Ashardalon

In size, Ashardalon dwarfs most of his kind. His wings are vast enough to blot out the sun, his scales as hard and bright as molten steel. Fire constantly leaks from his nostrils and claws; his mere presence warps the land, igniting brush, blackening stone, and suffocating the air in heat. To behold him is to witness apocalypse in motion.

But his terror does not come from size or flame alone—it is his unnatural endurance, his hunger for immortality, and the unnerving fusion of draconic might and infernal magic that elevate him into something far more terrible.

Long ago, Ashardalon suffered a mortal wound—his heart pierced by vengeance and divine magic. But rather than perish, he tore open a rift to the Lower Planes, devouring a balor’s heart and replacing his own with it. The result is a dragon-fiend hybrid, his soul now steeped in demonic essence.

This act transformed him. He is no longer simply a red dragon, but something greater and more unnatural—a creature of unending vitality, his wounds sealing with supernatural speed, his soul tethered to the Abyss. His heart glows with infernal power, and his breath no longer simply burns—it annihilates.

Ashardalon’s campaigns of destruction are the stuff of legend:

• He burned the forests of Dymrak to ash, reducing entire druidic orders to smoking ruin.
• The fortress-city of Serathorn sank into the earth, swallowed by arcane tremors that followed in his wake.
• He carved a path through the heavens, warring against celestials and devils alike in pursuit of a planar dominion where he alone would be worshipped as a god.

His lair, the Wyrmbone Crater, is a blasted wound in the world, suffused with the essence of the Lower Planes. The land for miles around is corrupted—infested with fire-warped beasts, twisted trees, and the lingering spirits of those he consumed.

Ashardalon is not a mindless beast. He is ancient, cunning, and obsessed with legacy. Though capable of devastating rampage, he prefers to work through cults, corrupted mages, and infernal pacts—assembling armies, destabilizing kingdoms, and arranging his ascension to godhood.

Worshiped by dragon cults and feared by demon lords, Ashardalon seeks not just destruction, but immortality through dominion, and whispers persist that he is preparing to awaken once more—having slept beneath the crust of the world for centuries, gathering power, dreaming of a final conflagration.

Ashardalon’s name is etched into countless myths, graven onto magical seals meant to bind him, and feared by planar scholars who track his influence across worlds. His deeds ripple through history: tombs constructed to halt his return, bloodlines cursed by his wrath, spells designed solely to delay his fury.

To many, he is the dragon—the archetype of apocalyptic fire, a reminder that no empire is too mighty, no land too sacred, and no magic too strong to escape the wrath of Ashardalon.