The Tale of Ignivar and Durin
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[Scene I — The Age Before Wind]
Long before the songs of Barbatos filled the skies, the world was ruled by flame and stone. Mountains bled molten fire, and the air shimmered with heat.
> Narrator (Venti):
"Before the wind learned to dance, the flame sang alone.
In that age, a crimson dragon soared above the molten dawn — a being of pure creation, untainted by gods or alchemy. His name... was Ignivar."
The earth trembled when Ignivar spread his wings. His scales shimmered red like liquid sunlight, and his eyes burned with golden wisdom.
He guarded the southern volcanoes of old Mondstadt — mountains now buried and silent — keeping the balance of fire in the world.
But Ignivar was not a tyrant. He was a watcher.
A solitary flame, observing the birth of mortals and the rise of gods, and wondering if the world still remembered the dragons who came before.
> Ignivar (deep voice, resonant):
"The winds grow louder... the gods grow many...
Will the fire still have a place when the sun forgets its warmth?"
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[Scene II — The Alchemist's Arrival]
One night, under skies veiled in aurora, a human came to his domain — a figure robed in black and gold, carrying vials that glowed with forbidden light.
Her name was Rhinedottir, known to some as Gold.
> Rhinedottir:
"A dragon untouched by time... magnificent.
Your essence burns with life itself. Such purity cannot fade... it must be studied."
Ignivar watched her, neither hostile nor trusting.
He sensed the hunger in her heart — the same hunger that once belonged only to dragons, the desire to create.
> Ignivar:
"Creation... without fire, without breath — can it live?"
Rhinedottir: "If the flame can be reborn by my hands... then yes."
From his slumbering wounds, Rhinedottir took a single drop of blood — the Crimson Ichor, molten yet alive.
And from that drop, she began the experiment that would shape fate itself.
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[Scene III — Birth of Durin]
In the cold halls of her alchemical sanctum, Rhinedottir mixed Ignivar's blood with abyssal catalysts, forming a being of bone and shadow — a dragon born not from flame, but from the will of man.
The creature opened its eyes, black and white shimmering under false moonlight.
Its first breath was a shudder, its first heartbeat a cry of pain.
> Durin (softly):
"...Mother?"
Rhinedottir (whispering):
"Yes. You are my child. You are Durin."
But far across the mountains, Ignivar stirred.
He felt it — a resonance deep in his core, as if a part of his soul had awakened elsewhere.
> Ignivar:
"A child of my flame... but tainted with cold.
What have you done, human?"
For the first time, the fire felt fear — fear not of death, but of what it might have created.
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[Scene IV — The Fall of Durin]
Years passed, and the black dragon grew.
Durin loved his creator, but his veins burned with discord — the flame of Ignivar clashing with the abyss within him.
Whispers from below told him lies of rejection, of hatred, of the gods above who cursed his kind.
When the time came, Durin flew toward Mondstadt — his heart heavy, his mind consumed.
The battle that followed was legendary: Dvalin against Durin, wind versus corruption, sky against ash.
And when Durin fell upon Dragonspine, the snow turned black with sorrow.
From afar, Ignivar roared. The sound cracked the heavens.
But he was too late.
> Ignivar:
"Brother... you should have been the flame that warmed the world, not the smoke that darkened it."
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[Scene V — The Crimson Aegis Awakens]
For centuries, Ignivar vanished beneath the crust of the world.
Some say he fell into despair, others say he chose to slumber until the fire of his kin could be rekindled.
But when Albedo began studying the corpse of Durin, something ancient stirred deep below Dragonspine — a pulse, rhythmic like a heartbeat.
> Narrator (Albedo):
"Energy readings... not abyssal. Not residual elemental.
This is something older. Purer. Like fire trying to remember what warmth feels like."
And in the deep caverns, a single ember ignited.
A dragon's eye opened once more — gold and red, reflecting the sorrow of a brother and the fury of a god.
> Ignivar:
"If my blood brought forth ruin, then let my flame bring rebirth.
I will not let the name of dragon end in despair."
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[Final Scene — The Song of Two Brothers]
The wind carries a song — faint, ancient, and heavy with regret.
> Venti's narration:
"One was born of flame, one of alchemy.
One soared to protect, one fell to corruption.
Yet both shared the same blood — and the same wish: to be seen, to be remembered."
Somewhere atop Dragonspine, the snow glows faintly red each night — as if remembering the warmth of a long-lost brother.
> Ignivar (whisper, fading):
"Sleep well, Durin.
For when the dawn comes, we will rise together once more."
The scene fades to crimson light — the forgotten sun beneath the snow.
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🔥 End of Act I: "The Crimson Aegis"