Greensboro Tyranny of Dragons 07/11/2015

Death of a Vampire

After managing to neutralize Sandesyl Morgia and her minions the group headed back to the giant guest rooms where the wyverns were perched on their balconies. Saphira was too distracted by the vampire’s last words to admonish Avon and Aathil for not listing to her about not touching the coffin.

Back in the room Saphira picks up one of her darts and starts absentmindedly fiddling with it while pacing back and forth talking to her self.

“I know you. What could she have meant by that? She’s a vampire, old as the mountains by the looks of her clothing. How could she know me.”
The tail of the dart snaps and Saphira passes her hand over the dart and mends it without looking at it. Then goes back to spinning it in her hand.

She walks to the wall and touches it to walk out onto the balcony, tossing her wyvern a bit of ogre meat. The wall reappears behind her and she resumes pacing along the balcony.

“I know you. Could she have said anything more cryptic?” Saphira looks at he wyvern who’s laying on the balcony watching her pace back and forth.
A faint memory tickles the back of her mind but before she can solidify the memory it fades away.
SNAP. Saphira mends the dart with a absent minded carelessness that shows how much of an ingrained habit breaking and mending items has become.
Her pacing speeds up for a moment and then she slows. She runs her free hand along the claws and scales that make up her necklace.
“Think Saphira, what did Varis tell you about moon elves.”
The wind causes Saphira’s hair to whip around her face.
“Teu’Tel’Quessir. Silver elves.”
She looks at her silvery-white streak of blonde hair as it whips around and mingles with her darker auburn hair. She mends the dart and walks back into the castle.
She runs her hand through her hair to remove the tangles created by the wind while spinning the dart in the other hand as she walks back into the room. Ignoring her companions she walks over to her pack and digs out the protective leather pouch containing her griffon feather and sits on the ground with the feather in front of her lying on the leather pouch.
“Impulsive nomads. That’s how he described them.” Saphira mutters in common. She stands back up and paces in front of the feather. Another vague idea runs through the back of her mind disappearing before she can grab a hold of it.
SNAP. Sighing she mends the dart again.
“Adventurous. Overly tolerant of other races.”
Briefly switching the dart to her right hand before moving it back to the left. “There were a lot of them near the Moonsea.” Saphira muttered. A faint memory forms in her mind. Suddenly she stops and throws the dart, it sticks into the wall.
She looks at her hand as a small flame appears. “Maybe it is just as simple as that.” The flame crackles in her hand and grows slightly larger and then gets smaller again. “you said he was one. Perhaps she was just picking up on that.”
Dissatisfied with that answer Saphira dismisses the flame. Walking over to the wall she pulls the dart out and mends the tiny whole in the wall left by it.
Sighing she walks back to her pack and pulls out her bedroll and puts away the feather. Flopping onto the bedroll, Saphira used the tail of the dart to scratch at the scarred cartilage of her ears. (At some point in her life someone tried to make her ears look more human than elf. Though asking about it will just get you a withering look.) Grumbling about the arrogance and pride of humans Saphira puts the dart in the pouch and closes her eyes.



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