This story has been passed down from one generation to the next since time immemorial. The Drakewardens of the Dragon Riders do their best to maintain the story as it was originally told, but in time, all records shift. Thus, it is unknown if the story is anything more than a myth, or if it truly tells a long forgotten piece of history under another guise. The dragon riders firmly believe it's the latter.
The story tells of a ruby dragon named Sardior, who worked alongside Bahamut and Tiamat in the early days of Chromatia's creation. Some believe Sardior to be an invention of something inbetween the two draconic deities, namely because there is no record of there ever having been a ruby dragon - let alone dragons made of gems. The only evidence suggesting otherwise is the existence of the rare jeweled dragonborn and kobolds, but even among them, the truth is hidden in unknowable obscurity.
Breathe, dragons; sing of the Old World,
forged out of chaos and painted with beauty.
Sing of Bahamut, the Platinum,
molding the shape of the mountains and rivers;
Sing too of Chromatic Tiamat,
painting all over the infinite canvas.
Partnered, they woke in the darkness;
partnered, they labored in acts of creation.
Breathe, dragons; sing then of Sardior,
ruby-red jewel they made in their likeness;
Sardior, first-born of dragonkind,
labored alongside Bahamut and Tiamat,
Shaping the dragons they crafted:
dragons metallic and dragons chromatic.
Breathe, dragons—draw in the life-gift
breathed into you at the dawn of creation.
Breathe, dragons; sing of the outsiders,
war-bringer gods with their mortal adherents;
Teeming, they came to the Old World,
seeking a home for their legions of followers.
Mighty in magic and numbers,
the Dark One came and seized victory.
Fallen was noble Bahamut,
Driven was ferocious Tiamat,
Forced to the ends of Creation.
Breath, dragons; sing now of Sardior,
valiantly standing in defiance.
He would not flee or surrender,
fighting as death reached its cold claws around him.
The Dark One siezed him and together they broke,
snatched from death, entombed in torment—
Sealed in their crystal prisons forever,
waiting to reclaim creation.
Breathe, dragons; sing of the followers,
seeding the world with their legions of faithful,
Each to their own habitation,
elves in their forests and dwarves in their mountains,
Orcs in their caverns and canyons,
goblins in badlands and halflings in green fields,
Lizardfolk lurking in marshes,
humans throughout every part of creation.
Breathe, dragons; sing of Bahamut,
maker of peace with the outsider deities,
Welcomed to mountains celestial,
worshiped by some as the Platinum Paladin.
Sing of his journeys of seeking,
striving to understand gods and their children,
Longing for Tiamat’s freedom,
grieving her loss from the face of creation.
Breathe, dragons; sing of her freedom—
Tiamat loosed from her prison of torment!
Tell how she rallied her children,
dragons chromatic, a spectrum of mayhem.
Sing of her fury, her vengeance,
lightning and venom, ice, fire, and corrosion,
Five-headed, monstrous, and mighty,
rampaging on a campaign of destruction.
Breathe, dragons; sing of the First World,
scattered in infinite seedling realities.
Sing of Bahamut and Tiamat,
watching its sundering, mourning their labor.
Sing too of Sardior, sundered,
consciousness scattered in minuscule fragments.
Breathe, dragons: you are inheritors,
ruling the wreck of the First World’s destruction.
