Milai - The Orb of Dragor

Milai’s Object Readings of the Orb of Dragor

“Kagrash we must use it – it is the only way! Come, you know it brother.” A young dwarf dressed in rich cottons of red and purple pleads with an older, yet very similar looking, male dressed in black.

“You have the stone we shaped? Is there not enough power within that orb?” The older dwarf has a long thick, glossy-black beard and twinkling pinprick eyes, buried deep beneath a high brow and enormous dark eyebrows. His hair, tied in a pony tail, flows haphazardly down his back.

“Not that I can find.” The younger says with a Gallic shrug.

“Have you asked the prisoners {the prisoners are Orodruin's folk}, Dragor? They must know something!” The older presses, leaning easily on a double headed battleaxe.

“Yes – they say they know nothing…Some have even died whilst denying all knowledge.” The tone is indifferent as the young dwarf continues to pace.

“What about Kagrall?” A sudden concern flashes across the dark sunken eyes, swiftly followed by the raise of a thick eyebrow.

“He wants no part of this…He says that we meddle in thing we do not understand. He may be right.” The pacing stops, the tone supplicant.

“He may…has he stopped asking about our uncle?” The tone belies the concern written in the deep lines which flow across his broad forehead, interrupted by the still raised eyebrow.

“He has – he believed the ship-wreck story. He is obsessed with the Rodrus Gods – he claims to have uncovered ancient iconography here, in Keffendir.” Dragor looks strangely troubled. “Look, Kagrash, we must use it…There is no other way!”

“I am beginning to regret telling you about it Dragor. Grandfather was right – no-one should know.” The older dwarf is motionless, staring at the ground as if trying to remember a time long forgotten.

“He entrusted it to you so that you would use it wisely to get rid o’ that cursed snake.” Dragor is close to the older dwarf, sub-consciously attempting to raise his eyes from the floor.

“I know…I know…It’s just…”

“What?” Dragor presses swiftly, fearing to allow the older dwarf time to reflect.

“This does not seem to be the way; it may have serious side-effects…”

“But you do know how to use it?”

“It will show us – of that you can be sure.” Kagrash lifts his head and makes eye contact.

“Then it seems to be a blessing. Come brother, we must try. You did not become Lord of Keffendir merely to sit in lofty Amorsland and let the Serpent plunder Dor.”

“You cannot do this alone master dwarf; the demon is too powerful. You need assistance from my kind.” The hissing calm voice issues forth from the enormous maul of a gigantic red dragon.

“Are you volunteering, Rantor? I cannot believe that your help would be rendered willingly, without cost.” A dwarf dressed in rich silk of deep reds, burgundy and purples and wearing a brightly burnished breastplate with an inlaid jet symbol: ډ

“Ahhh. You know me well master dwarf. I too need help – you know that I am under siege? Of course you do; you were sent here by those fools. Sent to parley like you father? You must be uncomfortable in the presence of your father’s nemesis, no?” The Dragon smirks, enjoying the obvious pain of his guest.

“I am uncomfortable in the presence of any worm…Now, where were we? You aid…” The dwarf reveals a gently glowing orb, almost unconsciously, from a leather sack hung from his belt.

“You think that will govern me?” The Dragon’s long black talon indicates the orb. “Did you make it to control me? Oh how misguided. Look, Dragor, you could help me and, in return, I will slay your Demon.”

“Yes I know you will.” The dwarf says with more confidence than he feels looking into the Orb.

“Ahhh…Try your toy. It has power, arcane power, but not enough to harness my soul, dwarf. Stop playing! I do not wish to slay you, like I have your kin. You amuse me. Now, be a good dwarf and we will both get what we want.” The Serpent draws himself up into a defensive posture – ready to strike – whilst wording the suggestion carefully.

“Your dweomer will not work with me either, worm! It is time to be candid. You kill the Demon and return to me what is mine by right and I will represent your case with Eomer – perhaps I could convince him that you will mend your ways and cause my folk no more trouble.”

“Why would I wish you to do that? Do I credit you with more intelligence than you actually possess? I will no more ‘mend my ways’ than you will defeat the Demon that bears the artefact so precious to you. No, master dwarf, I do not seek a parley and, no, I do not wish you to ‘represent’ my case.” The great maul comes close to the dwarf.

“With such an entrenched position, my time here appears to be wasted.” The dwarf backs off, replacing the orb and resting a hand on his axe.

“That is where you are mistaken. Use the trinket to summon my kind so that I may entreat them for access to my home; then, I will assist you.”

“You wish to escape the clutches of Eomer by leaving the Prime?” He stands still, outwardly shocked by the change in direction.

“Oh master dwarf! You finally see the complete picture. You will have no success in changing the mind of the races arraigned against me. The only way I can leave is with the permission of my brethren who reside in the inner planes. You need to bring them to me so that I can put my case to them – not Eomer!”

“Why do you not use the Palantir together with your dweomer?” The dwarf clearly remains confused, not now knowing how to progress the deal.

“Dragor, do not meddle in things you could not possibly understand! Your father made that mistake…No, you are beyond that, I can see…I was unfair. It is not an insult to be named Dragon Friend – your kin have saved countless lives and enriched many more. Now, what do you say? Summon my kin, gain my assistance and let me return to the Plane of Fire, or do you wish to return to Eomer with nothing to show for your parley – except your skin.”

“What have you done? You have betrayed us! You have destroyed our family’s name. As if ‘Dragon Friend’ was not bad enough, you sealed the bargain and become the Dragon’s best friend. You helped it destroy our friends and allies! I can no longer live here in Keffendir!” A dwarf, bedecked in light blue silk, sits at a table, strewn with parchment, leaning heavily on his elbows, face falling gently into hands. His final words are spoken more to his palms than to his visitor.

“Go then; you are no longer welcome. I was doing what I thought best for our people.” Retorts a dwarf stood at the other end of the table, dressed in a deep purple cloak, red robe and black riding trousers.

“Our people! Our people! You have never been concerned with our people – all you have ever strived for is power for yourself, just like Kagrash! You will meet the same fait as him. You disgust me and I’m not alone.” The dwarf stands, banging the table to emphasise his disgust.

“Go then Kagrall; slink off to wherever your mistaken beliefs take you. We do not need you - take that Rodrus runt wife of yours with you to stop her polluting more minds.” The words are reinforced by an outstretched index finger.

“No, you don’t need us and never have. I want no part of your treachery. History will prove you wrong Dragor. I will take all that will follow to the North – far away from your madness!” He turns his back on the outstretched digit and walks to the open window.

“You cannot turn your back on the Gods, they will always know you Kagrall!” The tone is evangelical.

In response the words carried on a breeze from the window offer merely tired resignation, “The one you worship merely desires souls; I will not waste my life waiting for death. Look, Dragor, we had a chance to start afresh – that was the promise of Keffendir – to escape the shackles of our forefathers.” He turns from the window, his long, jet black curly hair billows around his face in the breeze, “Kagrash and you have brought nothing but despair. Why let Hel into our lives? Why seek the Gem when we know it brings nothing but death and destruction? By Athena, the Gnomes taught us that a thousand years ago!” The words gain in vehemence and the table suffers another blow, “Where did you get that Crown?” It is his turn to use a digit to indicate the 5-pointed crown studded with green gems. “I sense that you did not just find it on the battlefield - I see no good coming from that either. No, Dragor, we seek an alternative vision – where war is only fought out of utmost necessity and life has value.”

“Nice speech. Should we not engage in war to revenge our brother, our father and our family? What could be more just? What could be better than stopping Ragnarock or, at least, die trying! Don’t you speak to me of your twisted ideology!” The table is given another test of resilience.

“Twisted! Twisted! What could be more twisted than what you have done? Hide in your tower; deliver yourself and your family to Hel. I will not go that way! Good luck Dragor, you’ll need it.”

“Luck does not come into it, Kagrall, our souls will be forever valued – yours will be lost for good!”

“For good is right, Dragor, not for Hel!”

“Ahh there you are my children…now what are you planning…” A dwarf can be made out in the gloom peering into a faintly glowing palantir, from which emanates two dwarf voices – one male and one female…

“He has destroyed everything! Just as we were on the verge of victory, he led our enemy to glory. How can you suffer this indignity, Mandur?”

“I cannot Enrodir and I know you cannot either; however, if we turn our backs on him then our House crumbles and we are left to follow Kagrall.”

“There is no other way! How can we ever hope to look upon the nobles of the other races again?”

“True, we are doomed to remain in Amorsland – in the mountains of Keffendir. There are worst places to live…”

“What of the trade – do you sanction that? Don’t tell me you are unaware. There are things our forefathers need to take responsibility for and make amends.”

“Yes, of course you are right… But we know that it is never going to happen. I cannot see Dragor making amends for his wrong-doing.”

“No…Will you? You are the eldest – you will replace our father.”

“What? Why do you think about the succession now?”

“No reason, Mandur, I would like to think that you would not follow his tunnel. Why do we venture deeper into darkness? Kagrall taught us that there are other choices. Before you ask, I did not even understand uncle’s beliefs when he talked to me about it, let alone now with him being gone these last 5 years.”

“If we choose Kagrall’s tunnel, our House will be lost forever. No-one has heard from our Uncle since he left. They are truly lost souls.”

“Regardless of Kagrall’s beliefs, you cannot tell me that Hel has anything but doom to offer us.”

“No, that is where I design my own cavern – and you yours no doubt.”

“Yes…Although religion has never been my source of precious stones.”

“You need to venture away from Father’s halls and the tower, find your own home - take your family and those close to you. I know many will follow you brother. Be sure to keep a link open so that we can help each other in times of trouble.”

“Father, listen, we must use the Orb to summon help; Enrodire’s folk have been routed and we are surrounded. This evil, Guerin, is more powerful than we gave credit. He now occupies most of Keffendir and threatens the Dragorald.”

“Yes, yes…I know all that daughter. Of course we must use the Orb but I fear what it may bring upon us. Remember I was unable to control that which I had summoned before,”

“I know my father but, with respect, I believe I might be more accomplished at such a task.”

“Yes, you might at that Mandur. Very well, but be careful what you wish for.”

“I will father, I have studied the inner planes and believe that the enemy has control over all but earth. Balance must be restored to the elements; therefore, I am confident that we should summon a metallic dragon. “

“If you are certain – we must stop the enemy by all means available – go ahead.”

Smoke fills the air, bodies lie strewn on the floor and still the dark men come. Arrows find their targets and yet more of the House of Dor are lost to Hel. The fell men carry shields emblazoned with an image of a dark grey wolf; their armour is black and of evil design; their cloaks purple and helms adorned with all manner of horns and spikes. They burst through the broken door, cutting down those dwarfs trying to prop it up, and charge into the dimly lit hall. Three dwarves stand before them, hacking and slashing at everything that moves in front of them. The bodies pile up – arrows fail to strike the dwarves, the fell men are unable to best them and fall dead at their feet. Suddenly it grows darker; stood at the door is a tall figure dressed in long grey robes with a hood obscuring his face. All that can be seen is a black beard which protrudes from the shadow of the cowl and falls onto the man’s armoured chest. On his breastplate the head of a wolf is embossed, in his left hand is a long sword and in his right a staff. “Leave them to me”, his harsh, rasping voice leaves the shadow of the hood and crashes against the walls of the hall.

The men stop fighting and withdraw, blocking the dwarves frantic blows.

The dark figure walks confidently forward, holding his staff off the floor, and pointing the sword at the dwarves menacingly. “I will spare your life Dragor, in exchange for the Orb and that crown you wear.”

“Never, Guerin! I have made that mistake before – I would rather die”

“That will not be hard, Dragor..but what of your son and daughter here?”

“We would rather die than see you take the Dragorald”, a spirited response comes from a young male dwarf to his father’s right. In a blur, the evil mage is upon the trio, his sword cutting the young male down and blasting the others with fire from the staff. The female dwarf ducks the flames and rolls to her left into the shadows. Dragor smashes the mage’s breastplate with his axe, to little avail.

The warlock’s dark robes whirl, masking the blade beneath. The dwarf ducks away – down and to his left – to avoid the staff, skilfully aimed at his head. The warlock side-steps the scything blow of the dwarf’s axe and now uses both staff and sword to attack. The sword’s edge strikes the dwarf just beneath his chin smashing through the thin metal plate and severing his throat. It takes a while for the dwarf to realise all was lost. He swings his axe again before the pain hit him, taking the strength from the blow, which merely bounces off the mage’s thigh guard.

“You’re done Dragor, son of Dragor the Dragon Friend. Know this before you die: I will take up your artefacts, destroy your pet, feed your son’s body to the crows and hang your daughter. Your folly – the Dragorald – will be mine!”

The dwarf cannot reply, he merely gurgles blood which bubbles through the gaping wound in his neck. Instead, another voice can be heard quietly chanting protective dweomer. In a blur the female dwarf appears from the shadows, grabs at the Orb and the Crown and attempts to run. The warlock regains his senses swiftly and uses the sword to strike at the lady’s hand as it lifts the orb, and from the staff lightening emanates bridging the void between warlock and dwarf. The female keeps her grip on the Crown as the lightning dissipates around the shell she has created. However, she has less luck with the Orb which roles towards the warlock. Grabbing her wand, as the evil mage swipes at her again, she is able to conjure and step into a gate.

“Ahhh!!! Find her!! The bitch must not be able to leave. Belor! Drive your men into these halls – I want the Dragorald!”

“There you hide Guerin, or should I say Dordraug?” An oriental man, dressed in a deep purple silk kimono with a white and black obi, stands on a blue marble floor, in the centre of a great hall and illuminated by four large golden braziers. His jet-black hair is tied in a perfect cue and held in place by a silver pin. Around his neck, carved from black sapphire and opal, is a woman’s face - half white, half black. In his hands is a vast black bastard sword, covered in dwarven runes and faintly glowing a purple-blue. On his left hand is a ring with a prominent green gem set in a band of pure white gold. A finger is missing from his right hand. The hall has 4 exits – one arch in the centre of each wall – and a vast vaulted ceiling from which hangs eight pillars, which taper towards the ground and form a perfect circle. At the oriental’s feet is the Orb of Dragor, slightly raised on platform. In a corner, opposite the oriental a man sits, smoking a long pipe. He wears a burnished breastplate on which is embossed the head of a grey wolf with rubies for eyes. Clasped to the plate at the shoulder is a grey fur cloak, with a deep hood thrown back so that it hangs to the small of his back, covering his semi-empty backpack. His legs, thrust forward and crossed in a relaxed pose, are covered on brown trousers also partly armoured in burnished metal. His left hand holds the scabbard of a long sword, the hilt of which is plain in design but contains some magnificent gem stones of all colour. His right hand clasps a long wooden staff which Milai recognises as Lastar’s, without pommel or claw. The man’s face is elegant - long and narrow – but lined, revealing his advancing years. His black hair is swept back, tumbling into his hood, and held in place with a platinum crown which holds 7 blue gems.

His black beard is short and joins a neatly trimmed moustache and his dark grey, unblinking eyes appear to notice everything.

“You will cede to me all that I desire, including that which was once most dear to your heart.” The oriental presses.

“And if I do not?”

“Your life is forfeit. This time, there will be no escape Dordraug – I am not a petty bloom that will wilt and be forgotten! I have much of the power that you once had, do not test me. You have something that I desire most keenly.” The oriental man points to a pouch which hangs almost imperceptibly from the man’s belt.

“Death is the only way I will be parted from my treasures.” Perhaps the briefest movement of those deep, dark, grey eyes gave away his intensions, because as Milai watched the tall lithe man raise himself from his seat, the oriental became a blur of motion covering the distance between them in an instant. “Another soul for my Lady then!” the oriental shouts as, sword already drawn, he slices through the man’s neck, almost toppling his head with a single blow. The spell, for that is what Milai was sure the man was casting, was caught in his throat, frothing with blood. The weak movement of his staff was easily blocked and the sword remained in its scabbard. “Now I am the master Dordraug – you should never have left your seat unoccupied.”

“Ahh, Revern, you like my treasures then?” asks the oriental man that Milai knows to be Malor, who now is dressed in a black kimono and white obi.

“My Lord, they are the stuff of legend; is that Dragor’s Orb?” replies a wizened man stood at the back of the dimly lit room. In the gloom the man appears to be wearing a dark purple, coarse silk robe trimmed with sable. The large hood is thrown back revealing sharp features and a wispy thin beard. Balding, his forehead juts over his deep-set eyes which are the darkest black. What hair he has is thin and unkempt; pushed back, it trickles into the hood of his robe. Milai vaguely recognises the now deceased mage. He stretches out a long thin arm and uncurls his fingers, lifting the orb gently.

“It is.” The answer was unnecessary.

“And you have the Jewel?” Revern’s directness seems not to concern the oriental.

“I do; amongst all many other items of significance” The oriental looks down at his hand which sports the green earth ring.

“Sama, you have summoned me; I am guessing that you require me to understand these objects better and reveal there usage?”

“Exactly, Revern – you will be well paid for your trouble.”

“The chance to discover more of these artefacts is payment enough, my Lord.”

“I need more than a sage, Revern, I need you to summon an ancient Wyrm with which I can protect the Dragorald.”

“That may take time…I take it that you haven’t managed to squeeze anything out of its maker’s ancestors?” Revern is careful not to make eye contact with the oriental; instead, he stares at the orb which is raised like an offering to the Gods before him.

“If I had, you would not be here. Don’t fail me Revern!”

“Revern, you continue to serve me well. Thank you for returning the Orb.” Malor says as he pours wine into two goblets on a silver platter perched on an ivory table.

“It would have been wasted in the hands of such an impotent squib.” Revern smiles and walks towards the oriental.

“You left him alive, I understand.” The words pass easily, as he were merely making small talk.

“Yes, there was no opportunity to rid him from the Prime; my disguise was barely sufficient to keep my motives hidden from the elves.” Revern replies swiftly nearly tripping over his words.

“And how are they?” a smile passes Malor’s lips, “Content with their lot or are they planning another attack?”

Revern thinks before answering, “Well, they are much aggrieved by what was done to Senforn and buoyed by what this band of thieves achieved. However, whilst they seek opportunity to attack, they have more pressing concerns.” Revern reaches down to the table, lifts a goblet and drinks nervously.

A pause, “Ahh, the same concerns that I have…”

Revern, quick to fill the silence, “Perhaps an alignment with one of those Demons might prove valuable – at least in the short term?”

Malor had obviously reached the same conclusion, “Yes; which has the upper hand?”

“In Amorsland, Orcus…I managed to glean from my deluded but extremely lucky pupil that he had inadvertently shifted the portal that Demogorgon was using – where to I cannot fathom as yet.” Revern sensed the pressure had lifted and he was glad to provide some useful intelligence.

“Good…Guerin will take a bargain to Orcus: we will support the Demon’s endeavours across the Prime, in return for freedom of operation in North Amorsland.” The oriental paced slowly whilst speaking, holding his goblet but not drinking, “That should be sufficient to distract from our real intent.” He stops, turns and looks directly at Revern, “My lady has provided other allies, one of whom you must meet.”

“Very well my Lord”, the nervousness returns and Revern takes a gulp of warm wine.

“I need you to meet Tuar Chan. Take the Orb – he needs you to restore Rantor to his former glory.” A smile is fixed on the Oriental’s handsome face.

Revern splutters in his goblet, “I am not certain that can be done.”

“But I am, Revern!” The smile remains, “You will go with Grasgal and the Gith army; take your daughter, she may prove useful in the battles that lie ahead.” He begins pacing again, “You are to keep me informed of developments.”

“Yes, my Lord”, come the weak reply. Revern takes his cue to leace and turns for the door.

“Oh and Revern” Malor calls to the Mage’s back, “do not spare anyone that steals from me again!”

“My Lord Tuar Chan, I believe you are expecting me?” The question is posed by Revern, who is stooped forward as if carrying some huge invisible weight. Behind him is a large room with enormous openings, hundreds of feet tall and nearly as wide, four cut into each wall pointing like great fingers to the roof. The archways draw the eye to the ceiling - a beautiful vaulted ceiling on which is an amazing relief carving of the celestial dragon crushing Thor and breaking the rainbow bridge in two. Massive lilac curtains are drawn across the openings and the only light in the room is the purple glow of the Palantir. In the gloom Revern appears to wear a dark purple, coarse silk robe trimmed with sable. The large hood is thrown back revealing his sharp features and a wispy thin beard. Balding, Revern’s forehead juts over his deep-set eyes which are the darkest black. He stretches out a long thin arm and uncurls his fingers. Sat in the palm of his bony hand is an eagle’s foot, carved out of silver, ivory and gold.

“I am Revern, my Lord, and this is proof of that.”

“I know you…” The Samurai’s eyes do not move from the Palantir that stands between them.

“Then you know why I am here?”

“Yes.” the samurai replies, “He has shown me how I must punish those that stand in his way.” His right hand moves to his left sleeve.

“Is everything ready?” There is eagerness in the voice.

“Yes. Do you have Dragor’s folly?”

“Of course…You do know what happened the last time it was used in this manner?”

“That was different. There was doubt in that Dwarf’s heart. He was weak.” The voice is full of malice and hate.

“I will need to talk with Her.” Revern’s voice is calm and confident.

A female’s face appears behind the Samurai; it is huge, dwarfing him and, despite only being half lit, it is stunningly beautiful. Milai is struck with fear and wants to look away, break off the vision and come too. Revern takes a pace back, before falling on his knees. The Samurai continues to stare into the Palantir.

Looking worn and tired, Revern stands before the shimmering wall, chanting a rhythmic verse under his breath. The shimmering wall is now a deep, dark purple and has expanded greatly. A head appears, emerging slowly from the wall causing ripples to spread across its surface. This is no ordinary head; this is the head of a dragon. Revern stands to one side as the enormous maw passes before him; just some seven feet from the ground, two enormous tusks that hang down from the dragon’s chin narrowly miss scraping the floor. The jaws are clamped shut but the interlocking rows of razor sharp teeth are clearly visible. Its huge nostrils puff smoke obscuring the horn which, rhinoceros like, juts upwards from the tip of its nose. The mouth is twenty foot long from nose to the hinge of the jaw, it is shallow and broad like that of an alligator. The forehead slopes steeply from the nose and bears four huge horns, two thrust forward and two reaching, like stalagmites, for the sky. Each is over 8’ long. Between high forehead and long broad mouth are huge sockets from which lifeless eyes stare out across the room. Little is left of the red flesh and crimson metallic scales that once adorned the dragon’s awesome physiognomy. Instead, hard bone darkened by rotting tissue gives the dragon an even more frightful look.

“I am here to do the bidding of he that deprived me of my throne.” The voice is a hiss full of malice. It emanates not from the dragon but from under Revern’s cloak.

From under his robes, Revern draws out the Orb. He pulls his eyes away from the great head before him and looks at the orb, “He has bid me welcome you and asks that you enter again your old palace.”

The dragon’s head turns to face Revern, who takes a pace backward, “Do not attempt to use that Dwarven trinket on me, Revern; remember I understand it well!” The voice boomed from the dragon’s mouth directly, accompanied by flame and smoke which threaten to engulf the warlock. “You only live because She has more need of you on the Prime than in the otherworld! Where is the Samurai?”

“He waits for you at the top of the tower” the tremble in Revern’s voice betrays his fear.

Revern sits in a dark room, lit only by a candle, and peers over a large tome. He breaks off his reading and stretches out a long thin arm and uncurls his fingers. Sat in the palm of his hand is an eagle’s foot, carved out of silver, ivory and gold. He studies it before leaning back in his tall blood-red leather chair. His fingers wrap again around his treasure. The candle light flickers in his eyes; he turns to it and smiles, his lips barely parting. He reaches out with his left hand into the shadows beside his chair. Without looking down, his hand wraps around a large orb which he brings up into the light. The orb glows gently white against the backdrop of amber candle light. It clears briefly then bursts into brilliant violet and a voice booms out filling the room, ‘What have you found?’ The sound is deep and fluid, the words crash into one another breaking into hissing, gravely tones.

‘I have one of the treasured pieces from our master’s collection, my friend,’ the wizened man replies, his voice as aged and cracked as his face.

‘Then bring it to me, we can find the others together.’ Waves of tone flood through the orb and reverberate in the room.

‘Not yet, the Lord of the North has another plan for me and, I dare say, you.’ The man’s voice seems frail and minuscule by comparison.

‘Yes, quite so…He has used the interlocutor already.’

‘Ah, then it will not be long.’

‘Will you exact a reward?’ The voice is quieter and more soothing now.

‘There is nothing he has that I want; except that which he will never give up.’

‘What joy has Cillian had with him?’ A conspiratorial tone flows into the deep waves emanating from the orb.

‘She is not as close as I would like, though her training goes well.’

The Orb is 6” in diameter, has an encumbrance of 200 and glows when it has control of a dragon.

The Orb’s colour reflects any dragon that it has control of. If no dragons are under control it turns a very deep purple – almost black.

Like many artefacts, the Orb has an ego; it is sentient and will communicate in elf, dwarf, common and any of the dragon languages. It is also wholly evil and will attempt to pervert the actions of anyone wielding it – succeeding if it has even a single point of ego higher than its owner. The ego is worked out both for the orb and for the dragon trying to be controlled, should the orb have the highest ego, it might get the dragon to attack the PC. If the Dragon has the highest ego he will almost certainly be enraged.

When the orb is handled for the first time it is likely to attack with psionics against anyone failing a sv throw.

Dragons sv Spell and add or subtract any difference in ego score when compared with the highest ego – PC or Orb.

Only 1 dragon may be controlled for every 4 levels of experience – treat the orb as 12th level if it has the highest ego.

Control requires complete concentration – only limited conversation and movement that does not have to be thought about – walking etc.

Once under control, a ‘link’ can be established. Provided the difference in ego is greater than 5 points in favour of either the orb or the PC, and the dragon is of broadly similar alignment, a further saving throw is required before the ‘link’ begins. The link connects the orb and, thus the wielder, with the controlled dragon no matter where it is. Furthermore once it is established, concentration is no longer required. However, if more than one dragon is under control no link can exist and the range is reduced to 36”. The orb will never work on or be used by undead – Dracolich for example.

Additional powers bestowed on the wielder whose ego is at least 5 points greater than the orb, otherwise sv is required against orb’s:

Fly 3 times per day

Once per week the PC can use a breath weapon – either Acid, Poison Gas, Fire, Ice or Lightning - just as a dragon of the appropriate colour; number of dice of damage is equal to the PC’s level.

If the owner is not a spell user he gains the ability to cast MU spells at half his level when in possession.

If he is a spell user he gains 1 additional spell per spell level having successfully ‘possessed’ the orb.

The PC’s natural strength is increased to 18/00 having successfully ‘possessed’ the orb.

Project an image of the controlled dragon once per week – improved illusion.