In a moss covered tower cut from Black stone, deep into the side of a mountain, where the tallest battlement reaches to the setting sun. On  parchment is written the fate of men, by an old wizard holding a pen made from a dragons bone. Dipped in ink, drawn from the darkest well of men's souls, the ancient conjuror lays down lines on pristine white paper. At the rising of the sun until the going down, he scribes what mortals lives must be. With the bony pen taken from the fiercest dragon, he writes of mortal misery. He writes remembrances of broken hearts and of lost loves, and of greed and betrayal he pushes the words on to the paper with a smile. From coming of dawn until setting sun, he writes and writes on a never ending parchment. Then in the night the stories he has written fade as do the lives of mortal men. As he rest in his forgotten castle, he has sewn the discord among men. He dreams of nothing but tomorrow, when for his wicked pleasure, he gets to use the Dragon Pen again.