You find yourself in a quiet, peaceful little meadow, sheltered to the west by the face of the Western Cliffs, and to the east by a particularly thick grove of trees. The grass grows tall and thick here, in clumps thick enough to make an enticing mouthful for any grazing beast. Between the trees and the cliffs, the meadow remains shaded enough to make it a nice, relaxing place to be.
A dragon with shimmering white scales and ice blue eyes is curled around a rusted kettle, its body a little smaller than a grown elephant. It is curiously snuffling the kettle and has a few dead birds by its right front paw.
Lanisen comes walking along the path from the north in the late evening, moving wearily. He doesn’t immediately register the absence of birdsong in the trees overhead, but he pauses uncertainly when he does, and takes another moment to turn the corner that brings him within sight of the meadow.