The Legend of Ashveil – Smoke Dragon of the Shrouded Peaks
Where mountains pierce the heavens and the air thins to a whisper, there lives a dragon that few have ever seen and even fewer have remembered clearly. For Ashveil is not a beast of brawn or fury—he is the whisper between shadows, the curl of smoke slipping between cracks in the world.
It is said Ashveil was born in the aftermath of a great firestorm. As the flames died, the smoke that lingered refused to dissipate. Instead, it coiled and thickened, gained weight, and with it, consciousness. From that lingering haze, Ashveil took shape—a creature of drifting form, whose wings appear only when he moves and whose body flickers like candlelight in the wind.
Ashveil is not bound to one form. Some describe him as a draconic serpent with ink-black eyes and a mane of vapor; others swear he is no more than a wisp, felt more than seen. Wherever he passes, time seems to slow. Sounds dull. Memories bend. He is the patron of illusion, of secrets kept just out of sight, of clarity found through mystery.
Those who encounter Ashveil rarely do so by chasing him. Instead, he finds them—wanderers who have lost their way, dreamers caught between waking and sleep, poets drifting through fog in search of a line they can’t quite grasp. To meet Ashveil is to sit with one’s shadow and emerge changed—not by force, but by perspective.
His myth endures in the folds of legends, in the smoke of incense, in the moments between thoughts. Ashveil is the dragon of silence, of watching without acting, of knowing without speaking. He is the breath between two words. The shape in the mist that disappears when looked at too long.