Wulfric

Time and water erode all. What was once a bastion of power and might has been left to decay on the cliffside, all moldering stone and rusted hinges. The lighthouse further off the coast is much the same, but it’s drake-flame beacon hasn’t yet sputtered out with finality so the Warden must still be at his work. He has been for years now. It’s said he slayed dragons when he was young, anyone could prattle off a story they’d heard of the Cardinal Lords and their conquests, but now he is stiff and old and grey and the world is much smaller and dragons haven’t been an issue in decades. Still, the old man remains in his crumbling watchtower by the sea, a watchful hunting bird on his shoulder, waiting for something scaly to breach its head from the water.