Lorn

The dragon died indeterminate ages ago, its corpse rotting on the forest floor, decaying until only bones remained. In time, these too were lost to foliage, moss, and layer upon layer of soil.

A young decidite named Lorn put down his roots here by chance. He felt something different in the ground almost immediately, a tingling in his trunk and limbs, a deep power humming up from beneath him. Over the first decade, bones began to rise from the earth, twining with his roots, his trunk, and as the centuries passed, his upper branches.

A millennium passed, and Lorn was unlike any treefolk that had come before. Where his kind lumber, he could charge alongside the swiftest horses. Where others break against resistance, he broke through it. The dragon's power ran in his grain, and whatever life his enemies had left in them, he had a way of taking for himself.

Perhaps if he'd remained rooted for another millennium or two, he would have been as strong as the wyrm he'd merged with. But the forest around him was twisting and reshaping itself in unnatural ways. Those who passed beneath his branches spoke of a conclave of the arcane breaking the land apart.

Lorn pulled up his roots and set out to stop them.