He was old in the before times when the land was still young, fresh and fertile, and sprouting with new growth. He had seen the trees grow into their hundred-foot frames, those that spread their leaves wide over the years, and those that instead reached up, up, up in an attempt to pierce the sky. He was young when the ancient ones scrambled for power, those wretched little things which built towers of wood, castles of stone, cities of people… only for them to fall. It seemed such a pity that he would watch them rise and collapse repeatedly over the course of the centuries.

But such was his fate. They had long ago forgotten his name; to the commonfolk, it was a long, cumbersome word with far too many syllables to be remembered—to him, it was a name of power that invoked fear with but a whisper. Instead, he came to be known as Red Death for the intensity of the scarlet color of his shield-like scales. He was an older thing, a thing of tooth and claw and wing and fire, a thing mightier and grander than this world could bear. He was an old, old dragon, a magical beast of power unparalleled. 

He had claimed this mountain centuries ago and had no intention of ever relinquishing it. At his will, this mountain, his home, spewed forth magma and lava and volcanic ash into the sky, and with his anger, the mountain caused the very land around him to rumble. The peasants ran in fear when the land rumbled, and so they came to name this mountain Quaking Doom. Here he slept for as long as he wished with an absolute peace of mind; he long ago had filled the mountain’s passageways with traps and puzzles to stop would-be intruders.

He was strong. He was very strong. He was perhaps the strongest of his kind that there was. But that never really seemed to be enough for old Red Death. When he wasn’t slumbering for decades on end, he hunted. He stretched out his vast, leathery wings, and he forced himself up into the sky, up with the clouds. He soared over the small people below him and towards his feast—what would it be today? Perhaps a herd of cattle? If he was particularly bored, he would rumble his way to the nearest settlement of humans, wherein he would rain destruction upon them until his boredom was cured. With a great thunderous roar, he announced his presence, and he loved as they ran in fear before him. He was not a big fish in a little pond, nor a big fish in a big pond—old Red Death was the largest fish in the ocean, and he made sure all knew this fact well. 

But again, it was never really enough for him. Red Death hoarded gold. He also hoarded silver. And gemstones. Jewelry. Ancient artifacts. Beautiful paintings. Mystical items. Any sort of treasure, really. His vast coinage filled the innards of the mountain he claimed, an entire cavern system dedicated to be his personal vault—it was a sea of gold, glimmering, sparkling waves. Were he to donate even a fraction of his unimaginable wealth, he would have his pick of nations’ economies to disable, or perhaps he could throw it into a commoner’s hands and watch them join the wealthiest kings and merchant lords of the realm. He never would, though. This old wyrm hoarded treasure simply to have it—you would never see the building-sized old dragon trotting around the marketplace seeking to make a purchase.

Despite his fortified home, his vast strength, and his unimaginable wealth, it still was never really enough for him. He had everything a mortal man could ever wish for: absolute security in his shelter, power beyond any foe he would ever encounter, and great enough coinage to afford anything he could think of. And yet, despite all of these things, Red Death’s heart was in unrest, for there was one thing he never could quite get.

The old wyrm was alone. 

He had met others of his kind, sure, those of wing and tooth and claw—the dragons. He had despised them, however. Intruders to my holdings, he had thought to himself, his own voice rumbling through his mind. They mean to usurp me, he also thought, I shall bring about their destruction! And thus, he had. Red Death rained fire and death upon his foes, commencing great battles which painted the sky with streaks of red and blue and green, all the colors of fire one could imagine. He battled his kin endlessly, those with scales green, blue, white, or of any other color—even those of red, as were his own. 

He yearned to not. He desperately wished there was another way, some way to parlay and make peace with these other great beasts of power—but he was no fool. He was old, very old, and Red Death knew that he could never let them in. He could never let them close to him, for they would inevitably destroy him and ruin him. He would never allow himself to be that sort of idiot, the sort who allowed his scheming and lying enemies into his home, into his life, into his most personal thoughts and feelings and will that belonged only to him and himself. Once, many centuries ago, he had trusted another… he had let her play his heartstrings… He never would again!

And that was the rub. That was why nothing was really ever enough for him. He yearned for companionship, friendship, for someone to trust and confide in. He wanted someone with which to sail across the skies on the wing, someone to trade stories from centuries past, someone to share in his deep stores of wealth with. Red Death took control of these feelings of sadness and loneliness by converting these metaphorical stabs to his heart into anger, red-hot hatred, and bloodlust. He then sated this anger with bloodshed. This was the only way this old, old dragon knew how to stay sane.

But, of course, he was lying to himself. Red Death’s destruction of a city would never compensate for the great, unending loneliness he felt when he returned to his mountain home, alone. It would never make up for the fact that each day, he would awaken in the morning, gaze up at the sky in hopes of seeing something, some fantasy of someone there to greet him with love and kindness… only to see no apparition, no illusion there to deny him of reality. His old, darkened eyes grew tired of that sight, day after day. And so he decided to sleep again, for staying awake by himself, all alone, was too terrible for him to bear for even a single day more. And so he would fade back into slumber, dreaming dreams not of the destruction he caused or the ruin he wrought, but instead of fantasies of happiness and joy and… someone. Just at least someone. Please.

And thus was the tragedy of old Red Death.