Earlier this year, I helped create a small interactive experiment for Everon Games: a bi-weekly choose-your-own-adventure story called The Wyrmling’s Roar, which lived on Discord and Instagram. Each chapter ended with a vote, and each vote shaped what came next. Over seven chapters, the story unfolded one emoji at a time. What started as a fun promotional idea for the Everon Ready-Set-Encounter Kickstarter turned into something more personal for me. It reminded me how much I love creative writing, collaboration, and telling stories without knowing exactly where they’ll end up.
The format was simple in theory and surprisingly demanding in practice. Every other week I wrote a new chapter, ending with three possible choices. Readers voted with emoji reactions, the votes stayed open for a week, and once the result was clear, I rolled dice on video and wrote a short vote-result text to match both the chosen path and the outcome, bringing the chapter to a close. The story ran simultaneously on Discord and Instagram, with the Everon team turning each chapter into slides for Instagram, where my chapters had far too many words to fit comfortably. That meant thinking ahead, keeping multiple narrative threads alive in my notes, and being ready to commit to whatever direction the audience and the dice picked, even if it wasn’t the one I secretly expected or preferred. It also meant showing up every week, every Saturday at seven in the evening. Alarms were set, laptops were brought along to family barbecues, and while that was often good fun, it was a level of commitment I hadn’t fully anticipated when I started.
Somewhere along the way, this project shifted from being “just” a fun promotional idea into something that mattered to me creatively. Writing with a deadline, reacting to reader choices, and letting go of control reminded me how much I enjoy storytelling as a shared experience rather than a finished product. It was playful, a little chaotic, and deeply energizing in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time. That is also why I wanted to collect the full story here. On Discord, the chapters are scattered between announcements, posts, votes, and results, and reading it back means a lot of scrolling and filtering. Here, the story can simply exist as a continuous whole, meant to be read from beginning to end.
Would I do this again? Absolutely! I would plan some things differently next time, but that feels familiar in the same way every tabletop adventure does once the campaign is over. You learn, you adjust, and you carry the good parts forward. In many ways, The Wyrmling’s Roar felt like running a game for a very large, very enthusiastic party, and that is a role I will never get tired of.
Below is The Wyrmling’s Roar, the complete story as it unfolded, shaped by votes, dice, and the people who followed along.
The Wyrmling’s Roar
You meet in a tavern
Rain had clung to Falco all day, fat droplets slipping past his cloak, down his neck and all the way into his boots. By the time he reached the Rusty Sword’s Edge, he was more puddle than halfling. He handed the reins of his equally miserable pony to the stableboy, mumbled something that might’ve been “thank you”, and sloshed into the tavern, trailing little wet footprints behind him.
Warm firelight met him like a long-lost friend. The scent of roasting meat, spilled ale and wet dog hit next. Breowan gave him a grunt of welcome from behind the bar.
The tavern was filled with the usual folks; road-weary farmers, mud-streaked hunters, and off-duty adventurers swapping tall tales. Falco looked around, heart thumping. This was the third tavern he’d tried. The message from the burgomaster burned in his pocket. They had to be here. And if they weren’t… well, Falco didn’t want to think about that. Not with thunder still growling outside and the roads turning to soup.
In the shadowed corner of the tavern, five figures sit like a storm waiting to happen.
The paladin’s armor still drips rainwater, an untouched tankard at his elbow. Across from him, a woman with curling horns idly rolls a bone die between her fingers, lips curled in a half-smile that promises trouble. Their conversation is quiet, spare, coded in glances and names spoken like old scars.
“Still think the thing in Gorham was just a ghoul?” asks the ranger in a low voice. The necromancer only shrugs, watching the hearth like it owes him answers. The cleric mutters a prayer into his wine.
They are not here to make friends.
But gods help anything that crawls from the grave tonight.
The table in the center of the room is a theatre of silk, steel, and secrets.
A tabaxi flips a dagger between her claws, humming what might be a lullaby or a warning. A monkey-like rogue balances one leg on the back of his chair, the other casually kicking over a mug. “Care to place a bet on who walks out of here richest, Mizuki?” he grins to the tabaxi. Next to them, a poised tiefling stirs tea with precise grace, almost like it is a ritual. A robed and radiant yuan-ti leans across the table with a dazzling smile and whispers something that makes a nearby merchant blush furiously. Overhead, perched in the rafters like a damp parrot of joy, an aarakocra monk shouts, “Could someone add more wood to the fire? So I won’t have to ruffle my feathers and make it rain inside!”
Masks or not, their performance never truly ends.
And the script? Well… that’s entirely improvised.
At a cluttered table near the hearth a kobold stands on a chair, gesturing wildly with a fork. “And then boom! Purple fire!” he shouts, nearly setting a napkin ablaze. The dragonborn beside him chuckles and adds, “It went like bang, pow, ka-boom! Then whoosh!”
Across from them, a stoic woman with a quarterstaff slices her bread with surgical precision while the genasi next to her, broad-shouldered and barefoot, tries to draw a smiling face in gravy. “It’s you,” he grins. “Well… almost.” She sighs but doesn’t move the plate.
At the far end a tabaxi in silk robes sits, staring at a half-filled glass like it might contain poetry or ghosts. She’s mouthing words to an unseen story, or maybe rehearsing the perfect exit line.
It’s hard to say if they’re a party of heroes or five folks who got lost on the way to very different destinies.
But wherever they’re going, it’s bound to be memorable.
Falco scans the room, and there they are. Not what he expected, none of them are. But they match the burgomasters description. He takes a gulp from his tankard, squares his soggy shoulders, and walks toward them, boots squelching with each step.
Falco approaches the loudest table in the tavern. The burgomaster may regret his request, or not, these folks are feisty! He delivers the message: kobolds have been spotted near the town, they are oddly bold and organized, at least for kobolds.
The group listens, grins, and grabs their gear.
They were getting bored anyway.
Into the Bold
Falco didn’t come with them. Something about “paperwork” and “wet boots.” Most likely this was more about Falco not being a hero, and fearing for his own safety, which was valid.
So it’s just the Purple Mirage; Garnsukh the dragonborn fighter, ever-grim and armor-clad, leads with his usual scowl. Orest, the genasi barbarian, barefoot and broad-shouldered, hums cheerfully behind him. Takaya, the human monk walks silent as breath, her eyes always scanning. Luk, the kobold sorcerer, mutters arcane theories under his breath. And Aya the tabaxi bard trails behind, tail swaying to the rhythm of her own whispered song.
Outside the town, they’d already found signs of kobold activity: cleverly hidden traps, way too close to farms. Orest stomped one flat while Luk muttered “Too tidy. Too coordinated.” Garnsukh agreed: kobolds this bold don’t act alone.
Now, following tracks through the muddy hills, Takaya pauses. “Giant lizards,” she says, pointing to some tracks crossing the path. Garnsukh nods, grim. Luk’s tail twitches.
“They have mounts.”
Aya hums a low, pulsing tune behind them, just enough rhythm to sharpen thoughts and steady nerves.
And then the trap springs.
Rocks clatter. A net whooshes. Orest can take a punch so no harm done, but this was clearly a distraction. Or an alarm, it made plenty of noise.
Kobolds burst from the underbrush, chattering in a dozen dialects. Two ride giant lizards, jaws snapping. The rest fan out, spears raised, eyes bright with purpose.
This isn’t a stray scouting party. This is an ambush.
The Purple Mirage is surrounded. The kobolds are mounted, organized, and ready to strike. But so are they.
Purple Mirage is outnumbered, outmounted, and very much ambushed.
With a shimmer and a flicker Luk vanishes from sight, just as planned. Aya steps forward, voice low and lilting, casting illusion after illusion into the clearing.
Suddenly, kobolds are shouting in half a dozen dialects. One screams about a ghost lizard. Spears clash, mounts panic, and confusion explodes like a fireball made of bad decisions.
The illusions hold. The ambush collapses. Purple Mirage stands untouched in the middle of the chaos. Aya is grinning, Luk reappears with a smug little “You’re welcome.”
But one lizard doesn’t flee. It seems frozen while it stares at Luk.
Whispers in the Dust
The clearing is silent now, save for the rustling of leaves and Luk grumbling about “how many perfectly good grubs are wasted on emotionally unavailable reptiles.”
The lizard that didn’t flee, the one that stared at him, had seemed promising. Luk had even offered one of his finest grubs, plucked right from his snack pouch. The lizard snatched it up… and ran off with the speed of someone late for a war.
“Typical,” Luk huffs.
The party regroups and follows the fleeing kobold trail with ease; muddy, erratic, and loud. It leads them through thickets and along crumbling trails until they reach a ridge overlooking a wide basin.
Below lies a camp the size of a small village, sprawled chaotically around the gaping mouth of a cave.
Crumbling walls. Lizard mounts. Dozens of kobolds.
Garnsukh draws a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. At the center of the chaos are dragonborn; robed, symbol-marked, barking orders at the still-panicking kobolds.
“Cult,” he mutters. The word lands heavy.
Behind the rough wooden bars of a cage at the edge of the camp, a handful of prisoners shift nervously, their eyes wide.
Aya mutters, “They’re distracted. But not for long.”
The group watches from the shadows. They need information. They need a plan.
Purple Mirage waited for nightfall, cloaked in silence and shadows. Aya’s song wove through the dark like mist, and Orest led the way, eyes sharp, footsteps quiet.
As they crept toward the cave entrance, dodging patrols and tent guy-lines, the air grew warmer with every step. When they finally managed to peer inside, they all froze.
A red dragon wyrmling, furious, mid-tantrum, roaring at a dragonborn cultist.
The ground cracked. Steam erupted from vents around the cave and across the camp.
Campfires guttered. Kobolds screamed. A lizard bolted into a tent. Chaos exploded.
Purple Mirage had nothing to do with it.
But their presence? That quickly became reason number two for the kobolds and cultists to be very, very upset.
The Future Tyrant
Purple Mirage didn’t resist too much. Not when too many kobold spears and a steam-blasted camp were between them and escape.
Now they’re inside the cave. Alive, restrained, under watch by a pair of twitchy kobold guards who won’t meet their eyes. The air is hot and damp, laced with the sharp tang of brimstone.
The guards whisper to each other in draconic. Nervous. Uneasy. Even they don’t like being down here. They are clearly not very invested in guarding their prisoners.
Just ahead, the cavern widens into a chamber flickering with torchlight. At its centre, a red dragon wyrmling prowls atop a stone dais like it owns the place, wings half-unfurled, radiating molten disapproval. It snarls at one cultist, listens to another. It is young, but not naïve. And definitely not merciful.
Dragonborn cultists swirl around it, offering praise and polished artifacts. One kobold nervously approaches with a stitched banner, a name offering. The wyrmling snorts and incinerates both the banner and the unfortunate kobold without a word.
Tension flares. The cultists bicker. Several raise their voice in ritual verse. The wyrmling watches with cold, amused eyes.
Something is coming. A ritual, a moment of bonding, power, or control. And once it’s done, there may be no way of undoing it.
If Purple Mirage is going to act, it has to be now.
The cultists are ready to start their ritual, and Purple Mirage is marched from their guarded corner to the heavy wooden cage already crowded with frightened townsfolk.
The kobold guards shove them inside and slam the door.
Aya’s voice is low and steady as she leans toward the kobolds outside. “You don’t like getting toasted by a baby dragon any more than we do.”
Luk adds a whisper in draconic, planting doubts like seeds. Orest shifts his bulk to block the guards’ view while Garnsukh’s claws work at the latch. Takaya leans in close to the townsfolk, outlining the plan in quick, sharp words.
The latch gives way. The prisoners spill out, ready to fight for their lives. The first kobold joins their side, just as another shouts a warning.
Within moments, kobolds are shoving each other, voices rising in heated argument. Some don’t want to risk the wyrmling’s temper. Others see this as their one chance for glory.
The camp teeters on the edge of chaos.
The cultists inside the cave haven’t moved away from their ritual yet.
The first sparks have been lit.
Whether they burn the cult… or the rebels… is anyone’s guess.
The Mother’s Shadow
The camp outside is in chaos. Townsfolk fight with anything sharp. Kobolds claw at each other. Tents collapse in the stampede.
Inside the cave, the chaos has focus.
The wyrmling prowls atop its scorched dais, wings twitching, heat shimmering around its scales like banked fire. Spoiled. Proud. Dangerous.
Cultists kneel in a half-circle, chanting. Until they notice Purple Mirage entering the cave. Some continue the chant, determined to finish the ritual. Others break away, weapons raised.
Then the wyrmlings gaze falls on Purple Mirage. It snaps a single word in Draconic, sharp, imperious. The cultists obey, their silence as heavy as stone.
Garnsukh whispers to his friends “It wants something from us”.
Recognition? Obedience? The chance to be treated not as a hatchling, but as a tyrant in waiting?
And just as tension peaks…
A roar. Far away, but too close for comfort.
Kobolds and townsfolk alike are shouting: a shape in the clouds! Vast wings blotting out the moonlight.
The silhouette of a dragon fully grown.
The wyrmling jerks its head upward, startled.
The cultists falter.
The battle outside pauses, every voice raised in terror.
The mother is coming, and she does not like competition.
The wyrmling’s eyes burn, the mother’s shadow grows, and every heartbeat counts.
Purple Mirage must decide: crown it, steal it, or slay it.
Luk hisses the plan, Aya’s tail flicks in agreement, and Orest’s grin says everything: this is insane… just like Purple Mirage likes it!
The cultists shout, the wyrmling lashes its tail, but Garnsukh is already moving, Takaya clearing the way with strikes sharp as lightning. In the space of a heartbeat, the hatchling is seized, wrapped in magic and muscle, and yanked from its scorched dais.
The impossible works. The wyrmling is theirs.
Chaos erupts. Cultists howl. Kobolds scatter. And then… through the smoke, a familiar shape charges in: the giant lizard that once spurned Luk’s grubs.
It screeches, knocks a cultist flying, and plants itself between Purple Mirage and their pursuers. Luk cackles: “I told you he liked me!”
The camp is breaking. The wyrmling thrashes.
And outside, the sound of the beating wings of its mother grows stronger.
The Flame Tyrant Descents
The camp is left in ruins behind them. Tents torn, kobolds squabbling, cultists screaming. But Purple Mirage doesn’t look back.
They run.
The wyrmling thrashes and hisses, proud of its new name, demanding respect with every step. “I am no hatchling, I am Eldspýta, named in fire and song! Kneel!” Aya hisses back, “Save your breath, little lord, we’re busy keeping you alive.” That earns her a growl and a puff of smoke, but at least the wyrmling doesn’t bite, yet.
Through mountain passes they race, Luk’s lizard companion bounding alongside. The wyrmling is heavy, hot, and endlessly noisy. Garnsukh and Orest take turns hauling it when it wriggles loose, while Takaya clears fallen rocks ahead.
Behind them, the chase never stops. Dragonborn cultists howl their fury. Some kobolds trail in packs, torn between loyalty to Eldspýta and fascination with the dragon that is closing in But the Purple Mirage pushes deeper into the jagged peaks, each step leading them further from the villages, further from innocent lives.
Hours blur into firelight and sweat. Their muscles ache, their lungs burn. And then…
The sky splits with a roar.
Wings vast enough to blot out the moon. Scales burning brighter than forges. The smell of smoke and sulfur surrounds them. A red dragon in her full, terrible glory.
She lands on a ridge above them, stone cracking under her weight. Heat rolls across the mountainside in waves. Her eyes are molten gold, her fangs long as spears.
“I am Pergenox, the Flame Tyrant.”
Her voice shakes the earth.
“That thing you carry was once a child of mine. It is now named, and thus my rival. And all who follow Eldspýta…” Her jaws spread in a smile of ruin. “…must burn.”
The Flame Tyrant has descended.
Purple Mirage stands with a rival wyrmling in their arms, and fire in their path.
Garnsukh’s scales flare, Orest lifts his axe, and Takaya steadies her stance. They do not bow.
For a heartbeat, the mountains hold their breath.
Then Pergenox exhales.
Fire roars across the ridge, molten heat blasting stone. The ground itself burns. Eldspýta shrieks in outrage, smoke curling from its nostrils. Purple Mirage dives for cover, scrambling behind jagged rocks as the world turns to flame around them.
They are not slain, but their defiance has earned them nothing but fire.
Fire and Fury
The ridge is a fiery landscape, the earth still smoking from the dragon’s fiery breath. At the centre of it all stands Pergenox, vast and terrible. Every beat of her wings is a hurricane, every breath a furnace.
Purple Mirage steels themselves. The cultists hover at the edges, uncertain, but the kobolds surge forward, arrows nocked, javelins raised, loyal to Eldspýta’s name. Across the ridge, allies scatter into positions, each of them painfully aware: spread out, or burn together.
Eldspýta puffs its chest, wings flaring. “See? See how they will fight for me!” It unleashes its breath, a cone of fire… which washes harmlessly against Pergenox’s scales. The great dragon doesn’t even blink.
Her laugh shakes the ridge. “Pathetic.”
Eldspýta’s failure is the spark. The battle erupts.
Kobolds and riders scatter across the slopes, loosing arrows in volleys while javelins arc from the shadows. Cultists raise their hands, chanting spells that crackle with lightning and destruction.
Purple Mirage does not falter.
Garnsukh lets out a battle roar, his scimitar raised high, not to frighten Pergenox, but to rally every trembling kobold and weary cultist within earshot. Orest slams his greataxe into the stone, the tremor racing outward as he bellows his challenge. Takaya flows between them, staff spinning, her movements so sharp and focused they draw eyes like a beacon. Aya’s voice rises above the battlefield, melody twining through the storm of noise, bolstering courage where fear threatens to break it. Luk mounts his lizard with a cackle, spell-light already sparking from his claws.
Then Pergenox strikes. Fire rolls down the mountainside. Those in the path of her fiery breath suffer the consequences. Kobold riders plunge from cliffs, cultists vanish in the blaze, arrows burn to ash in the air.
But those who keep moving, keep fighting, survive the wave. The arrows and javelins keep flying, the magic keeps striking.
Pergenox is far from defeated, certain she will crush these fools who dared to oppose her. But her arrogance may cost her dearly.
Purple Mirage stands. Bruised, scorched, but unbroken.
The ridge quakes under the clash of dragon and defiance. Fire scorches the night, cultists scream their fury, and kobolds scatter like sparks in the wind.
And then… Luk cackles.
He vaults onto his lizard, magic sparking wild from his claws. “Hold the line, little lord!” Aya yells, her song weaving through the chaos.
The lizard charges, faster than flame, darting through firestorms and shattered stone. Luk hurls a storm of ice and arcane fury, each spell striking true. Kobolds rally in their wake, emboldened by the madness. Even Eldspýta, puffed and spoiled, adds its own fiery tantrum to the onslaught.
Pergenox staggers. For the first time, the Flame Tyrant snarls in real pain. Her arrogance cracks like stone under the tide of lunacy and lizard-speed.
The ridge is still aflame. The battle is far from over. But Purple Mirage and their allies have done the impossible. They’ve wounded the unstoppable.
The tyrant is wounded, but not defeated.
Her roar shakes the mountain. Her fury darkens the sky.
The final clash begins.
The Tyrant Falls
In the midst of combat chaos Purple Mirage exchanges the usual shouting banter; why are we doing this? We should get paid more. This will be the best story at the tavern! Their determination to win this fight is strong, because the other option is to burn.
Around them the world has been reduced to the ridge, smoke blocking the view, the air tasting of ash.
Pergenox has clawed her way up the mountainside. Her roar makes the ground tremble once more, her voice trembles with rage and frustration as she proclaims she will reduce all who are here to ashes, they do not stand a chance against her.
But she bleeds. A wing is damaged. Some scales on her flank are missing, making the now weak spot a perfect target for the arrows.
Eldspýta screeches defiance, wings flared, scales scorched but gleaming. He tries to show bravery, but all can see: he is terrified.
His life is partly in the hands of those he trusted, his cult. But more so in the hands of some strangers, this small group who seemed to oppose him. And for reasons Eldspýta may never understand, they now are his finest warriors.
Purple Mirage is doing what they can. There is no battle tactic, no commander they obey. That is not their style. They are chaotic, but they grab every chance they see, every opportunity that rises.
Garnsukh’s roar cuts through the chaos to bolster his companions, and himself. He is running out of arrows, but grins as he sees quite a lot of his arrows being pierced in the dragon’s throat. He grabs his scimitar and starts the small sprint up the ridge, hoping he can reach the dragon’s exposed flank and plant his scimitar as deep as possible. Pergenox sees him coming and lashes out. Garnsukh tries to evade the talons, and almost succeeds. A claw swipe rakes across Garnsukh’s side, tearing armor and scales and drawing blood… Garnsukh grunts in frustration and moves away. He sees some kobolds with plenty of arrows, they answer his shout with a sprint. As long as he is alive, Garnsukh will be deadly.
Orest bellows and charges, greataxe flashing in the firelight. He drives it deep into Pergenox’s hindleg, bone cracking under the impact. The Flame Tyrant howls, thrashing, and Orest is hurled aside like a ragdoll. He drags himself up, ribs aching, and raises his axe again. Again he moves around, going for the dragon’s rear legs, where the dragon can not see him and he can strike. So far he managed three proper strikes, while most of the rag-tag army keeps the dragon distracted at its front. The dragon moves, a reaction to something, and Orest finds the chance he was looking for. His greataxe strikes true, Orest puts all his strength in the blow. The cracking of the vertebrae in the dragon’s lower back is very rewarding. The dragon’s response hits Orest like a boulder on the head.
Takaya moves in shadows and sparks, weaving between claws and firebursts with impossible grace. Her staff strikes true, each blow aimed for joints, soft places between the armor of scales. The damage from a staff may not be as impressive as the cut of a blade, but Takaya can place plenty of blows in the time a blade can strike once. She sees an opening and jumps in, gracefully jumping to her goal: the eyes! Pergenox tries to evade, but another blow from somewhere distracts her. Takaya strikes, true and hard. Pergenox raises her head and screams in fury. Takaya stumbles down. As the dragon exhales and Takaya evades, a gout of flame clips her leg, searing flesh. With smoke rising from her clothes, her fists still fly. She refuses to yield.
Aya’s voice rises above the roar of battle, a melody that steadies every faltering hand. Fear is beaten back, replaced by defiance. Her song lashes out as well, words edged with venom, mocking Pergenox’s every missed strike. The dragon snarls and turns her gaze on Aya, only for Luk to barrel past on his lizard, knocking the bard clear of a blast of fire that would have ended her. Aya curses under her breath, her skills are not honed for fighting a dragon… She watches the two tails, Luk’s and the lizards, dash towards the tyrant. At least they are having fun. Behind them she sees Orest, on the ground, blood on his head. This is something her skills can help with! As her magic reaches him and Orest starts to move a bit, Aya grabs herself together. She may not be able to hurt that giant tyrant a lot, but she can damn well make sure others will keep on hurting it!
Cackling from his mount’s back, hurling spells like wildfire, Luk could not be happier. Ice storms crash against burning wings, illusions weave through the smoke. His magic slams into Pergenox’s chest, then at her side. He cheers wildly, spurring on his lizard to go faster and wilder. Until her tail lashes, smashing into them. Blood fills Luks mouth, but even gasping for breath, his claws spark with another spell.
“HOW DARE YOU HURT CUDDLES?” he shouts, as his equally hurt lizard probably hisses something similar.
The battlefield is carnage. Kobolds and cultists scatter and regroup, torn between awe and terror. Eldspýta shrieks, flinging sparks of his own fire, but they vanish harmlessly against Pergenox’s inferno.
And then, against all odds, the Pergenox falters.
The Flame Tyrant crashes against the ridge, stone cracking beneath her weight. Her wings twitch, her breath falters. For the first time, her eyes flicker with something new: fear.
All who are still capable of fighting suddenly feel it too, the possibility of victory. With renewed fury, they hurl everything they have left at the dragon.
Pergenox is down.
Purple Mirage gathers among the smoke and ruin, battered but unbroken. Garnsukh laughs through his wounds, Orest groans but still grins, Takaya leans on her staff with scorched robes, Aya’s song now a weary hum, and Luk beams as he pats Cuddles’ scaly flank. Somehow, they are still standing. Somehow, they won.
Eldspýta struts across the battlefield, wings half-spread, barking orders at cultists and kobolds alike. His gratitude is hidden behind arrogance, but it’s there all the same: Purple Mirage is to be rewarded, he declares, before they are sent on their way.
The ridge falls quiet as night gives way to dawn. Smoke drifts into pale morning light. The tyrant’s colossal body lies still against the stone.
And then, dust stirs. One great lid twitches.
The ruined socket remains dark, but the other eye snaps open.
Burning gold.
Unbroken fury.
The Tyrant Falls, but the story doesn’t end here.
Eldspýta struts, Pergenox stirs, the kobolds squabble, and the lizards… well, the lizards steal the show.
This adventure was written to bring the Ready-Set-Encounter: The Dragoning box to life; the wyrmling, the Flame Tyrant, the cultists, kobolds, and their trusty mounts. They’re all in there, waiting to land on your table.
The Kickstarter closed October 9th 2025, but there is a late pledge available. If you’ve enjoyed this story, now’s the time to grab your own box of chaos, fire, and kobold lunacy.
Because legends shouldn’t just be read. They should be played.
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