The cold was his succor. He would return. He would.
A small piece of him, the smallest piece that there could be, no bigger than a river trout, wiggled its way down into the depths. Unable to see, it could nonetheless trace the eldritch energy of its anchor source.
He moved quickly. The crimson Ship was far behind. The dead half-daelkyr and his thrice-damned axe were far behind. He would return to the place of cold, rebuild himself, and then alert the fiend lords that the intruders to their lands had survived after all.
He would survive again, he would!
Something large loomed ahead. He sent his senses ahead and detected cold, but not his cold, not a friendly cold.
“And there you are,” said a deep voice, first in Draconic, then in Aquan.
He turned to flee, he could not. The white dragon druid was faster underwater than he was in his present form.
Her jaws caught him, and then he knew no more.
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