Vaelgorath, the Slumbering Rot

There was a time when the name Vaelgorath was whispered in reverence rather than fear. Not as a benevolent guardian, nor a tyrant ruling with fire and claw, but as something old, unmoving, and ever-present.

Deep in Ebonhart Forest, where even the oldest trees could not recall their first seedling, Vaelgorath slept. His presence was woven into the land itself, a dragon who asked for no worship, no dominion—only respect. Those who ventured into his domain knew to leave an offering, not out of terror, but as acknowledgment. A pile of gemstones left upon an ancient stump, a cask of honeyed wine, the remains of a hunt. Simple things, gestures of understanding.

In return, Vaelgorath did little. He did not rule Ebonhart, nor did he meddle in its affairs. He slept beneath the roots, his breath thick with the scent of earth and damp leaves, waking only when hunger stirred or when he wished to tend his hoard—a modest collection, growing over time rather than amassed, hidden in the deepest of his groves.

The First Signs of Rotbloom

The Rotbloom began as a sickness, unnoticed at first. A patch of mushrooms here, a withered glade there. The creatures of the forest grew strange—stags whose antlers dripped with spore-laden sap, wolves whose fur blackened, their breath heavy with the scent of mold.

Vaelgorath stirred.

The sickness spread faster than any natural blight. It did not kill outright—it lingered, crawling through roots and flesh alike, warping, bending, consuming. Vaelgorath saw what was coming. He had lived through fire, floods, and wars, but this was something different.

It lingers. It did not burn. It did not break. It did not kill.

It simply changed everything it touched.

Vaelgorath refused to accept his fate.

His Desperation for a Cure

Dragons are not beings of subtlety. Vaelgorath had spent a lifetime in peace and stillness, but now he raged. He burned whole sections of Ebonhart, his emerald fire roaring through the canopy, reducing centuries-old groves to ash and ruin—but the Rotbloom regrew, thick and unyielding.

He bathed in the purest waters, plunging himself into the sacred springs he had known since the world was young, but the spores clung to him like leeches, digging into his flesh.

He hunted the living trees, tearing their hearts from their trunks and swallowing their essence, believing that if there was any power in the land that could purge him, it would be in them.

Nothing worked.

The Rotbloom was not something that could be fought. It was not something that could be burned away, drowned, or consumed. It was a fungal infection, spreading with every passing moment.

And Vaelgorath, despite all his power, could do nothing about it.

The Fall of a Dragon

He fought for years. But the signs came slowly—a heaviness in his wings, a stiffness in his limbs. His breath thickened, no longer carrying the scent of leaves and water, but of damp decay. When he moved, the trees no longer bent in reverence. They withered.

His emerald scales cracked, giving way to bark-like armor, pulsing with growths of glowing fungi. His claws, once meant for tearing through the flesh of trespassers, became tangled in vines that sprouted from his own bones.

His thoughts began to drift. The hoard he once cared for faded from his mind. He forgot which trees he had planted, which rivers he had shaped.

One day, he simply walked into his grove, lay down, and did not rise again.

The forest grew over him. The vines wrapped tighter. The mushrooms bloomed brighter.

He became part of the land he once tended.

Rotbloom Spores

Most believe Vaelgorath is dead. That he succumbed to the plague, that his body has long since rotted away. But the truth is far worse.

He still breathes—slowly, like the shifting of seasons. His wings, now covered in moss and rot, still unfold. And every so often, he rises.

He does not hunger. He does not hunt. He wanders.

When he flies, the spores drift on the wind.

When he lands, the trees around him twist and age unnaturally.

When he exhales, the air becomes thick with the scent of damp earth and slow, creeping death.

He is not cruel. He is not vengeful. He is simply a vessel for the Rotbloom now, a thing that no longer thinks, only moves.

And every time he stirs, the forest changes just a little more.