### **The Lost Wizard of the White Wyrm** In the farthest reaches of the frigid north, where the **Sea of Moving Ice** stretches like a frozen graveyard, there soars a creature of terrible majesty—the ancient white dragon **Arveiaturace**, the White Wyrm. A beast feared by sailors and adventurers alike, she strikes from the sky with frost-rimed fury, her talons raking across the masts of ships and the bodies of the foolhardy. But those who live long enough to witness her fully will see a strange and haunting sight: Upon her back, lashed to a saddle built for a mortal man, **a skeletal figure remains upright**, frozen in time, draped in the tattered remnants of a once-fine robe. His bony fingers clutch at the remnants of a staff, his empty eye sockets staring eternally into the horizon. This is **Meltharond Thone**, the lost wizard of the White Wyrm—once a master of the arcane, now nothing more than a spectre in the dragon’s endless flight. But **who was he**, before death claimed him? And why does the dragon refuse to let him go? --- ### **The Wizard and the Dragon** Meltharond Thone was once a scholar and wizard of **Icewind Dale**, a learned man whose knowledge of magic was rivalled only by his insatiable curiosity. Unlike many of his kind, Meltharond did not seek to plunder the lairs of dragons for treasure or power. Instead, he sought **understanding**, particularly of the great wyrms of the north—beings he saw as ancient keepers of lost wisdom. His path led him to **Arveiaturace**, a mighty white dragon whose icy wrath had shattered ships and crushed warriors beneath her claws. The circumstances of their first meeting remain unclear, lost to time and tale, but it is known that their relationship was forged not in blood, but in something deeper—**a shared loneliness**. Arveiaturace had once served as the mount of a mighty wizard, **Kormul**, a man she had loved in her own draconic way. When Kormul fell in battle centuries prior, the grief-stricken dragon kept his body, refusing to part with it, flying the skies alone, mourning for years beyond counting. When Meltharond entered her life, he was no mere usurper. Perhaps he reminded her of Kormul. Perhaps he simply **understood**. But whatever the case, they became companions—bound not by chains, nor by fear, but by an **unspoken bond** between a dragon who had lost her rider and a man who sought a purpose greater than himself. For years, they travelled together, carving their mark upon the north. Meltharond rode upon Arveiaturace’s back, casting spells from the sky, sharing his wisdom with the dragon, guiding her with his counsel, tempering her destructive instincts when he could. In return, the dragon became his protector, his steed, and perhaps even something resembling a friend. But all things end. And death would claim Meltharond before it claimed her. --- ### **The Unyielding Grip of Mourning** Around **1326 DR**, Meltharond passed away. Whether by age, battle, or some cruel twist of fate, the details have been lost. What is known is that his body was never removed from Arveiaturace’s back. Bound by her sorrow, unwilling to accept his passing, the dragon simply **left him there**. His flesh withered, his bones bleached, but she **would not let him go**. Even centuries later, she continues to carry his remains, his body held in place by whatever lingering enchantments remain from his magic, and perhaps, by her own refusal to acknowledge the truth. She still speaks to him. She still listens for his advice, for his guidance. She flies the skies, believing that he watches over her, that his spirit lingers. When others come too close and dare to mock or question his presence, **her fury is unstoppable**—for in her mind, Meltharond is not gone. He is **simply waiting**, as he always has, whispering secrets only she can hear. Those who have faced her in battle tell of the chilling moment before her attack—the way she **turns her head**, as if listening to a voice none can hear, as if **seeking permission** before she strikes. Perhaps, in some way, Meltharond still lingers. Perhaps, in some cruel way, the magic of their bond has not yet broken. Or perhaps the dragon simply refuses to move on. --- ### **The Shadow of the Spire** Arveiaturace’s lair, nestled atop **the Ice Peak**, still holds remnants of Meltharond’s legacy. Deep within the frozen caverns, untouched by time, lie his **chambers**, his belongings still neatly arranged as if waiting for his return. His spellbooks remain, their pages filled with arcane wisdom, their contents unread by any hand but his own. And Arveiaturace allows no trespassers. Many have sought the knowledge Meltharond left behind. Few have survived. The dragon’s grief is eternal, and her wrath is swift. Those who dare intrude upon his sanctum find themselves **hunted**—not by an angry beast, but by a mourning guardian who will **never** relinquish her last connection to the man who once rode upon her back. To this day, the name **Meltharond Thone** lingers in the whispers of the north. Some call him a fool for befriending such a beast. Others call him **a legend**, a wizard whose wisdom tamed even the deadliest of wyrms. But one thing is certain: As long as Arveiaturace still soars, his story is **not yet over**. For somewhere, high above the frozen seas, the White Wyrm flies on, her skeletal rider ever at her back, **forever watching the horizon**. --- ### **The Legacy of Meltharond** Few in Faerûn know the name Meltharond Thone, but those who do speak of him with **awe and sorrow**. He is remembered not as a conqueror, nor as a tyrant, but as a wizard whose fate became entangled with that of a lonely dragon. Some say he willingly bound his spirit to Arveiaturace, that his soul still lingers, watching over her, whispering through the wind. Others claim he never truly died at all—that his magic sustains him even in undeath, that one day, he will **rise again**, and that the dragon's sorrow will finally be put to rest. But for now, he remains **as he has for centuries**—a silent figure upon the White Wyrm’s back, an **echo of the past**, carried through the skies on wings of sorrow. And in the farthest reaches of the world, where ice meets sky, the legend of Meltharond Thone **lives on**. ---