Wotan had destroyed the village, perhaps because he'd been spurred on by thoughts of a Great Wyrm still alive. He hadn't needed to close the distance until the villagers had taken shelter in their town hall. The mines had made the towns that dotted his territory rich in metals and coin, but even the armor plates meant to keep him out didn't stop his claws, when he tore away at the structure from above, each short pass pulling more free, until he could burn it from the inside out.<br/><br/>Wotan stalked the ruins, twisting, and breaking anything in the path of his tail. Wotan knew it would be only a year before more settlers and prospectors would appear in the town, though he knew he wouldn't notice until chimneys began to smoke again, and slayers began making the climb to his lair, high in the mountains. It was then that he heard the call, words in his head after so long. Peace, was not a word that Wotan cherished. He'd been fighting for his entire life, in a fashion, either hiding in the mountains from enemies, or killing humans to drive them out of what was once his line's unchallenged domain.<br/><br/>Even though the call summoned, and somewhere, he wished to go, he would not. He lifted off from the small town, now mostly rubble with a tremendous roar. He was slow pushing away from the ground, until finally he dipped and then soared, up as far as he could go. He knew he would not go to the one who summoned. He knew the voice was dragon, but he also knew it was not like him, not a great black dragon. He turned back toward his home instead. It was somehow ironic, that, so far flung from the preferred domains of humanity, he would also have found an isolation from the demands of a Great Wyrm.