Duel of the Daemon and Dragon | Mysteries of the Other Realm

  There is a tale passed down generationally among a certain tribe. It tells of a winged titan-beast that fought and a mad spirit which had frolicked in unison. A story from a time in which those who lasted the cataclysm could do little more to protect themselves than endure on.
  The spirit is described as a newborn entity of joy and indulgence, considered a monarch among its incorporeal people, whose self-fulfillment led it to twist the lands and their denizens for sport and, for a time, lead hunts to terrorize and pillage the few settlements that remained as havens from the surrounding chaos.
  The beast, on the other hand, is an ancient creation that had long held order over its own domain and was ruler by virtue of its war-forged might. The story tells that while it did not care for the smaller pockets of civilization within the territory at first, it was incensed at the interlopers who waltzed in without invitiation and brought harm upon those under its dominion.
  Thus it would loose its rage upon the hunting party until seven dawns and six dusks had passed and only the young majesty remained tethered in this realm. Unlike the others in its group, who had systematically been rended and crushed by the monster's strength, the lord of spirits was too agile to be caught in its talons and too bold to be cowed and scourged by the wrath of its flames. All the while, the ethereal dancer pranced and leapt from place to place, letting the war beast's blind fury ravage the landscape, and flush out the survivors still in hiding, to prolong its own entertainment.
  Within the span of a further seven dusks and six dawns, only one tribe remained. They were the sum of all the fallen settlements and collectively had journeyed the long, winding route from the southlands, where the earth was rich and plentiful, to the northernmost tip coated eternally in white. It was in this new location, at their most desperate point, that one among them brought forth a plan.

  All along their journey, this gatherer and their closest kin had scavenged the debris of the battlefields and collected from among it the spears and lashes of the defeated hunting party. The gathered bounty was presented to their fellow tribespeople and offered with a choice: remain here, the furthest north that they could travel, and await the day that the force of destruction was finally led to them, or take up arms and aid the only one that had gone to battle from the start.
 This was not a choice accepted widely or with vigour and, to this day, those who know the myth hold a longstanding grudge against the northern peoples. But nevertheless, there were those who left the cold with tools in hand to brave the fires once more.