concern for the people around him, he frequently sought information on travelers and Rangers that neared the town, as though forever anticipating the visitation of something – or somebody – for reasons he would never divulge to the countrymen.
Several years later, Tristan Thalavar was to return to Westgate. His parents found him greatly changed from the empty, ornate vessel they had desired him to be, ready to be filled full of the obligations of his birth and little more; nor was he the desperate runaway they had watched in disbelief as he fled the family home all those many years ago. The life of Tristan Thalavar, in all the seasons since his family had last laid eyes upon him, had made him unto a fury.
None know precisely what occurred in those moments after the doors of Castle Thalavar closed behind Tristan. Flashes of lightning and crashes of glass could be perceived in every visible window of the castle that night; mighty gusts of wind were expelled from its ancient orifices. By morning, every occupant of the castle – from lowly scullery maid and loyal footsoldier, up to and including the Lord and Lady Thalavar themselves – had been swiftly and unapologetically murdered. As the first fearful few approached the castle again and pushed open its doors, there in the midst of a massacre sat Tristan Thalavar upon the throne, looming with august majesty over his great work.
But Tristan's reign over the Thalavar house was brief and dispassionate. The boy had returned a mighty Sorcerer with whom none dared take umbrage, and for whom every perceived slight; betrayal; and personal grievance would be tallied and dealt with accordingly. None perceived him to be happy in his seat of power. Here before them – with reverence and woe – the Westar beheld a man who was the product of every resentment he had ever collected, each one nourished and sated by the enormity of his power.
The futility of his reign would end nearly as soon as it had begun. The gravity of Tristan's presence was soon to be eclipsed, and laid low by the presence of something infinitely his greater. For the first time in millenia, before all the denizens of Westgate, rising from the waters of The Dragon Coast came its very namesake: it was, reader, a Dragon.
It's silhouette shone against the sun; water fell radiantly from it's wings as they stretched out against that burning orb, dropping like pearls back into the ocean. A being all cast in bronze and fury, the Dragon turned itself upon Castle Thalavar. It's mighty maw parted, and it's voice was the Law: righteous, furious, and terrible. The pact had been forgotten; the gifts misused. For a second time, Castle Thalavar was lit up with arcs of cleansing lightning, and the Bronze Dragon filled every hall with its vengeance. It's body, crashing into the ancient walls of the building, collapsed every ceiling. The Thalavar house was no more.
As for the Dragon – seeing that none could have survived its vengeful reckoning – it sank back into the sea again, nevermore to permit itself contact with the race of men.