A lush jungle—untouched by the fledgling civilizations of Tourceia. Verdant vegetation and vibrant fruits dominate the landscape. A plethora of uniquely colored creatures roam the beautifully unchecked forest. Turquoise streams of water run through the overgrown jungle, culminating in a river that runs through modern day Wistonland. In the center of this beautiful forest, hidden in the undergrowth lays an emerald green egg, about the size of a small barrel. A capybara nudges the egg—perhaps deciding whether it is an acceptable meal—before the egg begins to crack. The capybara skitters away into the jungle. The cracks in the egg grow, and eventually the small head of a green dragon pokes through its shell. It cocks its head, confused—but curious—of this new world which it has been born into. As it stumbles free of the egg’s shell, it soaks in the magnificence of its new home. It walks awkwardly around its egg, sniffing and prodding it with its nose, before prancing off into the dense vegetation—in awe of this new world. Khothax is born.
As a wyrmling in the vast jungles of Wistonland, Khothax quickly realized that he couldn’t merely rely on his physical strength to survive, as many creatures were stronger and larger than him. He was forced to quickly become a tactician, and rely primarily on his wits. So, he began to think about where he should create his lair. What place could he live relatively safe, and have all the resources he would need to survive? He decided he couldn’t sleep out in the open, or else he’d quickly become a meal for the next hungry panther. Not that he blamed the panther though, he realized that everything in the forest had to eat to survive—just like himself. Khothax had a great respect for the ecosystem into which he was born—he saw it almost as a work of art. This did not, however, mean that he wouldn’t do what he had to in order to survive. Eventually, Khothax chose to hollow out a large Dinizia tree—careful not to compromise its structure—and then proceeded to dig out a small cave under the tree. He was proud of himself. He had made himself a home, a place he could call his own. It had everything he needed: A nearby freshwater river, a relatively safe hunting ground in addition to a surplus of wild fruits, and his small—but safe—underground treehouse.
Khothax loved his jungle—his home. Perhaps contrary to his survival, he spent much of his time attempting to befriend other creatures, in awe of each of their gifts. He developed his shape changing and spellcasting abilities much earlier than most other dragons because of this fascination. He would often change into the species he was befriending, in order to put them more at ease. He even learned to use magic to allow him to speak to the other wildlife. He flew with birds, slithered with snakes, swam with fish, scampered with rodents, pounced with tigers—and he loved every minute of it. Every animal in the forest loved him, as he loved them. There came a day where Khothax was nibbling on a patch of wild berries in the form of a wild pig when, suddenly, a tiger pounced on him—mistaking him for an actual wild pig eating the berries in his territory. The tiger never intended to kill the pig, no, that didn’t happen anymore. He merely wanted to give him a scare and remind him that those were his berries, in his territory. Nonetheless, Khothax quickly shifted into the form of a tiger and—in a singsong voice—called out to the tiger, who he recognized as Slink. This was a name he earned partly because of his prowess in stealth, and partly because it annoyed him to death. Slink quickly jumped off of Khothax, and the two began to wrestle—playfully—as the rest of the forest’s denizens watched in amusement. This was the kind of effect Khothax had on his home. A once cutthroat jungle had turned into a peaceful paradise. Animals in the jungle had stopped hunting each other, since Khothax came into his magic. Combined with his empathetic nature, he had been able to make the animals understand each other—he had created a sense of community—and as a result, killing began to lose its luster. They were happy in their harmony, with Khothax as their leader—although he’d never admit it. That was the way he was. He was not a dragon who took from others to satiate his greed, rather, he was a dragon who gave to others to benefit the whole. Even taking into account his magic, Khothax’s greatest gift was his ability to feel. His ability to feel what others felt, to see their point of view. He knew right from wrong, good from evil, kind from cruel. He knew how he wanted to be treated, and so he treated others the same way. The animals often said that the entirety of the jungle was Khothax’s heart.
Then one day, everything changed. Khothax had been flying with a flock of birds, over the canopy, when he spotted them. The Army of Wistonland. Naïve as he was, Khothax did not recognize them as a threat. A high elven man rode on a white horse at the front of the company, which must have been around fifty heavily armored men, and ordered them to enter the jungle. His home. Khothax was curious. This naïve curiosity was his downfall. He flew to the interior of the forest, along what he thought would be there intended path, and he shifted into a high elf. He waited—near his home—for the soldiers. To greet them, welcome them, to his beautiful jungle home. The animals of the forest gathered around Khothax, slightly more wary of these strange visitors than he was—but they trusted his judgement. Eventually, the company broke through the brush. The man on the horse stopped in front of Khothax. He looked confused, but mostly he looked suspicious. Khothax welcomed them to his home, spreading his arms wide as if showing off the entirety of the jungle. The man looked at him pityingly, as if Khothax were an idiot not worth his time. Then he laughed, as he told Khothax that this was no longer his home—that this was the property of the Wistonlandic Theocracy. Khothax’s entire body tensed at these words. These soldiers couldn’t take his home, they had no right. He could reason with them, he thought. And so he tried. The army was unreceptive, as their leader waved the flagbearers of the company forwards. The flag of Wistonland was dug into the ground next to Khothax. This was the animals'—who had so far been watching quietly from a distance—breaking point. Slink, who was intent on protecting his territory, was the first to attack. He jumped off of a tree branch and lunged for the throat of the nearest flagbearer. He connected. The man writhed on the floor as blood flooded from his neck. Khothax watched with horror as the jungle he once pacified turned into a warzone once more. The elven leader reached out his hand towards Slink, as if trying to grab him. Slink tensed up and stood stock still, as Khothax watched the fear well up in his eyes. He couldn’t move. The elven man dismounted his horse and walked over to Slink. He unsheathed his sword, which glowed softly along the engraved blade. Khothax watched—frozen in terror—as the elf brought his sword down through Slink’s neck.
Something inside of Khothax broke. Rage swelled up within his chest as he shifted into his true form. The first few soldiers who had begun to approach him were knocked onto their backs by his rapidly expanding form. More soldiers rushed at him. He stood on his hind legs and beat his wings, sending them backwards. He snapped and bit at them as they approached. Eventually ten or so of them attempted to charge at him. He felt his grief rise in his throat—the poisonous, debilitating feeling of loss—and before he knew it a yellow-green gas rushed out of his mouth. He watched as soldiers breathed in his breath weapon—choking, wheezing, vomiting. The elven leader, who had moved backwards to allow his soldiers to fight watched his soldiers die with a sick sort of fascination. He moved forwards, along with five other men—magic arcing across their fingertips—and held up his hand for them to pause. “This one is mine. Do not slay him, subdue him. He shall make a fine weapon for Wistonland,” he grinned. With these words, the leader and his men stepped forwards towards the growling Khothax. They held up their hands and pink energy blasts from their fingertips, towards Khothax’s skull. As the spell hits, Khothax feels lightheaded. His brain feels clouded. Why was he fighting again? This wasn’t worth it. He felt a slight purring in the back of his mind as he lay down in the grass—content. The elven leader walked over to the calmed Khothax, and placed his hand on his forehead. Khothax felt the warm pull of sleep calling him. He accepted, and drifted away into slumber, as the animals of his forest fought on—and many were slaughtered by the elves. They had lost.
When Khothax awoke, he found himself chained to a cold cobblestone floor in a huge circular room. The short iron chain lay connected to the center block of the room. Khothax knew he needed to escape. He needed to reach his home, his companions. They needed him. He needed to make sure his forest was protected. After his initial grogginess subsided, Khothax first thought he could fly and attempt to rip the chain out of the ground, but the low ceiling quickly showed that such and effort would be in vain. Next he attempted to change his shape into something smaller, like a rodent, so he could slip out of his shackles. Though, for some reason, he felt a block. He was unable to shift, nor could he cast any magic. So, he began to bite the chain, hoping to gnaw on it until it eventually broke. His teeth did not seem to have much of an effect. After about a half hour, the door to his—what he now assumed to be a cell—swung open. The leader of the elves stepped carefully through the door, hands held behind imperiously behind his back. He walks a few feet into the room, then stops. Khothax rushed towards him, but was halted inches from the elf’s face by his chain. He strained against it, to no avail. The elf laughed coldly in his face as he struggled. Khothax spat at him in draconic, a language with which the elf was unfamiliar. This only amused him more. After a few more moments, the elf introduced himself, as the King of Wistonland, Tandoril Laraethan. He went on explaining his plans of expanding Wistonland, and about how Khothax would help him. Khothax snapped at him. Then he tried to conjure up the great poison gas in his throat, the same gas he used to kill the king’s men. However, when Tandoril saw the light in Khothax’s throat, he quickly shot him with another calming spell. This time, however, he forced the energy into a continuous beam—a feat in it of itself. He held the beam of pink energy on Khothax for a minute, until he finally left the room. While Khothax was under the spell’s effects he felt nothing but calm, and with that calm came something else—something much more useful. While Khothax was under the spell, he was calculating, and he began planning this escape. Khothax was held for months—perhaps even years. Subjected to the same calming every day, and each day—even after the spell wore off—his emotions felt duller. He still wanted to return home, to reclaim his land, but he felt less fear. Less anxiety. Eventually the dulling of his emotions didn’t wear off before he was subjected to the next dose of the king’s magic. The king knew not the true effects of his magic; the effects on Khothax’s brain, which due to the life cycle of a dragon, was still developing. However, the spell shut a part of Khothax’s brain off. His brain didn’t need emotion. It needed a cold, calculating mind in order to plan its escape. So that is what Khothax became. Eventually his brain was permanently affected by the magic. The magic affected his emotions, the strongest ones he was feeling at the time—anger, sadness, fear, regret—and shut them off. However the most important emotion the spell took away was Khothax’s empathy, which had been at the forefront of his thoughts. He felt intensely each day for the denizens of the jungle he left behind. And so, his empathy—which had once been considered his greatest strength—was lost to his brain.
This new Khothax—the scheming, manipulative Khothax—was a force to be reckoned with. Still not by his pure strength, rather, by his uncontested mind. His mind—in its psychopathy—was a master tactician. Escaping his confinement was his first priority. His next was to reclaim his territory. His third was to make the King pay. But, perhaps, all could be done with the same plan. In one fell swoop. And so his brain worked—and it found the solution. All he needed now was the King. He wouldn’t have to wait long, the King returned to him everyday. This time however, he would pretend to have been subjugated. He would humor the King as his weapon, if only to escape captivity. The King’s magic—along with his own practice—had made him a very convincing liar. He had once even convinced one of his many caretakers to get close enough to him where his chain would allow him to reach. That caretaker did not make it out of the room alive. So when the King came in the next day, Khothax put on his act—an act to seem completely defeated. At first the King was skeptical, but after about a week or so of the act, the King’s pride soon made him believe. The King removed Khothax’s chains and Khothax morphed into a human—so he was able to exit his prison. As soon as the sky touched Khothax’s scales, he shifted back into his true form, and fled back to his jungle. He made sure he was in full view of Watlema’s citizens. This was the first step of his plan. The second was to wait until the King sent soldiers after him—which he quickly did. Then, Khothax used his magic to confuse the King’s men and split them up, until the commander was alone. It was there Khothax slit his throat and hid the body deep within a tree. He then grew a plant into the shape of what he imagined his own corpse to look like, and set an illusion of himself onto it so it would appear convincing. He then regrouped with the rest of the army unit, and showed them the corpse. Celebrations were had and Khothax rode back to capital on a white steed. He reconvened with the King, became a celebrated hero, and was thrown a feast. He quickly rose through the ranks of the army until he was an advisor to the King himself. He then integrated himself into palace life until he was invited to almost every gathering, every feat, every party. Then one night, he made a point of leaving the palace to take a walk by the river at night, and then made sure he was seen leaving the palace. After he was out of view, he shifted into a bird and flew to the King’s window, where he turned into a flea and slipped through the cracks in the palace. He shifted into his human guise, and cast Silence on the King’s room. He then smothered the King in his bed, unlocked the window, and turned into a large bird. He then flew high above the clouds, until he was near the outskirts of the city, where he dove down and deposited the body face down in the center of the river. He then quickly flew back to the King’s bedroom, shifted into the King and slept. He was awoken the next day by the royal guard who informed him of the commander’s—whose body he stole when he faked his death in the forest—disappearance and reports of a body being seen floating down the river. Khothax feigned devastation and held a ceremony in the commander’s honor. From that day forward he was the King of Wistonland.
He then moved the Wistonlandic Capital to a few miles outside of the jungle from which he was born all those years ago. He made the entire jungle his personal palace gardens, justifying the move as the “will of the gods.” None of the animals he once knew were still alive, as it had been decades since the massacre. As such, he no longer had any emotional ties to living creatures. About a year after Khothax had taken the post of king, he was approached by The Night Terror—in the guise of a diplomat from another country. He approached Khothax was an offer: to help him lead the the Cult of Chroma, and gain more territory and subjects in return. Khothax saw the offer as a great opportunity and accepted. It was after this point he began orchestrating tensions with the Berfordians. He recruited the five Dragon Chosen of his branch of the cult, the Blightseekers, and began to task them with working on the Blight. His goal was to be able to upgrade his own toxic breath to be able to spread a disease, and make himself even more powerful, along with giving him a powerful political tool. Eventually, the Blight was almost ready, and he declared war on Berfordia. He also began work on a new project—one more subtle than the Blight. While he was fascinated with the destructive power of both the Blight and his breath weapon, he had not gotten to his position by strength. He had gotten there by subtlety, and tactics. What if there was a way for him to conquer lands without resistance? What if he could cause people to fight amongst themselves to the point where they didn’t notice his conquest. His subjugation. His control. What if he could make the humanoids—save for dragonborn, since they had proved to be useful—into the feral beasts he knew the were. The feral side of them they worked so hard to hide, yet Khothax could see so very clearly. Thus, his work on the Breath of Madness began.