Under the red sun where the black mount spears the sky and golden eagles screech their dusk hymns, the people of the wyrm work. Neither fully human nor fully dragon, the people of the wyrm possess the rugged bodies of man with the scaly necks and heads of lizards. Black, gold, white, scarlet and azure these beings cloak themselves in, their lush scales commanding attention from even the most haughty of nobles.
By the eyes of the moon they take flight, riding solemn winds over the shadow realm. The day walkers call them Thuruun and they are venerated by those with sense, for the Thuruun leave great emerald eggs in village greens each solstice as a gift to their followers. Their flight is accompanied by the sound of flutes playing songs lost in time, which the gods once sang in the fair fields below.
The Thuruun are the greatest of magicians whose magic emanates from the magma within the black mount. Monthly they must sup on the magma in the communion of the wyrm and fill their bellies with heat. Once at full vigour they write annual runes in their cavernous homesteads so that should a wandering daywalker, curious and adventurous, came upon their homes, it would be as if naught was there.
In the old days of darkness the Thuruun took up arms against the treacherous god Kom who would destroy all dragonkind. For seventy years they cast runes on their mighty foe, gouged him with obsidian spears of Theth and sliced him with scimitars of the Four Sands. When Kom fell there was great rejoicing, but a decision was made by the Thuruun to never pick up arms again, for too much blood had been shed. To this day the Thuruun elders in their ancient wisdom do not allow weapons and in peace they live. Those who forsake their elders and leave the black mount in search of adventure and treasure are labelled Skaff and are not heeded or seen.