Wrath becomes Me

The labour from the contemptible Dragon happened to align favourably with our consciences. A perilous thing indeed. Even so, the fallout from our little excursion should naturally disincline the others from even entertaining the idea of returning to that scaled monstrosity.
 
The role of messenger came down to Jane. Which I hope to be circumstantial rather than deliberate. We were to retrieve a liche’s phylactery from a mausolean tomb. Presumably that of an ancient nemesis. Leave it to an oversized lizard with an ego to match to omit the specifics. It was the Liche of Jane’s past. In dracologic time that Liche might as well be a newborn. We were truly entangled with the most craven and pathetic Dragon this side of the Expanse. It will never command respect, instil fear, or evoke dread. There will be no glorious tale told when it dies. Even if it dares to die with dignity in battle.
 
I will not even attempt to describe the nature of the Liche’s foul experiments and arcane perversions. It might as well be Akkonian to me. Every unliving mistake we encountered there was slain and the opus of its sacrilege was exposed to a killing blow. The phylactery was forcefully transferred into Jane. It may have been unavoidable. That does not make it less wicked. Nor does it allay my anger.