"I'm sorry, but nothing you see here is of any use to me." The Guardian took a few deep breaths to calm down.
Seeing the lair of his lost son just like he remembered it from 40,000 years ago tore the old wounds in Leegaain's heart open. He would have taken it as an indication that something of Azith was still alive, that his son might be worthy of redemption like Zoreth, if not for the implications that building such a place carried.
Azith had refused to move on, both in soul and mind. He hadn't recreated a few pieces out of nostalgia. Azith had built a copy of his old lair and its contents because he still considered them his own.
The entire place oozed with greed, and Leegaain read in the various pieces a silent promise that one day the First Patriarch of the Mist Dragons would take the originals back.
