Raw Terror

An'ron lifted his head, sniffing the wind for any sign of humans. "Good," he mumbled, curling up on the floor of the cave in the foothills of a mountain, his back to the wind that swirled with snowflakes as he puffed a small fire to life.

The dragon wished he had company, even a human, but any that came within a mile of him were hunting; the human armies had killed nearly all of his kind. An'ron sighed. The humans were so fickle; An'ron and the other black dragons only wanted to help them prosper, but the humans insisted on killing them for sport.

Just as An'ron was drifting off, a human stumbled into his cave, obviously seeking shelter from the cold winter wind.

"Do you mind if I spend the night near your fire?" the man asked, his words barely understandable between his chattering teeth. An'ron was so shocked he nearly forgot his manners.

"Of course," the dragon said, offering his wing to the man, and it was then that An'ron spotted his milky white eyes.